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First edition, 1998
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Academic Affairs Library, UNC-CH
University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 1998.
Call number 917.5 O18m 1914
(Davis Library, UNC-CH)
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Library of Congress Subject Headings,
21st edition, 1998
LC Subject Headings:
O'Connor, T. P., Mrs., d. 1931.
Texas -- Social life and customs.
Southern States -- Social life and customs.
1998-12-14,
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Each day the memory of the old South becomes more and more a
cherished dream. Its bounteous hospitality, its quixotic chivalry, its
daring courage, its spotless honour, its poetic understanding, are receding
into the heroic past. Therefore, we of the Old Guard must stand
together, and do what we can to keep the younger and more practical
generation Unforgetting. My pen is freighted with appreciation, but
is, alas, inadequate, while already your genius has made "The tender
grace of a day that is dead" immortal; and so, after many years of
affectionate friendship, I dedicate this book to you.
"A WANDERING minstrel I, a thing of shreds
and patches..." My book is but a reflection of
myself; its sole recommendation, - that my bale
of cotton grew under warm sunshine, and every thread
spun and woven into material is from the old and new South.
"I have gathered me a posy of other men's thoughts,
only the thread that holds them together is mine."
Some of the stories have even been told before,
but they belong to me by right of inheritance and
Love, so may I not tell them again?
After many years of absence, when the riches
and abundance of my country were displayed to me, it was
my ambition to write an informing, practical, statistical
book. Such a one as would induce English settlers to
set sail for the Southern States. There, English tradition,
an ever-green, would extend a fraternal welcome,
and with a small capital, or even none at all, except
health and strong hands, a Home awaits them.
But my frank friends discouraged this undertaking.
There are so many writers, they said, who know more
of the progress, resources, and wealth of the country
than you possibly can know. The most you can hope
to do, is to make an entertaining South.
It was the great William Pitt, who, when a man
was recommended to him because he talked sense, said:
"Anybody can talk sense, Sir; can he talk nonsense?"
And if now and then I have struck a rag-time tune -
and who has a better right - underneath the nonsense
and plantation songs, one earnest wish has been always
in my heart, to bring England and America closer together,
and to make them understand each other.
Men and women in Virginia have said to me, "I love
Virginia, and after Virginia - England." For myself,
I love America in England, and England in America;
they are both my countries, and if a little word of mine
has made greater friendliness even for a brief moment
between them, my book will not have been written in vain.
One bright memory - only one;
And I walk by the light of its gleaming;
It brightens my days, and when days are done
It shines in the night o'er my dreaming.
Father THOMAS RYAN.
IN my wandering life of deepest shadow and occasional
sunshine, there is but one thing for which I am
altogether devoutly thankful, - I was born and bred
in the South, and for generations on both sides of my
family my ancestors were Southern people; consequently,
without conflict, my qualities and defects
are those of my race. For my own personal defects, given
me at birth with a free hand by my whimsical fairy godmother,
neither my family nor my beloved land is responsible.
My great-grandfather, Major Duval, fought in the
War of the Revolution, and gave goodly sums towards
the cause. He married at twenty-three a Miss Pope
of Virginia, an heiress of whom he made rather a sudden
and theatrical conquest, not later than five minutes
after he discovered her. She, a fair-haired, dimpled
beauty, wearing a silken hood, a green merino gown,
little calfskin shoes with silver buckles, a black silk
apron, and open-work mittens, was walking one golden
October afternoon in a primeval forest near the banks
of the Shenandoah. In the angle of her round arm lay
a big ball of worsted, and the sun slanting down on her
glancing needles struck diamond brilliance from their
quick activity.
My great-grandfather, returning from the chase,
young, dashing, good-looking, suddenly beheld this
vision. He wore the buckskin clothes of the Virginian
hunter, and carried his day's trophy of wild turkey,
ducks, and rabbits slung across his shoulder. His
rifle held one last bullet.
Quickly advancing to the astonished young lady, he
took off his bearskin cap, and making a bow so low
that the turkeys touched the ground, he said, "Madame,
permit me." Then lifting the ball of worsted from its
envied resting-place, he lightly tossed it high into the air,
shot the bullet straight through its heart, and as
it came down caught it and placed it, smoking with
powder and with love, in her apron pocket.
The dimples all appeared as she said, "Sir, you can
shoot and hit the mark."
He bowed again and answered, "So can Cupid, and
I hope," - pointing to her fluttering heart - "in the
right direction."
The young lady, a very distant cousin whom he had
never met, was from Richmond, visiting an aunt
on an adjoining plantation. He walked home with
her, in the mellow sunshine of an Indian summer
afternoon, through the wonderful scarlet and gold
forests of the early Virginia autumn, leaving on the
doorstep of the wide plantation house his day's hunt
as his first love offering.
The next day he re-appeared, brave in satin small-clothes
and lace ruffles, the queue of his fair hair tied with a
silken ribbon, and offered himself with proper
dignity as suitor for her hand. A month later they
were married and lived happy ever afterwards.
I have an idea that my great-grandmother was the
more interesting of the two (the Popes are an intellectual,
fascinating family), and when she died so intense
was her husband's grief that finally nature mercifully
relieved him with a gentle absent-minded forgetfulness.
When his children grew up, he sold his winter home
in Richmond and afterwards lived entirely on his
plantation, devoting the long summer days to bass
fishing in the Shenandoah, which is no mean sport, as
bass are wary and valorous fighters. Indeed, a mature
father or bachelor fish of middle age and accumulated
wisdom is seldom caught; the reckless youngsters who
disregard the admonitions of their seniors are the only
fish to be inveigled by the most tempting bait. Finally
my great-grandfather gave up even this sport, and
spent his days on the wide balcony which faced the
virgin forest where he first saw the merry coquettish
face of my great-grandmother. He read the Richmond
newspaper from beginning to end, and gave it to a
small darkey standing in attendance. This boy ran
round the house, and handed him back the same paper,
which "the good Major Duval" read all over again
with reminiscent but deep satisfaction. It was
evidently from this ancestor that my quite imbecile
forgetfulness comes.
The old miniatures and portraits give him a round face,
baby-like pink-and-white skin, fair hair, blue
eyes, and the most friendly and engaging expression.
How inevitably hereditary traits appear even in the
third and fourth generation. My beautiful grandson
of five said to me after a French lesson the other day:
"Damma, isn't it sad that one so young as I should
have such a bad memory?" And immediately the
picture of his Virginia ancestor, sitting on a wide
vine-clad balcony and reading quite happily a
newspaper for the fourth time, suggested itself to me.
Another Miss Pope, a kinswoman of mine, married
and came to Texas to live. She was tall and dark, with
jet-black hair, pearl-white teeth, a touch of dark
down on her upper lip, and the most enchanting speaking
voice I have ever heard. It was like golden velvet,
and she talked with great brilliancy and a wealth of
information on every conceivable subject, for she lived
in books and not in the life around her. To that she
was extremely indifferent, and had the reputation of
being a humorously bad housekeeper.
My mother, with her sense of order and Spartan-like
cleanliness, frankly disapproved of her, but my father
loved her, and, as she was not his wife, forgave her
disorder.
One afternoon when I was a very little girl my father
drove out to see her, taking me with him. She lived a
few miles from Austin and a little creek ran through
the garden, so the flowers were glorious and plentiful,
being always supplied with water. The wide hall was
hung with family portraits, but the floor looked like a
village street, literally covered with dried mud in little
footprints, as if animals had wandered in and out at will.
The negro maid said Miss Anna was sick, but would
the Judge and Miss Betty go right in. And we were
shown into an immense bedroom opposite the drawing-room.
A slight fever had given her a colour and she
looked very handsome with her dark hair wandering
over the pillow in two long thick plaits. Beside her
stood a small table piled with books; some had toppled
on to the bed, and there were books on the window-seat
and on the sofa, and my father relieved the chair he
was to sit upon of quite a small library.
He had first selected a large puffy-looking rocker,
but our hostess smilingly admonished him: "Don't
take that chair, Judge, or you will sit on the new baby."
Then, seeing my eager look of interest, she said: "Go
over and look at him, Betty," and tiptoeing over to the
soft white bundle, I found that it was an adorable
three-months-old fat baby, sound asleep.
Then she began to talk, and though I was too little
really to understand, the soft musical many-toned voice
thrilled me with pleasure. After a while a
stirring was heard under the bed, and an obese
familiar sleepy pig made his appearance. He walked
into the centre of the room, squealed loudly, stood
for a moment, then trotted leisurely through the doorway,
down the hall and out into the garden. She dreamily regarded
but made no comment on the pig. Her rich honeyed
tones continued unfalteringly. I was told afterwards
that she was giving the last lines of Keats's Ode to the
Nightingale. The pig, however, disturbed the child,
who cried, and my father, loving babies like a woman,
lifted the new man in his arms, hushed him, and began
to walk the floor.
Presently a pet peacock, the hardest bird in the
world to tame, with his tail magnificently spread, stood
in the doorway, advanced proudly into the room, but
gave a loud shriek at seeing a stranger and fled down
the hall, while no comment was made on him. It
seemed to me that I was in a wonderful fairy dream,
with such lovely things happening - a beautiful lady
with long plaits, a soft pink baby, a peacock and a pig.
Oh! I thought, if my home was only like this, how
happy I should be.
My father's voice brought me back from my dreams.
He was saying, "Where is your pretty Yankee governess?"
Mrs. Berkeley answered with a merry twinkle in her eye,
"Gone. That's the third, Judge, and I am going to have
a new petition added to the Litany, 'And from governesses,
good Lord deliver us.' " This seemed to me a most beautiful
sentiment, for I, too, wished to be delivered from governesses.
I was too young to know that good-looking George Berkeley
suffered from an impressionable nature. But eventually
his wife, eight children, and later a strong-minded and
elderly German governess, transformed him into a
most exemplary husband.
My grandfather, Governor William Peyton Duval,
was a son of the good Major Duval. His boyhood was
spent in Richmond, Virginia. The house was kept by
Aunt Barbara, a negro woman who was almost white.
A strong character, quick-witted and capable, she had
taught herself to read and write, an almost unheard-of
accomplishment for a negro in those far-away days,
and she was painfully thrifty, locking up everything in
the establishment, and carrying a huge bunch of keys
at her belt. One of them was the key to the pantry,
where she spent twenty minutes every morning with a
little negro to dip out sugar, coffee, tea, flour, raisins,
currants, citron, butter, lard and meal. And never
did her lynx eyes relax their vigilance, so there were no
peculiar secret cakes from pickings in the pantry to be
stealthily cooked in the cabins at nightfall, as often
occurred in a Southern home.
I remember at the tender age of seven partaking of
an odd little cake made of rice, two raisins, one almond,
a cucumber pickle, a few tea leaves, two lumps of
sugar, a pinch of flour, and an amber morsel of citron.
Baked in wood ashes on the hearth of Mammy's cabin,
it seemed to me a delicious, though peculiar morsel.
These were the gleanings of Henrietta, my little
negro maid and playmate, who dipped for my mother when
she unlocked her pantry in the morning. Not always
observant, my mother gave Henrietta an opportunity
to "borrow" with her lightning quick fingers.
Aunt Barbara knew the negroes and trusted none of
them. Even the wearing apparel of the Quality was
kept under lock and key. At half-past seven in the
morning the body servants of the gentlemen were
supposed to stand before an immense blue press, and
Aunt Barbara counted out under-linen, socks, white
waistcoats, and pocket handkerchiefs. If a lagging
valet appeared at a quarter to eight he returned
empty-handed to his master, who gave him such a dressing
down that the next morning he waited beforetime for
the unlocking of the press. In this way the house was
spotlessly clean, the linen in order, and the lax easygoing
ways inherent in Southern people were counteracted
by vigilant management.
My great-grandfather always had family prayers,
and each person present was expected to repeat a verse
from Scripture. The Bible was the dearest and most
revered book on earth to Aunt Barbara. Any chapter,
any verse was suitable for her delivery. And each
morning the family waited expectantly on her selection,
which varied from the New Testament to Deuteronomy
or the book of Job. One unlucky day for my grandfather,
an exuberant boy of fourteen, Aunt Barbara
fixed a piercing eye on him and said in a sonorous voice,
"Remember Lot's wife." An explosion of laughter
followed and from that moment she was a sworn and
somewhat unjust enemy to him.
A brother-in-law of my great-grandfather's had been
to Spain and was much impressed by the Spanish mules.
He said the prettiest sight in Madrid was a lovely
coquettish woman, a rose under each ear, a white lace
mantilla thrown over her head, sitting in an open
carriage driven by a picturesque coachman clad in
scarlet, and drawn by jet-black mules made splendid
by gay and jingling harness. So he brought back from
Barcelona a number of Jacks, thinking to mingle the
blood of Virginia thoroughbreds with that of Spanish
plebeians, but horses in that part of the country were
of the purest pedigree. All their owners scorned the
idea of mules, never mind their strength or their powers
of endurance. So the big-headed, noisy Jacks were
turned loose about the fields and grew fat and saucy
from having too much grass and too little exercise.
One day my grandfather was startled by a strange
mighty braying. At first he was frightened; then he
saw an animal looking at him with faithful eyes and as
he said, "A sort of horse look," encouraging to friendship.
He tried to mount the discovery, when deftly
and quickly, the rider was thrown high in the air, and
the horse-like beast with triumphant heehaws galloped
off in the distance. Jack, however, was later caught and
ridden every day, and finally young Duval learned the
dexterity of the rancher in keeping his seat. The other
boys of the neighbourhood soon followed his example
and the Jacks rapidly grew thinner by hard exercise.
In October he and half a dozen lads planned an
excursion, starting at earliest dawn to gather nuts.
For this purpose a big Jack was corralled the night before
and placed in the "smoke-house." A little one-roomed
log cabin, with a thin odoriferous line of smoke
rising from the chimney, and slowly making delicious
hams and tongues, was to be found on every well-appointed
Southern place. The next morning the unlucky
boy overslept himself, and Aunt Barbara, up at daylight,
dressed in stiffly starched purple calico, a gorgeous
plaid head handkerchief, wide half-hoops of gold
dangling from her ears, and all her keys jingling at her
side, proceeded to the smoke-house and unlocked the
door. She had slept ill the night before and dreamed
of the devil. Suddenly, lurid eyes confronted hers, a
wide mouth opened, showing great teeth, a huge voice
emitted a brazen, horrid sound, and Aunt Barbara
was knocked down, trampled upon, and thrown into a fit.
In those days when kindred and hospitality were part
of the religion of the South, no household was composed
of only the immediate family. My great-grandfather's
brother-in-law, an irritable little man, lived with him,
and he soon ferreted out the author of Aunt
Barbara's illness, and not satisfied with giving the boy
one beating he thrashed him every time she had a fresh
fit. This treatment developed in my grandfather a
determination to leave home. He said to his father:
"I am going to Kentucky. I am too old to be thrashed,
and no house is big enough to hold both Uncle John
and me." His father answered, very quietly: "Then
you had better go, for John is our kin; I cannot ask him
to leave my house."
Young Duval loyally said, "I don't expect you to,
sir, I will leave the house to him."
He began then to develop his fine character of sustained
courage and dogged resolution. The winter
passed without his speaking again of leaving home, but
he kept to his determination.
Aunt Barbara, quite recovered, saw a change in her
boy, and was most attentive to him, saying, "I did n't
mind, honey. I knowed you did n't mean to hurt old
Barbara. I jus' wants you to run roun' an' laugh like
you use ter. You studies too much to suit me. What
you thinkin' 'bout, chile?"
"Aunt Barbara," said the boy, "I'm going to Kentucky
next month."
"Now," said Aunt Barbara, quite ashey-looking,
"who ever heard de beat ob dat? Ain't Virginia,
where you wuz born an' raised, good enough for you?
An' (breaking down) I wuz wid yo' ma when you wuz
born. I held you in dese arms when you wuz a hour
old. I knows I bin strict wid you, I bleeged to be,
but you jus' like my own chile. Oh, honey, don't go
'way. Jus' go out on de common an' ketch dat brayin'
jackass, an' I promise you, he kin stay a week in de
smoke-house."
Aunt Barbara began to cry and these two were friends
again. But the steady look never left the boy's face,
and in May, when the trees were green and the flowers
in blossom, he said to his father, "I am leaving for
Kentucky to-day. Will you give me an outfit, sir?"
His father looked disappointed and said, "I thought
you had given up that foolish idea," but opening a desk,
he took out a long green silk knitted purse, filled with
gold, and handed it to the boy.
"Thank you," said the lad, "and of course I will
take my servant and my horse."
"No," said the father, "you don't know how to take
care of yourself. You are not to be trusted with a
slave and a saddle-horse. If you go, you go alone."
"Then," the boy said proudly, "I will make my way
as best I can."
Probably his father thought hardships and discomforts
would soon bring him back to Virginia. His only
sister, a sweet little girl, clung round his neck in tears,
and he had to gulp back a few of his own, which he
managed to do.
"When are you coming back?" said his little sister,
when at last he was ready to start.
"Never, by heaven," he said, "until I come back a
Member of Congress from Kentucky."
And he fulfilled that promise. The little sister grew up,
married, went to Texas to live, and became
the mother of five sons. They all fought in the Confederate
army and not one returned to the broken-hearted
mother. Her eldest son, William Howard, a
very brilliant and attractive young lawyer, studied law
with my father. He was one of the first officers killed
at Fort Sumter.
On the way to Kentucky the lad had the first opportunity
of showing the true metal of his fine courage.
He had stopped at an eating-house and heard two
rough men say he was probably a runaway apprentice
and should be stopped. After he had finished his
dinner he went quietly out of the back door, but thinking
it cowardly to steal away, he turned and walked
boldly to the front door.
"Where are you going, boy?" said one of the men.
"That's none of your business," said the boy.
"Yes, it is," said the man, "you're a runaway."
And he came forward to seize him, but the lad whipped
out his pistol, and pointing it said, "If you lay a hand
upon me I'll shoot you!" The man stepped back very
quickly and his companion said, "He's dangerous,
let him alone."
After this he was afraid of civilisation and tried
camping out at night, and stopping at inns for his
meals during the day. At Brownsville he arrived tired,
soiled, and looking like a young tramp. The proprietor
of the inn demurred at receiving him, but his wife
discerning that he was a gentleman in spite of his dusty
appearance said gently, "Have you a mother?"
"No," said the boy, "my mother is dead."
"Ah, that 's the trouble," she said to her husband,
"we are told to care for orphans. Come in, and welcome."
After resting with this good lady a few days,
the boy continued his journey upon a flat-bottomed boat
from Wheeling, which slowly, floated down the Ohio.
The river in those days, overhung on either side by
primeval forest and almost impenetrable canebrakes,
was filled with game of all sorts. Deer and bear unafraid
swam across the river, and bronze flocks of wild
turkeys sailed slowly overhead. Cincinnati, that most
populous queen of the West, was only a straggling
group of log cabins, and Louisville was scarcely settled.
Where the Green River and the Ohio meet, the boy
landed and started his march for the interior of
Kentucky.
He had relations in Lexington, but he did not make
himself known to them, for his pride was wounded.
He wanted to show his father what independence could
accomplish. He camped at night by beautiful crystal
streams and shot turkey, smaller birds, and squirrels
by day, roasting them by fires made of underbrush
and dry forest wood.
His first taste of the real hunter's silent joy was
when he came upon a pack of wolves devouring the
carcass of a deer. One big greedy fellow ate more than
the others, snapping and snarling when they came too
near, and the boy said to himself, "A prize, that leader
of the pack, I shall try for him." He loaded his rifle
and shot him twice while the other wolves ran yelping
away. Then, he said, a feeling of triumph came over
him as though he were lord of all that leafy forest.
But the deer, even when quite near him, he could never
bring down. They seemed ever running. A whole
herd had just gone by in a wild scamper and he was
gazing longingly after them when he heard a voice say,
"What are you after, Sonny?"
"Those deer," said the boy; "are they ever still?"
"Reckon you're a bit green, sonny; where are you from?"
"Richmond," said the boy.
"What, not Richmond of my old Virginny?"
"Yes, I am," said the boy.
"And how," said the man, "did you git here?"
"I came down the Ohio and landed at Green River," said the boy.
"All by your lone self?"
"Yes," said the boy, "I am by myself."
"Where be you goin'?" said the man.
"I'm going to hunt," said the boy.
"Then," said the backwoodsman, looking at him
kindly, "come along er me, I'll make a hunter out of
you. Me and my wife don't live fur from here. Killed
anything?"
"Yes," said the boy, "wild turkeys and squirrels."
"But," said the man, "can't come it on a deer - you
must step like a panther on padded feet to do that.
Nary a twig must n't crackle under yo' feet. Deers is
got the quickest ears in the forest. You have to creep
up on 'em, and then sometimes they gits away."
Bill Smithers lived with his wife and baby in a log
cabin with no chimney, but just a square hole for the
smoke to escape. While the trees were being girdled
preparatory to clearing the land, the food consisted of
fish from the brooks, game from the forests, and luscious
berries. This generous woodsman was the boy's first
teacher in hunting and woodcraft, making, my grandfather
said, all of his boyish dreams come true. The
forests with giant trees were magnificent, the wide
prairies, covered with wild flowers, were fragrant
blossoming gardens. The woods were rich in wild strawberries
and blackberries, for nature in Kentucky was then, as now,
prodigal of her bounty.
But he did not stay long with Smithers, finding a
solitary bachelor called Miller, a famous hunter, who
was glad to have a willing apprentice. Under him he
became a good shot, and past master of the ways and
secrets of the wilderness. The buffalo were in Kentucky
then, and had just begun to migrate for safety to the
West. The boy's first success in big game
hunting was to kill a bear. He, two brothers, and a dog
were out together. Seeing the shaggy beast climbing
a tree, he sent a shot near his heart. Bruin fell to the
ground and the dog, giving a joyous bark, ran up to
investigate. The bear, with one last effort, clasped
the dog round its neck. They died together. My
grandfather said the two simple-hearted hunters buried
their friend, crying like children.
The hunters lived far apart. They wanted elbow
room, and only occasionally came together, when
they sat for hours silently smoking like Indians. But the
light of the big fires at night warmed them at last into
story-telling. The young Virginian, a good listener,
with his frankness, courage, good-humour and adaptability,
soon became a great favourite, especially with his
host, who loved him like a son.
There was one event my Aunt Elizabeth said my
grandfather loved to describe - a dance at the house of
a famous fiddler, Bob Mosely. The only suit of clothes
the young man possessed was his leather breeches and
coat, which were soiled with hunting grease. He
thought that with a good scouring they might be made
to serve for the party, so he carried them to a stream,
washed them, and hung them to dry, while he rested
himself on the bank of the river. But the sticks upon
which the clothes were stretched toppled and fell into
the river, carrying their burden with them, and there
the young man was left for the remainder of the afternoon
to fashion, like Adam, a garment of leaves in
which to go home.
Old Miller was horrified when he saw his young
friend's misfortune and heard that he could not attend
the dance. He said, "You'll not only go, but you shall
be the best dressed of all the boys." He then began to
work day and night and made a soft deerskin hunting
shirt, fringed on the shoulders, with leggings of the
same skin fringed from top to bottom. Wearing these
splendid garments and a raccoon cap with two tails
floating out behind, he presented a very fine figure
indeed. All the hunters were garbed in the same sort
of clothes and the girls wore doeskin dresses.
About three o'clock in the afternoon when the party
was at its height, the two Misses Schultz made a stage
entrance, with red ribbons and tiny looking-glasses
hung round their necks, which a stray pedlar had given
them in gratitude for a few days' hospitality. The
simple people at the party had never seen looking-glasses
before, and the girls, Sukey and Patty Schultz,
were such belles that the other girls jealously threatened
to go home. Young Duval, gifted with tact, explained
in flattering words the situation to the Misses Schultz,
telling them that their charms and looking-glasses
combined would break up the party, and begged
them to allow him to hang the ribbons and ornaments on
the wall until the dance ended. When this was done,
peace was at once restored.
About this time the young hunter grew dissatisfied
and restless. His mind began to crave intellectual
food. A famous woodsman came to him and said:
"A bunch of us are going West. Kentuck's too
crowded. Neighbours are only fourteen miles off and
I have n't breathing room. Will you join us, Duval?"
This induced the boy to go through a self-examination.
He asked himself: "Am I going to remain a hunter all
my days? No, the woods are for the true woodsman
who desires no other life. My people have always
belonged to the world. I must get back to it."
The question then arose as to what he should do.
He decided on the profession of law. He felt that if
he had wasted time in the great forests, he had
nevertheless laid up a store of health, strength, cheerfulness,
and quickness of vision in observing the human and
animal species. He knew he had dogged determination
when he undertook a task. He always said that if a
man with ordinary capacity worked unswervingly,
heart and soul, at anything, he could succeed in it.
He still had his silken purse filled with gold, and he
could sell his pile of beaver and other skins and the fine
horse which he had obtained in exchange for furs.
With this money he calculated to live until he was
admitted to the Bar. When he spoke to Miller, the
old man was deeply grieved. He could understand
but one life, that of the hunter, but he loved the boy
too well to discourage him.
The following day the young man rode to Bardstown,
stopped at a small inn over night, and found a family
who would take him to board for a dollar and a half a
week. The next morning he intended riding back to
Miller's to get his little fortune of five hundred dollars,
and was waiting on the hotel piazza for his horse to be
brought round to him when he saw sitting in the parlour
a vision of loveliness. A young girl was there, fair as
alabaster, with thick auburn hair, deep blue eyes, tall,
slender, and dressed all in white. After the sunburnt,
rosy-cheeked maids of the woods this girl seemed
something delicate and unreal. He longed to speak to her,
but did, not dare. Then he longed still more, with all
his clean young blood aflame, to kiss her. "Just
once," he said, "it will be a memory of bliss to carry
with me all through life, and if I don't get it I shall
certainly die of longing." He stepped into the room.
She was looking dreamily out of the window, when he
walked up behind her, touched her gently on the shoulder,
and she looked up. He stooped and kissed her
on the mouth, then made a rush for the door, ran across
the balcony, down the steps, vaulted lightly to his saddle,
lifted his hat, made her a low bow and dashed
off madly to the woods.
When he got to the log cabin he sold his horse and
walked back to Bardstown, where he settled himself
and began to study law. He read sixteen and eighteen
hours out of the twenty-four and sometimes all night
as well as all day. He found he had so much to study
besides law. He grew serious and morose with incessant
work and the sudden change from outdoor life to
continual confinement. But he kept doggedly on for
a year, and then there came a slight interruption, for
one day while taking a walk he passed on the street the
only girl he had ever kissed. His heart gave two or
three quick thumps and for days the little beauty's
face came obstinately between him and his books, but
he studied harder than ever and took no more walks.
One cold rainy evening the young student had gone
to the bar of the inn and was sitting by the fire when a
gentleman, tall, distinguished looking and handsomely
dressed, entered. He wore small-clothes, silver kneebuckles,
his hair powdered and tied in a queue, and
neat polished shoes. He asked the young man if his
name was Duval. The boy, tired and depressed, said
moodily, "Yes."
"And do you," said the gentleman, "come
from Richmond?"
"I do," said the boy, "but what is that to you?"
"Nothing, good-night."
Next day, however, the gentleman, the pink
of elegance and courtesy, called on the boy. He said he
was a friend of his father's, that he had heard of the
struggle he was making, and would take him in his
office and direct his studies if he would come. Young
William, apologising for his previous churlishness,
gratefully accepted the offer, and a little later went to
live at the house of his friend, who was one of the leading
lawyers of Kentucky. From that time life went easier
for him. His reading was properly directed, he joined
a debating society, was its most brilliant speaker, and
was soon hailed as a coming genius.
One evening at a little party he met the auburn-haired
beauty and was introduced to her as "Miss
Nancy Hynes." Her mother was a Miss Stuart from
Scotland who had married a Kentuckian, and it was
from Scotland she had got her red hair. People in the
room began to talk, and they left the young couple
practically alone. William was terribly embarrassed.
Then he said, "Don't you see how uncomfortable I am?
Can't you say something, anything to help me out?"
The girl's dimples all appeared and she said, "What
do you want me to say?"
He answered: "Not that you forgive me - for I don't
want forgiveness. If I had it to do over again, by
heaven, I would do it, even if I died for it."
They met frequently at dances at the houses of
friends, and before the young man was nineteen he was
engaged to the girl of seventeen. Her mother, a widow,
objected on the score of their youth, but he told her he
would marry her daughter, and very soon, if all the
world rose up in defiance. The mother liked this
grave, romantic wooer, and said she knew all about him
and his family, and that he would only have to wait a
reasonable time. He then studied harder than ever,
with a prospect of a wife and home before him.
In the meantime his father, hearing where he was,
wrote to say he would give him a liberal allowance if
he would soon go to college. He talked it over with
his sweetheart and the wise young maiden advised him
to go, but just as he was starting for the Virginia University,
Nancy's mother died suddenly, leaving her
with a younger sister, my great-aunt, Polly Hynes, a
little girl away at a boarding-school. The chivalrous
lad felt his promised bride needed a protector, so he
gave up the idea of college, was admitted to the Bar
that autumn, and married immediately afterwards.
Fate is kind to some mortals. These married sweethearts
ever remained lovers. They were poor, for
Nancy could not touch her small fortune until she came
of age, and my grandfather had nothing. They lived
in a little two-roomed log house, and my grandfather
said, "Everything we had was in half-dozens; a half-a-dozen
spoons and forks and knives and chairs, a bed,
a table, a sofa, a dozen books and a little rocking-chair
and work-table for my girl wife. We were so poor, but
so happy."
To the
wholly intrepid spirit is given Courage in life; Courage in
danger; Courage in death.
THEY had only been married a week when court was held at a country town twenty-five miles away. It was hard for William Duval to leave his pretty bride, and he had no money, but he borrowed a little, and a horse from a neighbour and, like young Lochinvar, rode gaily away. Fate loves reckless courage and protects its possessors. The young lawyer had no case to plead before the court and no influence to get him one, but just as he entered the inn an old man in the barroom was struck by a bully. The young man promptly knocked the bully down. This secured his popularity. The crowd shook hands with the plucky stranger and plied him with drinks, which he had the judgment to refuse, for he felt the morrow would be a momentous day for him.
The next morning when the court opened, he boldly seated himself among the advocates. A man was charged with passing counterfeit money. He had been out of the range of lawyers and was asked to choose one for his defence. Looking around, he selected the eager faced lad, who was given until next day to prepare his case. As they left the court the
accused man gave his counsel one hundred dollars as a retaining fee.
Young Duval spent many hours in anxious preparation of his defence and argument. When night came he was too excited to speak; in the morning he could not eat. He reached the court agitated and unnerved, and when he began to speak it was only to flounder and stammer. Presently the public prosecutor made a cruelly sarcastic remark. There was a laugh in court. At that his nerves became taut and steady. His voice rang out with a brave challenge. He marshalled his facts with telling effect and proved his client's innocence conclusively. The case ended triumphantly in the man's acquittal, and young Duval was made. His earnestness and eloquence had stirred even the lawyers. His youth, his courage, his knowledge of law were discussed. Other cases were given him, and when the week ended he had made seven hundred dollars. The night the fees were paid him he was like a miser. He locked his bedroom door and let the gold trickle through his fingers; he piled it up and saw in its glitter a rosy future of comfort for his wife and of gratified ambition for himself.
The next morning before dawn, he mounted the borrowed horse and started for Bardstown. His wife had prepared a delicious breakfast for him, but he was too excited to eat. Like the boy that he was, he wanted to surprise her, and he sat down at the table and began slowly counting out the money in ten-dollar gold pieces. His wife looked on and said, "Whose money is it? Have you got to take it to the bank?"
"It is my money!" said my grandfather, "mine and yours! Oh Nancy, come and dance and sing and cry." And together they laughed and waltzed round the
room, like the children they were, for poverty had gone out of the window, and success had come in at the door.
Later, my grandfather was elected to Congress from
Kentucky, as he said he would be, and on his return to
the States was appointed Judge of the Federal Court,
which office he retained for some years. By this time
three of his eight children had been added to the family.
In those days the Floridas were a territory, and the
Indians being somewhat troublesome a man of courage,
decision, and heart was wanted for governor. The
appointment was offered to my grandfather, who
retained the office for twenty-four years. The youngest
five children were born in Florida and the last
pretty little girl was named after that land of flowers.
The new governor kept open house. All the year carriages drove back and forth, and people came and went as if it had been a hotel. Christmas and Easter were different from other seasons only in more turkeys and game, larger cakes, more egg-nog, and greater quantities of punch.
Three of my aunts and my mother were all celebrated beauties, my mother inheriting the Scotch hair, a dark auburn, and the deep blue eyes of her mother. My grandfather was always hospitable to the admirers of his daughters. They could spend the day, or even, if they felt inclined, several days, but at ten o'clock each night old Scipio, the negro butler, was required to see that the drawing-room was closed and the piazzas cleared.
Scipio made his appearance dressed in a swallow-tailed coat, his hair tied like my grandfather's in a queue (a strain of Indian blood had given him straight hair), and bearing an enormous waiter, with a large, noisily ticking silver watch lying upon it and numerous
mint juleps. The suitors were supposed to observe the time, drink the juleps, say good-night and go home.
Life in Florida in those days must have been enchanting. There were fruit and vegetables all the year round, oranges for the picking, peaches and melons in great abundance. The Indians constantly brought in all kinds of game; the woods were full of wild orchids and myriads of wild flowers, and the pink cranes and scarlet flamingoes were quite tame on the banks of the little river that flowed at the bottom of the grounds.
In 1823, Governor Duval rendered signal service to the territory of Florida and to the United States Government by putting down the conspiracy of Neamathla, one of the most noted Indians in American history. He was the chief of the Mickasookies, a fighting tribe of warriors, who had their hands not only against the white man, but against the weaker Indian as well. They had committed many depredations on the frontiers of Georgia and were constantly attacking the Seminoles, a peaceful and picturesque tribe, who gave the Government no trouble, but sought (unless influenced by the Mickasookies) its protection.
Neamathla was a splendid figure, more than six feet in height, with fierce fiery eyes and a face like a hawk. He hated white men and proudly called Governor Duval "brother," never acknowledging his superiority.
The Indians at this time, chiefly through the governor's influence, had signed a treaty to remove to a small section of land in the eastern part of Florida and to remain there for twenty years, thus leaving the remainder of the State free to the white man. Neamathla fought bitterly against the treaty, but finally signed it, saying quite frankly: "If I had enough warriors,
brother, instead of signing the treaty, I would wipe every white man from the face of Florida. I say this to you, for though you are white, you are a Man. Your pale-faced people wouldn't understand me."
Thinking it wise to be near the Indians, Governor Duval had settled at Tallahassee. The village of Neamathla being only three miles away, he often rode out to have a pow-wow with him. One day he found him surrounded by all his warriors, drinking brandy freely. Neamathla began to boast that although the red man had made a treaty, the treaty was at an end, "broken by the white man, who had not delivered the cattle and money promised."
The Governor replied, "The time for the money and cattle has not yet arrived." But the old chief only looked sly and continued to drink and threaten. He had been cutting tobacco with a long knife, and while he was talking he flourished his keen blade not an inch away from the Governor's throat, saying the country was the red man's, that it should belong to him, and he would fight for it until his bones, and the bones of his warriors bleached upon its soil.
Suddenly and unexpectedly the Governor seized him by the bosom of his shirt, clenched his fist in his face, and said: "You have made your treaty. You shall keep it. I am your White Chief sent by your father in Washington to see that you do it. If you do not, the blood of every Indian in the country will dye the land, and his bones will bleach upon its soil."
The old chief threw himself back with a bitter laugh.
"Ho, ho, little white brother!" he said, "can't you see my joke?"
My grandfather returned to Tallahassee, and things went smoothly for several months. Every day some
of the Indians reported themselves at the Governor's house, but suddenly their visits ceased, and at midnight of the fourth day after this, Yellow Hair, a young brave who loved the White Chief, stole into the house. "Governor," he said, "at the risk of my life I've come to tell you that five hundred warriors are holding a secret war talk with Neamathla."
There was no more sleep that night for Governor Duval; he saw that he must take a desperate chance. There were one hundred white families near, and he had no soldiers. Everything depended on himself. At dawn he was up, and, mounting a fleet horse, called upon the interpreter, De Witt, to follow.
The man demurred. "Wait, Governor," he said, "until we can get the militia."
"No," said my grandfather, "there is not a moment to lose, we must ride fast." And they struck for the Indian village to what De Witt thought was certain death.
"The chiefs," he said, "are old, discontented, suspicious and exasperated. They intend serious mischief."
Finally my grandfather said, "Go back, man, and leave me to go on alone."
"No," said De Witt, "I won't leave you to die alone, but God! what a foolhardy expedition."
They rode on in silence, and when they neared the village my grandfather said sternly, "Translate word for word what I say to you. Only courage can save us now."
There was a great council fire, and Neamathla was sitting on a rude throne surrounded by his warriors. The Governor rode straight into the circle, while forty rifles were cocked and levelled at him. He slowly dismounted, looked Neamathla fearlessly in the eyes,
and, with a gesture of contempt, stood waiting. The old chief threw up his arm; the guns were lowered. The Governor then walked up to Neamathla and asked why he was holding a council of war. The old chief was silent.
The White Chief said, "You need not answer. I know; but if a single hair of the head of a white man in this country is harmed" - he made a mighty sweeping gesture with his arm - "I will hang every chief to the trees that surround you. The Great Father in Washington holds you in the hollow of his hand. He has only to close it and you are dead. I am but one man. You may kill me, but the white man is as many as the leaves on this oak. Remember your warriors, whose bones have made the battlefields white. Remember your wives and your children dead in the swamps. Another war with the white man, and there will not be one Indian left to tell the story to his children."
His words had effect. They sat still and silent.
Then he appointed a day for them to meet him in St.
Mark's and rode forty miles straight ahead to the
Apalachicolas, a friendly tribe who were at feud with
the Mickasookies. They immediately sent three
hundred warriors to St. Mark's. He summoned also the regular army and the militia, and was then ready for Neamathla. Yellow Hair came again in the dead of night to tell the Governor that nine towns concerned in the conspiracy were disaffected, and from him he found out the names of the chiefs in these towns who were popular, but without power.
On the day of the conference he rode out to meet Neamathla, who, although at the head of eight hundred Indians, was afraid to venture into the court of St. Mark's alone. He thought when he saw the troops
and the preparations that he had been betrayed, but was reassured when the Governor rode by his side and told him when the talk was ended that he could go home free.
Neamathla and the older chiefs blamed the younger ones who had led them into conspiracy. "Then," said my grandfather, "if you cannot govern your braves you must, like the white man, find men who can. I depose you, Neamathla, and appoint Little Bear in your place." And with great ceremony a broad ribbon sewn with beads, from which a large medal of the Capitol depended, was hung around the neck of a younger chief.
In this way nine chiefs were deposed and popular braves appointed in their place. The Indians were delighted; they thought my grandfather a prophet to have divined their choice. The new warriors, he was confident, would keep an eye on the disaffected, and would remain loyal to the Government and to him.
Neamathla left the country and returned to the Creek nation, who made him a chief, but, shorn of his great power, he soon died of disappointment. The Governor's achievement of defeating alone and unaided a conspiracy which would have brought about a terrible massacre, was a valiant and heroic act. In later years with no military escort, he was able to remove, through their confidence in him, all the Indians from Florida to the Indian Territory - thus saving the Government at Washington great trouble and expense.
When the question of the Indians was settled, he devoted himself to the development of the State. His children were being educated in Kentucky. The girls went to the Convent of Nazareth in Bardstown, and the boys to St. Joseph's, the college of the Jesuits
which gave shelter to Louis Philippe when he was a refugee in America, and where later Jefferson Davis was a hard-working student.
My uncle Burr, the eldest son, was the flower of my grandfather's flock, tall, with a splendid figure, bright blue eyes, light waving hair, a dazzling smile, a speaking voice of golden sweetness, a dashing rider, and like his father a man of extraordinary courage, he sounds a perfect hero of romance. As a child I was ever eager for stories about him. When he graduated from college, young, gallant, intrepid, inheriting from his father the pioneer spirit, Texas, with a handful of brave men, was fighting for her liberty against the Mexicans, and Burr Duval raised in Kentucky a company of young men like himself, college bred and the sons of gentlemen. Among them was the lover of my great aunt Polly Hynes, - then a young lady who made her home with my grandfather - and my uncle John Duval, a boy of eighteen. This gallant company was called the "Kentucky Mustangs," and Burr Duval was their captain. They offered themselves for service to Texas, and Colonel Fannin asked them to join his army.
They had not been long in the State when in a battle between Fannin's army and the Mexicans they surrendered to General Urrea, who agreed to treat them as prisoners of war, but at Goliad, on Palm Sunday, 1836, they with other companies, about four hundred and forty-three men in the very flower of their youth, were marched out and traitorously drawn up in line and shot. A few escaped, my uncle John, being at the end of the line and fleet of foot, among them.
When the scourge of yellow fever fifteen years later visited Florida, John had returned from Texas, brown, thin, and still saddened from the loss of his gallant
young soldier brother, and another and slighter grief which
ever pursued him, the necessity of choking to death a little
dog that he had taken to Texas from Kentucky. With
Mexicans in full pursuit, the dog was about to bark, and the
only way to save his own life was to strangle his one faithful
friend. It was a miserable little tragedy, and when quite an
old man his face would still grow melancholy when he spoke
of it.
After the death of her first-born beautiful son even my
grandfather, they said, could rarely make my grandmother
smile, and she was one of the first to die of yellow fever, for
she made no effort to live. Aunt Polly, who was a woman of
strong character and affections, had closed the room where
she bade her lover good-bye forever, and she allowed no
one to enter it but herself. The silver candlesticks had grown
tarnished, the orange blossoms were brittle in the vase, the
dust, like a grey pall, covered every object. But she spent
hours alone there every day.
The loss of my grandmother was a terrible blow to my
grandfather, and to the end of his life he remained
inconsolable. They had been like two happy birds in the
springtime. He teased her, and she would laugh and pull his
ears and play with him as if they were still boy and girl.
After her death he was restless and miserable, having lost
interest in all things. With aunt Polly and her grief, it was a
depressed and changed household. My uncle John, in spite
of the terrible tragedy he had lived through, wanted to go
back again to Texas. He had lost his heart to that vast
country, so full of excitement and of seething vivid life, and
my grandfather, to seek change from his poignant grief,
consented to take his remaining family and go with him.
They settled first in Galveston where my aunt,
Elizabeth Beall, who was a very beautiful young widow,
was at the head of the house. His children gathered around
him, he began to get back his cheerfulness again, to take an
interest in politics and the rapid development of the great
"Lone Star State." My father, who had held the office of
Supreme Judge of the State of Arkansas, resigned and
came to Texas, where he married my mother and went
with her to live at Austin.
Fate surely cheated me out of a joy in not knowing my
grandfather. I have always felt that we were congenial
spirits. He was the soul of hospitality, affectionate,
generous, brave, witty, and light-hearted, even in the face
of death. His love of tradition led him to wear a queue. In
his youth it was tied with a black ribbon, but later in life,
when considered too aristocratic and dandified, it was
plaited and tucked up out of sight among his curls with a
hair-pin. Doctor Blake after his death cut off the queue and
sent it to my aunt, his eldest daughter, Mrs. Elizabeth Beall.
He was not an old man when he died in Washington from
an attack of gout and pneumonia. He loved life, and he had
not an enemy in the world. He was vitally interested in
Texas, that splendid new country of his later years. He had
many friends, and his children adored him, not with the
theoretical love of children for their parents, which can
brook absence, but with the real companionable love,
desiring nothing so much as constant, affectionate
intercourse and intimate interchange of thought. Aunt
Lizzie told me that his daughters, my mother, my aunt
Mary, my aunt Florida and herself were counting the days
of his return from Washington, when they received a
letter from old Doctor Blake announcing his death.
The Governor's gout was very bad, [he wrote] and
weakened him a good deal, but I had hopes of pulling him
through until the 20th, when he seemed to grow worse. All
the time he had been astonishingly cheerful, and full of
amusing stories. His friends (he had too much company I
thought) came in shoals from the capitol and elsewhere to
keep him company, and his spirits never flagged. I stayed
late the night of the 20th. When I came in he was reading
his Bible - which I send you - and laying it aside, he said,
"Blake, there 's some mighty good reading in that book. It
has helped me over devilishly rough roads, and while maybe
I haven't exactly lived 'a sober, righteous and godly life,' I
can honestly say I 've never questioned. I've always been
certain of Him. How can anybody doubt who reads
intelligently His Sermon on the Mount?" I begged him to
sleep and try and conserve his strength. Finally he dozed off,
saying, "Yes, that wonderful Nazarene planted seed in my
heart; if it has n't made a good harvest, it is n't His fault. But,
Blake, I really prefer not to die. This is a pretty good world
when all's said and done, don't you think so?" I stayed quite
two hours while he slept, and I came again very early in
the morning. I could see that the Governor was suffering,
for he looked terribly ill. I said, "How are you?" as cheerfully
as I could. "Blake," he said, with his ever-ready joke, "I am
about to pass in my checks." "I hope not, Governor," I
answered. "Yes, I am," he said smiling a weak smile, "and
it's just as well, for there are three old widows in this hotel,
all of them desperately in love with me. If I got well I'd have
to marry one of them, and if I did the other too would die of
broken hearts, so it 's just as well I 'm going." And with this
he turned his head, still smiling, and a moment later he was
dead. And the world holds one less natural, generous,
unaffected, gallant and witty gentleman. The Governor's
death is no less a grief to me than it is to you. Pray permit
me to convey to you my sincere sympathy. . . .
A little painted parchment fan, brought by one of the
Duval brothers from Rouen, with the family tree, a silver
christening dish, and a few other heirlooms, is always in
some way to me associated with my grandfather's death. It
was small, with ivory sticks, inlaid with a pattern of gold.
On it a gentleman in satin small-clothes and a powdered
wig danced the minuet with a lady in pointed bodice, a
flowered brocaded petticoat, red high-heeled slippers, and
her hair dressed à la Marie Antoinette. A little trail of roses
finished the fan at top and bottom, and on the other side a
picturesque shepherd and two beribboned lambs disported
themselves on green, downy hillocks. The fan was said to
have been used, on her way to the guillotine, by an
ancestress of my grandfather, a certain Lucienne Duval.
She, a devoted loyalist, was condemned as an extra
indignity to ride publicly with her lover on the tumbril to
their place of execution. All Paris, even the scum of the
French Revolution, knew of the affair, for the lady had
none of the hypocrite in her, so little that she gave no
excuse for her conduct, and indeed always spoke of her
husband as a great gentleman without fault.
"Perhaps," she said, "he is too perfect; that, maybe, is
why I love de Tocqueville. God knows he has enough
faults for two, but he is, and ever has been, the one man on
earth for me."
The day of the execution these two who had sinned
much, but loved much, went bravely to their death, he
taking snuff from his enamelled box, and talking as gaily as
if going to a May Day dance at Petit Trianon, she standing
erect and waving defiance with that gay and airy trifle, her
little painted fan. When the tumbril stopped de Tocqueville
said, "For the first time
in my life I shall reverse etiquette. Madame, I will precede
you."
"No," she said with a tender smile, "Philippe, you have
often kept me waiting; I shall go first and be waiting for you
still." And then before all the jeering multitude he took her
in his arms and kissed her on the eyes and on the
mouth, saying, "I've always loved you, always." And she,
looking into his eyes, asked, for she had been jealous, "And
loved me faithfully?" He whispered back quite humbly,
"Before God, dear woman, as faithfully as you have loved
me!"
Then, deaf to the insults of the crowd about her, who
called out, "Look at the painted cocotte, brazen to the last!"
she walked erect to the guillotine, still holding the little fan
and whispering "Toujours fidèle, toujours." In a moment
the basket received her head. When de Tocqueville stepped
from the tumbril, a man suddenly old, he had to be supported
to his execution, for he could not walk. The mob laughed
with delight and roared with triumph, "Voyez, voyez, lâche,
lâche!" They did not see that he had already died with his
brave lady, and that for once they would execute a corpse.
The mistress of a lackey in the Duval household was
said to have picked up the fan and returned it to the family.
May all the descendants of this poor lady meet death as
bravely as she. Certainly my grandfather did, and that is
why Lucienne's fan makes me think of him. Death finds so
many who fear his grim and affrighting presence that he
must love those and say a word in their favour, who in the
very last moment turn to him with a brave face, and meet
him with a gay and unexpected smile.
Courage comes straight from God,
With it He has created saints, martyrs,
Heroes, soldiers,
Lent them to the world,
And taken them to Himself again.
THE best blood of America is in Texas, the hardy blood of
the conquering pioneer. Even to-day, by instinct,
inheritance, and tradition, the men of Texas are still
pioneers, for they must be ever on the alert to fight nature
as she tries their prowess in droughts, floods, hurricanes
and tornadoes, but the golden possibilities in that vast land -
oil and coal to-day, topaz and turquoise to-morrow, gold
and silver in the future - urge them on to hope and fresh
endeavour.
The men who first established the Republic had force
enough to wrest the land from the Indian, and afterwards
from the Mexican. They were strong, they fought to
conquer or to die. And not only were there pioneer men,
but splendid pioneer women as well. How wise is Nature in
aptly supplying her needs! After the Civil War all the
babies born in the South were boys. It was impossible for
mothers who longed for them, to produce girls, and when
women were needed with intrepid souls, great powers of
endurance, and vigorous health to share a life of difficulty
and
danger with daring men, Nature produced them. Medea,
when asked, "Country, husband, children are all gone, what
remains?" answered, "Medea remains." There were many
Medeas in Texas. When husband and children were killed
by the Indians, and later by the Mexicans, houses destroyed
by fire, cattle and horses confiscated, still these hardy
women lived on to a brave old age.
Mrs. Long, whose husband of her youth was assassinated
by the Mexicans, spent a long life in trying to avenge his
death. It needs an iron constitution and rugged health, to
survive the memory of bloody tragedies, and life in those
days was melodramatic in its intensity. If the occurrences of
a day or a week of that time were now put on the stage, it
would give us, sitting in our seats in a theatre, fierce and
bloodcurdling thrills.
The crest of that wave of supreme daring - and history,
ancient or modern, contains no more sublime display of
courage - was the defence of the Alamo. Not one man
survived. They died like their leaders, Travis, Crockett,
Bowie and Bonham, fighting until death loosened the grip of
the smoking weapons from their brave hands. There is
something glorious and complete in a bloody struggle where
every man dies. On the old monument of the Alamo was the
inscription: "Thermopylæ had her messenger of defeat, but
the Alamo had none." None was needed. It was better for
that superhumanly gallant band to die together. They have
made an imperishable page of glory in history, and left a
proud heritage of unconquerable courage for the state to
hand down to her sons.
But the battle of San Jacinto, when the Texans,
concealed behind a gradually sloping hill, descended
unawares upon the Mexicans with the terrible cry from
every man: "Remember Goliad! Remember the Alamo!
Goliad! The Alamo!" avenged many deaths. And in such
furious, revengeful haste were the soldiers that, coming to
close quarters with the Mexicans they clubbed their
muskets, and fought hand to hand with bayonets and knife.
"Goliad! Goliad!" which in hoarse, fierce cries echoed
over the battlefield, meant death to the Mexican army, for,
cruel memories crowding upon them, the men fought like
savages. The artillerymen ordered: "Guns to the front!
Guns to the front! God! This for the Alamo!" and a steady
stream of fire poured forth on the Mexicans. The men at
the guns were blackened with powder; the cannon smoked
and sent out long tongues of flame.
"Fire, fire," cried one, "in God's name, fire!"
"In the name of Travis, Bowie, and Crockett, fire, men,
fire!"
The guns roared like wakeful hyenas, the band of drum
and fife stridently played, "Will you come to the bower?"
The Mexicans were running, rushing, fleeing, agonised and
appalled from "The Bower."
The battle lasted only half an hour, but six hundred and
thirty Mexicans were dead on the fertile plain, more than
two hundred were wounded, and more than seven hundred
were prisoners. Arms, munition, mules, horses, money in
gold and silver, were taken as loot from the Mexicans, and
of the brave little army of seven hundred and forty-three
Texans there were only six killed and twenty-five
wounded. Goliad and the Alamo were avenged.
Santa Anna when captured was generously treated as a
prisoner of war. If women, the mothers and wives of the
men slain at the massacre of Goliad and
shot at the Alamo, had taken him prisoner he would have
met instant death, which he deserved, but he lived to again
betray in 1843 the Texan troops at Nier, when Fisher's men,
surrendering under a written promise to be accorded
treatment as prisoners of war, were instantly tied together in
pairs, and driven like cattle towards the city of Mexico.
In the early dawn of the following day, led by a brave
Scotchman, Captain Ewan Cameron, many of them
escaped. The remaining number who could not get away
were commanded by Santa Anna to be drawn up in a line
and shot, but the order was modified to the drawing of black
beans. The man, who, blindfolded, drew the fatal colour was
shot. Seventeen men in this way were executed, and those
who drew white beans had better have died than lived, so
cruelly did they suffer. But every day brought nearer to the
undaunted pioneers of Texas the hope of freedom and
independence. Men may have been many things in that
struggling republic, filibusters, outlaws, adventurers,
gamblers, pirates, but I never heard of a coward.
We had the honour of sharing with Louisiana the
picturesque gentleman pirate Lafitte, who was said by his
enemies to make love or to scuttle a ship with equal success,
and by his friends to be a seigneur with letters of marque
from the French government. He was certainly, to put it
politely, a violator of the revenue, and Governor Claybourne
had put a price upon his head, when, at an opportune
moment for him, General Jackson and his army arrived in
New Orleans. With the ready assurance of the bold
adventurer, Lafitte offered his services and that of an armed
company for the defence of the state, and though General
Jackson had denounced "robbers, pirates, and hellish
bandits," he entered the army, was commended for
bravery, gained a full and free pardon by the government,
and left Louisiana rehabilitated, only to start privateering in
the Gulf of Mexico, off the coast of Galveston. In an
incredibly short space of time he had gathered more than a
thousand lawless adventurers about him. Finally a
Government vessel was robbed of some thousands in gold.
After that he disappeared and was supposed to have sailed
for South America.
La Salle, that brave and intrepid discoverer, having
claimed and named Louisiana for Louis XIV, sailed for
Texas, landed at Matagorda Bay, explored the Lavaca
River, and built Fort St. Louis. He called it "The St. Louis
of Sorrow," and so it proved for him. It is a pity that its
historic name has been changed to Dimmit's Point. A
leader of men can never escape the destroying jealousy of
those whom he dominates. They admire him. They fear
him. They envy him to the point of hatred. La Salle
escaped the dangers of the explorer by land and sea only
to die by the hand of an assassin, one of his own men, on
the Neches River.
There was courage and daring and carelessness of life in
Texas; not only in those early days, but even as a child I
myself remember the old disregard of danger which
prevailed in Texas. There is a great deal in atmosphere.
When a man lives in a country where cowardice is not
tolerated, although he may quake inwardly he would never
dare to show the white feather. On a Saturday night if a
frontiersman had drunk enough liquid "hell-fire," he would
ride into the town yelling like a Comanche Indian, the reins
of his horse thrown
over his arm or held in his teeth, and both hands occupied
in alternately firing off pistols, one perhaps pointed upward
to the heavens, the other downward to the earth, or by
misadventure hitting a human being. My youngest brother,
Ridge, standing on the side-walk, enjoying one of these all
too realistic spectacular performances, was shot through the
foot. He was about fifteen years old and we were the
greatest friends, then and always. After a few days I was
allowed as a great privilege to see the little greyish hole in
his instep. I don't think he minded it much; with a bundle of
newspapers and a pile of books he was always oblivious to
the world.
When I grew up and married, during my visits to Texas
my brother Ridge always spent a part of every day with me
and he had such a restful, comfortable, sensible, original way
of visiting. He wanted to see me, but having nothing in
particular to say, he said nothing. Arriving with a dozen
newspapers under one arm and several books under the
other, he gave me a brief but affectionate greeting, and,
sitting down, he read steadily for two hours, got up, patted
me on the head or shoulder, and said, "Good-bye, Betts
Swizzlegigs, see you to-morrow." And off he would go; but
he always saw me on the morrow. For, in the whole of his
life, he never broke the slightest promise, or told a little or a
big lie.
When he talked, which he did amazingly well, it was to
say something worth while, for he had a perfectly
astounding memory. It was like a moving picture show, and
seemed to have literally photographed every event, every
book, and every poem that he had ever read. He was very
fond of some little verses by Rollin Ridge, a talented
Cherokee Indian:
I love thee as the soaring bird
The bright blue morning when he sings,
With circling, circling melody,
And Heaven's sweet sunlight on his wings.
I love thee as the billows love
In tropic lands the pearly shore;
They come and go - they come and go,
With answering kisses evermore.
I love thee as the mariner
Far driven o'er the stormy sea
The bright and shining silver star
Which tells him where his home may be.
I love thee thus and ever shall;
Thine eyes their bright and glorious light
Shine in my soul for evermore
Illumining its darkest night.
and he always repeated again the lines,
"With circling, circling melody
And Heaven's sweet sunlight on his wings."
and I hope in that other and more beautiful country where
he has gone, "Heaven's sweet sunlight" is shining upon
him.
As a little girl, I had a great desire to be brave, but, like
the burglar described to me by F. C. Froest, the able
superintendent of police in London, who had three terrors -
an old-fashioned iron bar fastened across a door, a little
shrill barking dog, and an old maid who always sleeps with
one eye open, - there were three things, which struck
terror to my soul. These were the drunken yells of the
galloping outlaws, the old Voodoo negro witch living near
us, who was said to make people die by putting a spell on
them; and the bellowing
of a bull, which for a long time I believed to be the devil
roaring aloud for bad children whom he was seeking to
devour. This fable had been told me by a little negro girl on
the place, and had sunk deep into my well of credulity,
where even yet the waters have not been dried to dust by
the world's disillusionment.
Maum Phyllis, the Voodoo witch, had been brought to
Texas from South Carolina by my uncle Marcellus Duval,
and my father always said she was the last slave who had
been born in Africa. She was so black that even her lips
were a blue-black colour; her eyes were large and rolling;
she never smiled and seldom spoke. In her ears she wore big
hoops of gold, and a snow-white head handkerchief instead
of the gay plaid turban always worn by other negro women.
The contrast of her stern black face and the white above it
was startling. There was no scandal, no secret, no small
incident in any house in town which was unknown to her,
and even white women were not above buying her love
philtres. One of her peculiar talismans, composed of a bat's
wing, a rabbit'a foot, some hemp from the rope which had
hanged a murderer, and drops of milk from the breasts of a
mother and daughter, each nursing a baby of the same age,
was supposed to bring unwilling lovers to the most forbidding
of woman-kind. In the South, where women married very
young, it was not an unusual thing for the mother's youngest
child to be of the same age as her daughter's firstborn.
Mammy, although a very religious and ardent Methodist,
was a firm believer in Voodooism, charms, amulets, the evil
eye, "sperrits" and all the rest of it, I cannot even now
disabuse my mind of superstition and I know, "de cunjhe
book" contains many warnings and shuddering peeps into
the future.
"De cunjhe book say dat he prowl by night,
En' de cunjhe-book ought to know;
Deh 's a chance dat he 's neah when de dew gleam bright
En de ol' bak lawg buhn low -
Deh 's a chance det he 's neah when de stars wink weak,
En' de tallow cup buhn blue;
En' doan yo' dahe to speak
When de ol' flo' creak -
It 's de
Voodoo Bogey-Boo!
"He 's de awfullist thing, de cunjhe books say,
(Wuss den de uddeh bogy-boos)
En' de' ain't no chahm det kin keep him away -
He jes' come aroun' when he choose.
Deh 's snake-skin, en' bat-wing, en' rabbit-foot,
Well, its mighty li'l good dey 'll do,
Foh de cunjhe-book tell
It 's hahd to put a spell,
On de
Voodoo Bogey-Boo!
"Sum say det he gallop on an ol' blac' cat
Roun' de rim ob de big full moon,
Sum say det he cum in de shape of a bat
Fum his home in de swamp lagoon,
En' gran'mammy tell dat he 's always neah
When ebeh deh 's a grabe dug new,
En' she say if yo' heah
A ringin' in yo' eah
It 's de
Voodoo Bogey-Boo!
"Lemme tell yo', l'il boy, you betteh keep still
De dawg 's at de do' peepin' fru'
En' eben de cricket in de damp do'sill
Am stoppin' to listen too -
De room am still en' de fiah am daid
Deh 's sumfin a cummin' foh yo'
Jes' yo' jump right in baid
En' kibbeh up yo' haid,
It 's de Voodoo Bogey-Boo!"
Voodooism is now a thing of the past, but all the world
knows that a rabbit's foot which has danced on a tombstone
in a graveyard will bring extraordinary good luck. I have
never been fortunate enough to possess one. My mascot of
these days is a bracelet made from the hairs of an
elephant's tail, an ornament guaranteed to bring at least
some good fortune. It is lucky in the first place to get the
bracelet at all, for not every elephant has hair on his tail, and
to have the black spikes necessary to bend like tiny
whalebones into a circle, the elephant must have been free,
a dweller in forests, a monarch of all he surveyed, and a
leader in the elephant world. He must have lifted up his
trunk and deeply trumpeted when he heard the lion's loud
roar in the jungle; he must have been wise and more than a
century old, for thin weak hairs cannot appease an angry
fate. My Helen gave me a tiger's whisker; it was neatly
curled up and enclosed in a little sapphire studded gold heart,
and attached to a bracelet, but a fair-haired German waiter
stole it from me two years ago in New York. I daresay by
this time he is proprietor of a prosperous hotel and all the
luck intended for me has been transferred to him.
One little piece of good fortune that I had was being born
in Texas, that great, wide, cheerful, courageous territory,
with the most picturesque history of all the states and a
distinct individuality of its own, inheriting as it has something
of aloofness and independence from
the old Republic. During her long struggle with Mexico,
England and France, for their own reasons, had both shown
great interest in the future of Texas, but without help she
had fought bravely on, overcoming with bleeding steps
defeat and disaster, until at length Mexico was obliged to
offer her terms of peace. This brought the United States to
a realisation of her position and importance. Goethe said
"Thought expands and weakens the mind; action contracts
and strengthens it"; certainly these men of action know
how to wait. Patience has won more battles than bravery,
for it means unending, sustained courage.
The most thrilling thing I ever heard Parnell say in his
even steady voice was, "I can always bide my time."
These pioneer statesmen bided their time. Quietly resting
between Mexico and the United States they calmly
compared the advantages of a republic, or a state, and
delicately weighed in the scales all that would be to their
own advantage. Each of the other states had asked to be
admitted to the Union, but Texas proudly waited, and when
she received her card of invitation said, "Yes, I am
flattered at your polite invitation, but I must enter the Union
on my own terms." And if she wishes it to-morrow, she
can be divided into four States and send twelve men to the
Senate; but this will never be, for she is proud of her
stupendous size, of her unique position and, above all, of
being the "Lone Star State."
When the United States agreed in 1846 to her
independent terms, at the first faint streak of dawn
cannons boomed to assemble together the patriots and
pioneers who had fought for her liberty in the past and
would guard it jealously in the future. The sunrise was
magnificent, and amidst a profound silence the honoured
flag with its single star was lowered and furled, and a flag
with stars hoisted and unfurled. The President of the late
Republic said with deep feeling: "The final act in the great
drama is finished, the Republic of Texas is dead. The State
of Texas lives." There was a wild shout, and Texas was
enrolled in the Union.
When the Legislature assembled, the state constitution,
framed by just and honest men, showed that sagacity and
wisdom ruled her counsels. Much of the Common Law in
England was used and some of the laws improved upon. All
property owned by the husband or wife at the time of
marriage and all acquired afterwards remained the separate
property of each, and all property acquired during marriage
was common property. Offences against the persons of
slaves were punished in the same way as those committed
against white people. The homestead was, and still is,
exempt from debt. Public free schools were supported by
taxation; and a sum of money was voted for the
maintenance of the Texas rangers, a small army necessary
to the State in the quick capture and punishment of
marauding outlaws and "Hellish bandits." My father often
commented upon the wisdom of the constitution of the
State. He was himself the author of Paschal's Digest of
the Laws of Texas. Martin Lyttleton, that brilliant lawyer
and fine orator, told me it was the first law book he had ever
read, and although he has now attained prominence in the
Congressional life of Washington, he never forgets Texas
and his love for that great State.
An opal-hearted country,
A wilful, lavish land;
All you who have not loved her,
You will not understand
Though earth holds many splendours,
Wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country
My
homing thoughts will fly. DOROTHEA MACKELLER.
BEFORE the war, society in Austin must have been very
varied and interesting. General Sam Houston was
governor of the State. My mother did not like him,
holding him responsible for the massacre of Goliad
where my Uncle Burr Duval had been shot; but from
this history exonerates him. He came to Texas in the
first instance, like many another man, to mend a
broken heart, and for a time eschewed the society of
the white man and above all the white woman. Living
entirely with the Indians, he learned their language,
adopted their costume, and to the end of his life
retained a certain bold picturesqueness in his dress.
When Governor of the State, he wore a soft silk shirt,
a flowing red necktie, a leopard-skin vest, coat and
trousers of brown camel's hair, a wide sombrero of
grey felt embroidered in silver, and a rich-coloured
Mexican serape. Some of these serapes woven by
the Indians
are of great value; they are made on a fine frame not unlike
the manner of weaving an Eastern rug, and are splendid in
colouring and as pliable and soft as an Indian shawl. Age
only improves them; with care they last for generations and
are with the Mexicans valued heirlooms. Governor Houston
loved popularity and was always sending my mother,
through my father, some small carved object. Like Madame
de Staël he required constant occupation for his hands; she
played with a twig or a flower, he was always whittling, and
he was rarely seen without a knife and a piece of soft wood
which he transformed into stars, hearts, diamonds, and
Noah's Ark people and animals. Eventually my mother
softened towards him, for he and my father were always
friends. In a quarrel which he had with a public man, my
father was trying to mend matters when Governor Houston
said: "You are right, Judge, I must n't be too hard on Jones;
he has every quality of the dog except his fidelity."
The romance of his life was not unlike that of Claude
Melnotte, but without the happy ending which romance so
easily, but life rarely, gives. He was a man of great ability
and when very young was elected governor of
Tennessee. During his term of office he fell ardently in love
with a beautiful and ambitious girl. The wooing was not
without difficulty as he had a rival, a young man, undesirable
and undistinguished, who scarcely entered into his big busy
mind. The girl he loved lived in an adjoining town, and the
courtship was mainly through letters, therefore he had not
the opportunity of properly studying her character. As was
the fashion of the time they were married at night, in a
candle-lighted, flower-wreathed church. There was a big
wedding, for everybody wanted to see the
handsome young couple, and to congratulate the Governor,
but at last, at the end of the festivities, he sought the
beautiful bride. All shimmer of satin and glimmer of pearl,
she awaited him, in the rose-and-white bridal chamber.
He went quickly towards her, speechless with emotion,
and tenderly gathered her in his arms. "Don't," she said,
pushing him away, "you will crush my veil." Her voice
struck coldly upon his quickened emotions, but he was
repelled only for a second. He was too happy to take
warning, and he unfastened her veil, laid it reverently on
the sofa, and softly lifted her face to kiss her. She drew
back with a look almost of dislike, and said, "Please,
please, not now." He thought it was maidenly modesty and
said: "I have n't thanked you yet for marrying me, but I
do. See, I am humble; I am on my knees, my darling, to
thank you," and he knelt and covered her hands with
kisses.
Another, softer woman, not loving him, would have
done it then, and laying her hand upon his head would have
thanked God for this adoring heart, but her own was of
ice. She said, somewhat sharply: "Do get up and don't be
foolish; I don't want you to thank me for marrying the
Governor of Tennessee." He said very gently, "You have
married your lover, Madame."
"I don't want a lover," she said, coldly, "if I had wished
to give myself up to love, - a thing I don't believe in, - I
would have married S.," naming his rival.
"Did you," said her husband fiercely, "love him?"
"No," she said, "but I might have loved him, if you had
not been a man of successful ambition. I have married, as
I said before, the Governor of Tennessee."
eyes, "you do not love this gentleman - this paltry Governor - "
She said, "Love is not necessary in an ambitious
marriage. I am the Governor's wife. I am to sit at the head
of his table, to receive his friends, to share his triumphs - "
"And," he cried with a great burst of passion, "to starve
his heart and leave it empty! To break it in the end, and to
make ambition his curse. Even now," he added bitterly, "my
ambition is dead. You have killed all my hopes, and I suffer
the torments of the damned, for I wanted you and I loved
you, - my God, how I loved you!"
She answered calmly: "I thought men placed ambition
before a woman. I am willing for you to do that. You are the
Governor of . . ."
"By heaven, Madame," he said harshly, "there is no such
person."
And with that, he strode to the writing-table, wrote his
resignation to the State, threw it at her feet, picked up his
hat, and said:
"I married you for love, the purest, the truest, the most
reverently adoring that man ever gave to woman. You
married me without love. I scorn a woman's body without
her soul. We are as far asunder as the poles. We part here,
now and forever."
He closed the door and went out into the darkness of the
stormy night - his tragic wedding night - and they never
met again.
He sought forgetfulness among the Indians, and was only
roused from lethargy by the desperate efforts of the
struggling Republic of Texas towards liberty. When he
became General of the army, his wife, at last loving him
deeply, should, according to romance, have
travelled thousands of miles and appeared, travel-stained,
softened and repentant, to sue for his forgiveness; but in
reality they were divorced. Each married again, and they
never met after the fatal night of their parting.
Texas must have held more than her share of thrilling
romance at this period. Men made love with impulsive
ardour, for the rapid uncertainty of life brings greediness
for all it holds. During the war, one day's courtship served
for marriage. "Love to-night and death to-morrow," was
the soldier's motto.
Among the first settlers of Texas a number of
representatives of old Southern families had established
themselves in Austin. James Raymond had helped to frame
the constitution of the State and was a banker; the
Flournoys (what pity to anglicise the aristocratic name of
Fleur Noire!), the Lubbocks, the Wauls (Waul's
confederate Texas brigade was later to become a synonym
in the army for undaunted courage); - the Hancocks, the
Duvals, the Peases - Elisha Pease, afterwards governor,
although born in the North and a Union man, never lost the
affection or confidence of the people - these were among
the most distinguished of the early settlers. Then there
were the Throckmortons, the Wests, the Burlesons, the
Steiners, the Haynes, and the Wigfalls. Louis Wigfall had
been sent from Texas to the United States Senate. With
uncompromising Southern proclivities, he became in 1861
one of the leaders of Secession, and was a fiery, vehement,
passionate speaker, earning for himself the sobriquet of
"the stormy petrel."
Mrs. Chesnut, in her Diary from Dixie, 1860-65,
frequently mentions the Wigfalls. "I sent Mrs. Wigfall a
telegram - 'Where shrieks the wild seamew?'
She answered, 'Seamew at the Spotswood Hotel will
shriek soon. I will remain here.' " And of the bombardment
of Fort Sumter, she says, "Wigfall was with them on
Marius' Island when they saw the fire in the fort. He
jumped into a little boat and, with his handkerchief, as a
white flag, rode over . . . . As far as I can see, the fort
surrendered to Wigfall. It is all confusion." And at
Richmond in 1861 she says: "Heavens! He manoeuvered
until I was weary for their sakes. Poor fellows, it was a hot
afternoon in August and the thermometer in the nineties.
President Davis uncovered to speak. Wigfall kept his hat
on. Is that military?" After the war Louis Wigfall lived for a
time in England, but eventually returned to the United States.
Matthias Ward, another Senator from Texas in 1860,
was very popular. He had a great sense of humour and
enjoyed a story against himself. His face was extremely
youthful, with fresh bright eyes as blue as that dear flower,
the prairie blue-bonnet, and cotton-white hair. Travelling
from New Orleans to St. Louis by a Mississippi steamer,
he had engaged the state-room number one hundred and
ten. The boat was immensely crowded, and his room had
been taken possession of by a party of lawless men.
Standing outside the open door of the ladies' cabin, the
steward called to one of the understewards, "Here, can't
you get this poor man, one hundred and ten, a berth?" A
pretty lady put her head out of the state-room. "Oh,
steward, bring him right in here," she said; "the ladies won't
mind a harmless old man of a hundred and ten, and, poor
old soul, he must have somewhere to sleep." "Pull your hat
down," said the steward, "and hobble to your berth; it will
be all right." But the lovely
ladies chattering, relieving their pretty heads of hundreds of
curls and braids, letting their own hair flow over their
shoulders, and dropping immense hoop skirts which fell
with a clang like steel armour to the floor, were
temptations too strong to be withstood. Mr. Ward peeped,
and immediately an observant young lady called out,
"Steward, steward, come quick and get your hundred and
ten. He's looking at us with young blue eyes." And the
steward had to find him another state-room, minus
crinolines.
There were many men in Texas opposed to Secession at
the beginning of the war. The State had entered the
Union on her own terms; she was prosperous and far
enough away from the passionate excitement in
Washington for astute statesmen to see inevitable defeat.
From the beginning everything was against the South. The
North had wealth, open ports, greater numbers, and even
with success the South must have suffered horribly from a
war fought on her own territory. But when Texas finally
accepted Secession she did it with no half measures,
furnishing to the Confederate army eighty-eight regiments
of infantry and cavalry, and more than thirty batteries of
artillery. In all, seventy-five thousand Texas men fought for
the Southern cause. Albert Sydney Johnston ranked among
the ablest officers in the service. Ben McCullough
commanded the Texas Rangers, who did not know fear.
Sam Bell Maxey, a cousin of my mother's, soon won his
two stars. General William Steele, who had married my
aunt Laura Duval's sister, an ardent sympathiser with the
South, had resigned from a crack cavalry regiment in the
United States army to take command in Texas. And the
long roll-call of glory holds hundreds of Texas names.
A baptism of fire during the siege of Vicksburg gave
Texas an adopted son whose name is well-known to history.
An important redoubt had been captured by the Federals and
it was necessary for the Confederates to recapture it. One
entire company from Alabama had been shot down to the
very last man, when Waul's Texas brigade volunteered to
capture the fort. Captain Bradley said he wanted no married
officers to take part, the danger was too great. Pettus, a
young Confederate officer said: "Bradley, you are a married
man yourself. Give me your command." Bradley answered:
"No, where my troops go, I will lead them." Captain Pettus
said, "All right, come ahead." He placed himself well in
front, led them by a circuitous route, and before the Federals
knew it, the fire of the Confederates was destructively
centred upon the fort, which they unexpectedly approached
in the rear. The quick volley and attack caused a panic, the
fort was seized, and a greater number of prisoners than their
own men were captured. Before the enemy fully realised
their position, the Confederates had spiked their guns and
without the loss of a single man had gained a complete
victory. They marched back with heads up and banners
flying to the quick-step of Dixie, played with drum and fife.
A Texas soldier, full of enthusiasm, asked who the tall man
was who led them. Someone said, "Pettus of Alabama."
Then the brigade broke into a wild Texas yell and gave
cheer after cheer for "Pettus of Texas!" "Pettus of Texas!"
And Senator Pettus ever afterwards claimed to be a man
of two States, Texas and Alabama, for he had been
rebaptised on the field of battle for an act of unsurpassed
daring by a legion of the Lone Star State.
who fight valiantly forgive generously. Confederate soldiers
came back with no bitterness or animosity in their hearts
towards the North, and they worked at whatever
occupation offered itself without hesitation or shame. A
gallant Captain, with a bullet still in his arm, measured a
yard of ribbon in a shop; or a Major, his only possession
one mule, ploughed a long straight furrow and planted
sugar-cane or cotton. Good birth luckily cannot be measured or
ploughed away. It remains, and in a crisis it always counts.
It is said that during the war a gentleman by birth
recovered from wounds that were fatal to the son of the
soil. It was not one man fighting death; the influence of his
gallant forbears abided to help him.
In the days of my childhood courage was a fetish in
Texas. Girls and boys tried to bear a hurt without a cry.
They were brought up to an open air life, and early learned
to ride and run and swim and fish and hunt. When I was a
baby my father had a Mexican saddle made with a pommel
about the size of a soup-plate and, sitting in front of him, I
rode in this way all over the country until I was big enough
to mount a pony. Then I learned to ride on a gay little
animal called "Buttons." He was of creole stock, an active,
boyish, sturdy little fellow of the sweetest temper and the
warmest heart, as eager for affection and petting as a dog,
and as playful as a kitten. If I held up a pocket-handkerchief
he stood rigidly still looking at it, showing the
white of his eyes with roguish knowingness, until
unexpectedly, with a rush, he ran and seized it out of my
hand. Although my father paid only twenty-five dollars for
him he had good Spanish and Norman blood in his veins,
and with his bright bay colour and long black mane and tail
was a very good-looking little
animal. Sometimes out of sheer joy of life he tilted me over
his head and I would find myself sitting on the grass very
surprised, looking into his mischievous face.
After Buttons, I held in love my pet pig, "Pancake." He
was extremely jealous of the pony whom he held in
detestation, and he stood by squealing with rage when I
mounted for my afternoon ride. This quaint pet I had literally
raised from the dead. We had a famous Berkshire sow of
enormous size and distinguished pedigree who overlaid her
litter of pigs, leaving them as flat as pancakes. They were
thrown out behind the stable waiting for a cart to bear them
away, when I found them, thought one of them breathed,
and carried him into the kitchen to Mammy. She dosed him
with paregoric - wrapped him in hot flannels, put him by the
fire and gave him a bottle of fresh warm milk. Slowly he
revived, and for a long time I tended him every day and
Mammy every night. Finally he began to fatten, to take
notice, and to develop a loving heart. He trotted at my heels
like a dog and sat on the balcony in the evening looking out
on the garden while my mother watered her flowers.
Dressed in a black barège gown with low neck and short
sleeves and a little tulle cape trimmed with pink satin ribbons,
she would go from bed to bed, carrying a big watering-pot,
while a crowd of little darkies bearing smaller watering-pots
trotted after her. Evidently it afforded Pancake great
satisfaction to see other people at work, while he was
grunting at leisure. He got his own way in everything, not by
moral suasion, but by intimidation. The moment he saw a
negro enter the dining-room with a dish he began to squeal,
and the loud, penetrating and shrill noise continued until in
despair my father would say, "Get a plate and let me give
Pancake his dinner first." And before anyone else was
served, a huge plate of steaming food was taken out to him
for the sake of quiet.
Our house in Austin was built of stone, with very thick
walls to make it cool. A piazza in front and another at the
rear ran along the full length of the house. After the
foundations were begun it was found that a noble elm-tree
would have to be sacrificed to make room for the balcony,
and my father was indeed the woodsman who spared the
tree, for he built both upper and lower galleries round the
trunk of it, and left the wide-spreading branches to make a
thick shade in summer over the roof. My mother always
regretted that it had not been cut down, as she said it
brought insects into the house, but I loved its rough body
and my bird-cages conveniently hung upon it. The first
mocking-bird I tried to raise had a pathetic fate. Its father,
rather than leave his son in captivity, became its filiuscide.
My fledgling was getting on splendidly; his dewy eyes were
soft and bright, he had a ferocious appetite and was fat and
happy, when one day the parent bird approached the cage
with a little red berry, fed him with it, and in a moment he
was dead.
I profited by my experience. The next mocking-bird I
adopted was brought up out of a cage; he was called
"Moonlight," and was perfectly tame, hopping about in
every room in the house and sleeping at night on the back
of a chair on the balcony. When he was just budding into
manhood and had begun to try his voice with low-toned,
beautiful warblings, he met a tragic end through a yellow
cat who caught him, for although he was rescued it was
only to die very quickly. I cried myself into a fever, and my
father would have shot the cat if I had not begged for its
life.
A great and constant delight after my pets was the
garden, now gone forever, for although the old house stands
the ground has been divided and sold away from it:
I would know it, could I find it;
And before I reached the gate,
I would catch the smell of roses,
Where the fragrant hedge encloses
And the fair white lilies wait.
Tall they were, the hedge and lilies,
When my little feet ran there;
And I laughed and played beside them,
But the weary long years hide them,
Though I seek them everywhere.
I would know it, could I find it;
And before I reached the gate,
I'd escape long years and pain
And would be a child again,
Where the tall white lilies wait.
It is to me a supreme sadness that with my passionate
love of every flower that grows, my only garden is that dark
and solitary enclosure, where I have wept and suffered and
battled with loneliness and despair, my Garden of
Gethsemane.
My mother's garden was a whole acre of blossoms. The
splendid Spanish bayonet (Yucca), with its thick pure waxen
flower, grew near the gate. The exotic cactus, with its
gorgeous blossoms of scarlet, flourished where the sun
shone hottest; and there were beds of heart's-ease,
forget-me-nots, single pinks and carnations,
creeping ice-plant and the delicate sensitive plant,
shrubs of crêpe myrtle and althea, with rows of holly-hocks
and gravelled walks thickly bordered with white and
pink and purple gillyflowers. And the rose garden was
scarcely ever, even in mid-winter, without a few persistent
blossoms. There were Maréchal Niel and heavy-headed
tea roses, the soft mauve-pink Caroline Testout, deep red
Jacqueminot roses, white roses with their delicate reticent
perfume, and the little starry picayune, and banksia; and
crimson and white ramblers. The old-fashioned sweet,
opulent, cabbage roses, yellow and pink; the moss-rose,
whose stem and foliage are almost as fragrant as the
flower, and the hardy hundred-leaf rose, with its thorny
stem, grew in riotous profusion everywhere. A German
horticulturist had helped my mother to make one
picturesque rose bed. When the bushes reached a certain
height they were bent, the ends cut and replanted in the
earth, where they took root and grew in the shape of a half-hoop,
and in leaf and blossom, with the thick foliage and
the many-hued roses covering every inch of ground, this
was a wonderful spot of beauty. Tall lilies, white and pink
and scarlet, stood like sentinels on either side of the path
leading to the front door, and in a protected corner of the
garden heliotrope, oleander, gardenia, lemon verbena, spitti
sporum, and sweet olive made the air a perfect bouquet of
fragrance. My mother worked early and late among her
flower beds, making war on blight, insects and ants, and
giving the thirsty plants enough water to drink. There was
one bed of four o'-clocks, a species of yellow azalea
whose blossoms remained closely folded buds until four
o'clock, when they opened their lazy golden eyes and
gave forth a deliciously fresh clean perfume. As a child I
would wait patiently for the magic hour, but these
flowers
were shy, and I never saw them actually unfold their
leaves.
Beyond Waller's Creek, which ran just at the back of the
garden, was a wide, open prairie with a fine grove of post
oaks in the centre, trees of beautiful shape with broad green
leaves. In the spring the prairie was rich with variegated
colour from the many wild flowers which burst into blossom
almost over night. There were bachelor buttons, coxcomb,
wild pink and white cyclamen, scarlet sage, sweet william, a
large delicate pink and white primrose (a different variety
from the small English flower), and nigger heads, a very
sweet-smelling flower with a big round centre of dark brown
and small yellow and red petals. A fragrant white lily, called
rain lily from its quick blossoming after a shower, bloomed
there, and amidst all this flashing of brilliant tints were soft
undulations of purest azure, as if little lakes reflecting the sky
were in a state of gentle upheaval. This pretty phenomenon
was produced by vast quantities of thickly growing blue-bonnets
(Lupinus subcarnosus) in such vivid luxuriance as
to form whole patches of sky-blue on the wide prairie. I
loved that little upright, exquisite, intensely coloured flower,
with its clear-cut saucy profile and greyish green leaves.
Perhaps some day I shall see it again.
And there was the creek, the fascinating never-to-be-forgotten
creek, where the moment the weather was warm
enough we, my cousins and I, waded up- and down-stream
to make discoveries on the fertile banks. We found natural
grape-vine swings, and ladders of strong creepers almost to
the tops of some of the trees, and underneath a thick growth
of wild-rose bushes a startled whip-poor-will would dart out,
and when we peeped between the leaves there would lie her
soft
brown nest on a carpet of moss. When the sun shone hot, a
turtle would leave her snow-white egg on the sand, and the
rainbow lizard would take a siesta in the afternoon.
Sometimes we saw one with no tail, showing that, while he
too-soundly slept, a mischievous boy had dropped a sharp
stone and cut it off. And there were gentle-eyed horned
frogs, who never ran away, but would let us, with wildly
beating hearts, handle them and put them down again. On
the banks grew pokeberry bushes, dipping towards the
stream, and we gathered their rich purple berries and
painted each other's cheeks and lips a deep vermilion-red;
and there were beautiful teasel-tufts, that indelibly stained
our hands. We made bouquets from the great beds of
horsemint with its tiny white blossom, and we shelled the
milkweed pod and with the white silky hair stuffed
mattresses for our dolls. The beautiful kingfisher made
darts of light at our approach and the little, harmless, jade-green
water-snakes, who touched our bare legs, would
make us shriek aloud with frightened ecstasy. We could
hear the Bob-White calling in the distance and sometimes
find his low nest built almost in the water. The slow-moving
tortoise drew in his head when, chattering, we passed. The
melancholy coo of the wood-dove made us momentarily
sad, for we thought he was calling for his missing mate and
would be a solitary bird bachelor all the rest of his
melancholy life, since we were always told that when a
dove died the other never mated again.
The green katy-did sang long and lingeringly along the
margin of the creek; the crickets chirped more loudly
there, and the brown frogs gave forth a mellower boom. It
was a place of dear enchantment, and how disappointed
we were when a drought came and dried
the dimpling, clear, brown water and turned the irregular
little stream into a dusty road-bed. Ah! the poor little city
children who are devoid of all these sweet woodland melodies!
And if my borrowed cousins sometimes went home
and I had no playfellow, there were all of my dear dream
friends who in imagination dwelt with me. Little Red Riding-Hood,
Beauty and the Beast, Cinderella, Bluebeard and his
wives, Sister Ann, Puss-in-Boots, Jack the Giant-killer,
Jack-of-the-Beanstalk, the fairy Princess and Bob Goodfellow,
Little Bo-peep and Little Boy-blue and Sleeping Beauty,
were all as real to me as my father and mother and aunt
Polly Hynes, who lived part of the year with us and was
always ready to read me these enchanting fairy stories. I
loved her dearly and feared her too, for she was a lady of
unassailable dignity and rigorous habits. Never on the
warmest summer's day did she take off her "stays" and put
on a loose muslin wrapper; no matter how high the
temperature, she was always scrupulously dressed, with not
a hair out of place. A ruffled cap of beautiful lace with
strings was tied under her chin; an embroidered collar of
sheer muslin was fastened at the neck with the miniature of
a young man in a uniform; and a deep purple or black and
white muslin gown neatly fitted her tall erect figure. She
always carried a brocaded silk bag which contained two
snuff-boxes, one of dark enamel, the other of gold, with
Holyrood castle engraved on the top. Two handkerchiefs, a
gaily coloured one for snuff, the other of sheer fine linen,
and a pair of black woollen mitts, in case her hands got cold,
completed the contents. At precisely eleven o'clock in the
morning a little negro, who rarely left her side except for this
office, entered the room with
a glass of sangaree (ice and claret sugared, and powdered
thickly on the top with nutmeg) and two cakes. She
delicately drank the claret and nibbled the cakes, and I
remember thinking that as soon as I grew up I should
certainly take snuff and drink sangaree.
When Aunt Polly grew very old the sexton of St. David's
who was old too, called her "Aunt Polly." She drew herself
up and said, "Only my nephews and nieces call me that -
Miss Hynes, if you please," and Miss Hynes she remained
even to our youngest and most intimate friends. Of all her
nieces she loved best her namesake, Molly Duval, the
beauty of the family. Molly was my favourite too. She had
hair as yellow as ripe corn, a beautifully smooth pink and
white skin, brown eyes, and a charming sense of humour.
When she reached girlhood she was a great toast and
belle, breaking many hearts, but finally she married William
Nelson of Virginia. Even those of us who were not so
beautiful as Molly had a lovely time. As Austin was a
military station, there were, in addition to the young men of
the town, any number of cavalry and infantry officers,
while other young soldiers stationed at solitary posts came
down occasionally from the frontier, and not having seen a
woman for months they were very impressionable, and
generally became engaged to some girl not many days
after their first meeting. There were balls and dances,
moonlight picnics, rides and drives, serenades and
champagne breakfasts, and life was as careless and gay
as youth, health, and high spirits could make it.
And yet beneath that carelessness the inexorable spirit
of the country was and is always present. The way of
transgressors is not unusually hard in that dear land, but no
leper in a desert island is more avoided than
a hypocrite when found out; and the punishment meted out
to him is remorseless. I remember a man who came to
Texas, took orders for the ministry, and became assistant
curate to an Episcopal clergyman. There was a rumour that
he was married, but he was uncommunicative about his
affairs, and nothing was definitely known until he produced
a newspaper which contained a notice of the death of his
first wife. He fell in love with a sweet, amiable, and
charming girl, and a little later married her. It was such a
pretty wedding, all smiles and tears, white tulle, fresh
orange blossoms, white Swiss muslin, bridesmaids, many
loving gifts, and heartfelt and affectionate wishes for the
modest bride. The bridegroom, a plain, dark, swarthy,
unattractive man, was so filled with joy that he appeared
almost good-looking. After the marriage two children were
born, and they were quite happy until the first wife
appeared to say that she had never died, and had never
been divorced from her husband. She had last heard of him
in Arizona as having married a Mexican girl; then he
disappeared, and she had now traced him to Texas. A trial
for bigamy was begun, he was convicted and sentenced to
serve one or two years in the penitentiary. His young wife,
the mother of his children, was that most touching, amazing
creature on earth, a woman with perfect faith in the man
she loved. She did not believe the first wife's tale, nor the
evidence (if she even read it), nor the jury nor the judge.
She simply rested upon the word of her husband. This
attitude aroused even the pity of the first wife, and she,
upon being appealed to by the husband's counsel, agreed
to divorce him.
The decree was granted without delay, and before he
went to serve his term of imprisonment he was
allowed, in consideration of his second wife's family, to
leave the prison, and be married in his own house at five
o'clock in the morning by a justice of the peace.
It was after he had served his term that his true
punishment began. He was not only ostracised; he even
ceased to exist in the community, and earned his bread by
going to the back door of the houses where he had been an
honoured guest and leaving blocks of ice. The people
resented with bitterness the betrayal of their trust. They
could not forget that a hypocrite had married the young,
prayed for the sick, and buried the dead, and they could
never forgive him. Texas might pardon a filibuster, an
outlaw or a hot-blooded impulsive slayer of men (I won't
say murderer), but a hypocrite goes unpardoned.
My father once questioned the old sexton who wanted
him to defend a man who had committed a murder. "But,
Stavely," he said, "has n't O'Brien already shot six men?"
"He is, Jedge," Stavely answered, "but there 's one thing
to be said for him, he ain't never killed no man that did n't
want killing mighty bad."
The man who has met with "an accident" and killed
another man is regarded leniently - but a ban is laid upon
the hypocrite. He is a coward, and a coward is worse than
an outcast, for life in that wide country is of less value than
honour. My father, who was the best, kindest, and most
humane gentleman I ever knew, believed in the duello. He
said a man had a perfect right to protect his own home and
his womenkind at the point of a pistol. He argued that
through this drastic means we were freed from long,
salacious, divorce or breach of promise cases, or suits for
damaged affections; that men when they deceived or
compromised
women knew the consequences and were more careful of
their conduct. He did not live long enough to comprehend
the modern woman who, best of all, is taught and is able to
protect herself.
The men of Texas are eminently manly. They look life
squarely in the face with unflinching candid eyes, and they
do not mind in the least the laugh being turned on them for
their patriotic devotion to their State. They may not be quite
so self-centred as that famous gentleman of history,
Honorius, who wept at Ravenna when told that Rome was
lost, thinking that his pet chicken had flown away, and when
he found it was only the capital of the world was immensely
relieved; nor, like Louis XVI, who on a day when there was
no hunt wrote in his diary, "Nothing doing," although at that
moment Paris stormed the Bastille; but Texans ever bear
first in mind the needs and the advancement of that wide
opal-hearted country. It is said that if a member of Congress
goes to the Texas delegation with a bill which affects the
life of the whole nation, they listen politely and probably
answer: "This bill is all very well, but what are you going to
do for the harbour at Galveston?" Or they mention some
other appropriation for the benefit of that vast land, and
certainly the very core of the heart of the Lone Star State
is rooted in its soil.
The modern Texan is a fine, independent, upstanding
human being, who boldly carves out his future, arguing that
a man must first achieve his own glory before he boasts of
the glory of his forbears. Man is a product of the land he
lives in. The Texas men in Congress are characterised by a
certain honest forceful directness, courage and
independence, doubtless an inheritance of the intrepid spirit
of the old Republic.
Senator Culberson, with many busy years of service to the
State to his credit, is honoured for his impeccable honesty.
Albert Sydney Burleson, a man of fine character, great
courage and varied interests, valiantly carries forward the
tradition of his fighting ancestors who helped to make the
brave history of the State. His character is interestingly
complex, combining great directness and simplicity with the
ready acuteness of the far-seeing politician. And he views
with a prophetic eye, not only the political arena of
America, but of the whole world. But the whole Texan
delegation are good men and true, fearless, manly, and
kind. They are not crafty or strategic politicians, for the
Texan men and women take life with straightforward
directness, praise their friends, and abuse their enemies. It
may not be the wisest course to pursue, but oh, it can be
done with such enjoyment and sincerity!
Truth only needs to be for once spoke out,
And there 's such music in her, such strange rhythm,
As makes men's memories her joyous slaves,
And clings around the soul, as the sky clings
Round the mute earth, forever beautiful,
And if o'erclouded, only to burst forth
More all-embracingly divine and clear.
Get but the Truth once uttered, and 'tis like
A star new-born, that drops into its place.
And which once circling in its placid round,
Not all the tumult of the earth can shake.
I don't believe it would be possible for a man from that
great gulf State to have written the letter of Clement Clay
to his wife when, after the war, he was unjustly
incarcerated at Fortress Monroe:
Do what you can for the comfort of my parents. . . .
Try to exercise charity to all mankind, forgiving injuries,
cherishing hatred to none, and doing good even to enemies.
This is true wisdom, even if there were no life beyond the
grave because it is the best way of securing peace of mind
and of promoting mere worldly interests.
To forgive our enemies is hard; to do good to them is
harder. I have known but one person who even
contemplated it. Mrs. Mackay, who had suffered from the
malice of two fashionable American women, offered, when
they encountered reverses and contemplated going into
business, to furnish the capital if her name could be kept a
secret. I have never had any money to give my friends, but
I have grave doubts whether, even if I had a fortune, I
should wish to enrich my enemies.
Wells, in his excellent but not always understanding book,
The Future of America - for after all he was only six
weeks in that vast land - said that every man above forty
and most of those below that limit seemed to be enthusiastic
advocates of unrestricted immigration, "and," he adds, "I
could not make them understand the apprehension with
which this huge dilution of the American people with
profoundly ignorant foreign peasants filled me." But there is
no danger. Every age must take care of itself. America
was, under the providence of God, established as the home
of the desolate and oppressed, and this is her destiny. In her
vast melting-pot old evils disappear like dross, and new
forces are fused into a metal whose purity the future alone
can test. It must not be forgotten that she receives these
peasants in their ignorance and need, gives them food for
their bodies, instructs their minds, and endows them with
fresh energy. And Mr. Wells does n't realise that when
America stretches out her
strong arm and takes to her broad bosom all nationalities,
Scandinavians, Germans, Frenchmen or Irishmen, she
transforms them in six months or a year into loyal citizens.
Whether it be the hope born of a fresh environment, new
possibilities or newly awakened self-respect, the subtle
influence of the boundless forests, the great Lakes, the
long chains of mountains, or vast noble prairies like those
of Texas, something vital holds a man in a mighty grasp in
our mighty land. His soul, freshly awakened, lifts up its
voice and cries out, "I am an American." We take the
discordant elements of all the world, and remould them into
law-abiding citizens, ready to shoulder a musket in defence
of our country and of Liberty. What other country can do
it? But we have done it, and are doing it every day.
Better a day of strife
Than a century of sleep.
Give me instead of a long stream of life,
The tempests and tears of the deep.Father THOMAS RYAN.
WHEN the responsibility of my own life was suddenly and
violently thrust upon me and I found myself
homeless and alone, the waves of misery which
rushed over and submerged me were so thunderous
and heavy, they left me bruised, beaten, and broken.
Blindly I struggled to shore, as one already dead.
The first thing that brought me to life was the voice
of a little child.
It was a long, long way off, and it was only in my dreams,
but one day it came closer, and then the dear Love, my
grandson, rushed into my room and said, "Damma, you have
come to live with us, and must never go away again, not for
one minute!" And all these precious words were said
between little close, bear-like hugs and haphazard warm
kisses. When he left me the drought of my tears was over. I
could weep again, and life could not be altogether desolate
when the day began with play and toys. Quite early in the
morning my bedroom door was flung open with a cheerful,
"Well, little Dam!" and the Love, with his
hands full of soldiers, or ducks, or bears, or boats, would
perch himself on my bed. And when he returned to his
nursery he always left one little toy so that "Damma would n't
be lonesome." And so throughout the day, if my troubles
weighed too heavily upon me, I would touch for a moment
the toy soldier, or the little boat, or the woolly dog, and they
brought me consolation.
But the nights were dreadful, the long nights of hideous
sleeplessness, with one maddening thought hammering my
brain into pulp. I was like an uprooted plant dying in a new
soil. Lura, my sweet Love's mother and an affectionate
daughter to me, said: "Mother, you must go to America and
get well, not to New York, not to Washington, not to any of
the large cities, but go down to the very heart of the South,
go where the sun shines. Go, dear, it will prove a healing
balm to your spirit; I am sure it will." And I looked into my
little Love's beautiful eyes and said:
"What seek you, soul that never sleeps,
Within these loved eyes' crystal deeps?
I seek content, content.
The eyes allure and they are dear,
Still I must go - it is not here."
But a horribly sad inertia possessed me, and it was
months before I could gather strength enough to cross the
Atlantic, although it is the easiest thing possible to go to
Tilbury, get on board one of the Atlantic Transport Line
Steamers, and almost immediately a beneficial rest cure
begins. The boats are particularly comfortable and quiet;
they are primarily built for carrying valuable cattle, and the
accommodation for horses, cows, sheep and pigs, is vastly
more comfortable
and better ventilated than third-class passengers get on
the larger steamers.
I often cross on this line and always go down on the
lower deck to see the four-footed travellers; sometimes they
are valuable thoroughbreds, or a hundred draft horses, big,
black, brown and bay fellows, from Belgium, France, and
England.
Once there were sixty Egyptian donkeys with us, beauties
in colour, colossal in size and also in voice. One morning
when a loud noise clove the air, a lady passenger turned
alarmed and said to me: "What a strange
thing, the fog whistle is blowing and there is n't any fog.
Something serious must be the matter." But it was only an
Egyptian donkey braying a regret for the Nile. And there are
occasional prize dogs, beautiful fluffy-haired cats, and
wonderfully bred guinea pigs with such long feathery hair,
high crests, and top-knots that they bear a strange likeness to
unwinged cockatoos. And the gulls followed us, those
gipsies of the air, darting here and there or balanced on a
wave almost all the way to New York. The service is
excellent on these sensible ships, the food is good and
abundant. The nine or ten days of our voyage passed
quickly, for there were most agreeable people on board.
Dr. Venning, from Charles Town, in West Virginia, helped
me by a good deal of sound advice. I think I never saw a
saner, healthier, kinder or more capable man than this young
surgeon. His mind, his body, and his work are all attuned to
his profession which make for success. He drinks neither
tea, coffee nor stimulants of any kind. He sleeps in the open
air, lives on simple food, has a contented mind and is
altogether a Man - frank, honest, and straightforward. He
is happily married, is an intelligent, strict father, and, above
all, he is deeply interested in his profession and ambitious
about his work. In his short vacation in England he had
spent every afternoon in the operating-room of some
hospital, and yet he could drop his work and all thought of it
in a minute, talk about any subject under the sun, and laugh
with the heartiness of a boy. What a help his very
presence must be in the sick room!
When we arrived in New York I lingered unnecessarily.
My healing had not begun - I had not enough energy to
unpack and leave my winter belongings, and take out my
lighter clothes for the South. And Julia, one of my adopted
daughters, begged me to stay. I have five adopted
daughters - Helen, for brilliancy and inspiration; Caroline,
for beauty and gentleness; Bee, for loyalty and
unselfishness; dear Margaret Douglas for sweetest
sympathy and appreciation, and Julia for love and honeyed
flattery (Ah, what soothing balm!).
Julia is of good birth and lineage, a tall, fair daughter of
the South, and through certain qualities she has won
success in that hard city. The stranger passing up and
down Fifth Avenue can see on a modest but very distinct
sign,
Miss CARROLL
Gowns.
This is the way it came about. Julia, with a negro
Mammy, living in New York, was somewhat helplessly
looking round for work when she and the negress, a
beautiful needlewoman, made a Southern gown for a
Southern woman going to Saratoga. It was one of those
cobwebby New Orleans organdies, trimmed with much
Valenciennes insertion and lace, with here and there a
heavenly satin bow made by Mammy, whose
genius lay in that direction. The dress was an instantaneous
success, and Julia became a specialist in wash-dresses.
Later, silk and fine woollen gowns were added to her
jaconets and muslins, and now she goes to Paris
twice a year and all the latest modes fashioned from the most
wonderful materials are to be found in her splendid shop,
with its setting of beautiful antique furniture, carved
mirrors, cases of old fans, china, and bric-à-brac. This
success has grown, not out of the rosebud organdie, but
from Julia's tact - tact in the morning, tact in the
afternoon, tact in the evening. Julia puts it on like armour
before the polyglot waiter arrives in her apartment with her
breakfast.
"Where," she said to a strange dark little man, "is
Tony?"
"Gone, Madame."
"And do you take his place?"
"Yes, Madame."
"And what are you?"
"A Greek, Madame; I am going back to Athens in the
spring for the Olympic games."
"And," said Julia, very sweetly, - but absent-mindedly,
looking at his queer little knock-kneed legs - "do you take
part in the Olympic games?"
The poor creature tried to stand straight, and said with
an air of pride, "No, Madame, that is . . . "
"Ah," said Julia, "I am sure you could." And whenever
after that she telephoned, the Olympian appeared with
lightning rapidity.
Moreover, Julia does n't only listen to bores, she goes
further; she drinks in what they have to say and laughs
spontaneously at their witless jokes. It is royally splendid.
Of course now and then she has to
retire to a sanatorium to seek silence and a rest cure,
for eternal tact tries the most robust health.
One of her customers has a chicken farm, and, next to
the agricultural department, there is no one who knows so
much of cocks and hens, their food and their vagaries as
Julia. Another is a rose grower, and on slugs too she could
take a degree. Her true position in the world should be that
of an ambassadress in a foreign country having very
complicated relations with America, - Japan, for example.
With Julia there to pour oil on the troubled waters, we
would never be embroiled in war.
So, without energy, I stayed on. The first impetus to
encourage my departure occurred at a charming dinner in
the house of that wonderfully successful woman, Elizabeth
Marbury. She lives in Washington Irving's pretty, old house
in Seventeenth Street; it is decorated and furnished in
perfect taste by her friend and comrade, Elsie de Wolfe,
and is one of the few old landmarks left in that restless city
of constant change and continual progress.
I remembered that my grandfather had dined with
Washington Irving in this very house. In that white
dining-room whose walls must have heard many a brilliant
jeu d'esprit, he had talked and laughed and told stories (for he
was a famous raconteur) which that delightful writer
afterwards used in Wolfert's Roost.
I heard at my left a fragment of conversation between a
Southern lady, living in England, and Professor Pupin.
"So do I," she said, "but, as an American, I don't
think you are entitled to it. But now that we have
settled the question of your nationality, where do you
really come from?"
He said smiling, "I am a Slav. Does that mean
anything to you?"
"Oh, yes," she said, "a Slav can come from Poland,
or Russia, or Bulgaria."
"As a matter of fact," the professor replied, "I hail
from a place that doubtless you have never heard of,
the Balkans."
"The Balkans!" said the lady, with a twinkle in her
eye. "Why, my husband has been devoted to a lady
in London for twenty years, who lives round the corner
from us, and whenever I ask him where she is he always
says, 'In the Balkans.' "
"Now why," said the professor, "this long devotion?"
"Well," said the lady, "this Greek siren is said to
be wicked, beautiful, and fascinating."
"Surely," said the professor, "you don't expect a
man to withstand so seductive a combination?"
"No," said the lady, "I am very broad-minded; I
don't expect a man to withstand any combination."
"That," said the professor, "is very kind of you,
but it shows a lack of credulity. A perfect woman
should always be trusting."
"The Balkan influence," said the lady, "destroys
trust, and I make no presence to perfection."
"Listen!" said the professor; "they are talking
about New Thought across the table. Are you
interested in it?"
"A bit," answered the lady, "but I have a much older
religion than that."
"What is it?" asked the professor.
She replied, "I am a London Buddhist."
"That sounds broad," said the professor, "and what does
your creed embody?"
Said the lady: "Reincarnation, tolerance, quick
understanding - for instance, when I meet a very
agreeable man, with a foreign accent, but an American at
heart, I know that we have been friends in a Paleozoic
time."
"Fair lady," said the professor, "I see that you, too, are
from the Balkans."
As I listened, I said to myself, "Southern people still
possess the art of conversation. I will go to the South and
be amused."
And next morning letters came from Washington which
aroused me to immediate action. My brother Sam wrote:
BRIERBANK,
CHEVY CHASE, MARYLAND,
December 15th.
DEAREST BESSIE,
Lois and I were delighted to read this morning of your
arrival in New York. Of course you are coming to spend
Christmas in the bosom of your family, so write us how
soon you will arrive. We will give you Maryland oysters, a
Virginia turkey, fresh cranberry sauce, candied sweet
potatoes, fried hominy and bully ice cream. I will
guarantee you will relish your Christmas dinner.
Our house is full of servants to wait on you, I do not
know whether with judgment, but I am sure you will be
entertained and amused. The butler, the cook's husband,
got his house training from driving a Knox express waggon
for nineteen years, and is just a trifle absent-minded as to
plates and dishes. In the dining-room when he is not falling
over his own feet, he is absently standing on his
heels, but if you remind him of food, he will willingly serve it
to you, for he is amiable and well-disposed.
Our chambermaid is one Harrison Leffingwell, who came
to be a chauffeur but fell from the motor to making beds, as
soon as I perceived that he did n't know the difference
between a radiator and a trunk rack. He is shaped like Sir
Richard Calmady, but he can walk and Sir Richard could
not; and he makes a better chambermaid than the wenches,
who are not willing to leave the city. I have an idea that you
will be able to get more work out of Harrison Leffingwell
than we do. He likes fine clothes, so bring your best frocks
along, and he likes the grand air, and being ordered about.
We have told him that you are English, so he is already duly
impressed.
I regret to say the one time he drove the motor he sent it
to the machine shop for a fortnight's repairs, so I cannot
meet you at the station, but Harrison will be there to take all
the enormous quantities of useless and unnecessary luggage
you English carry about with you, and will put it on the car
which almost passes our door.
Lois is busy with the Christmas tree. Mysterious
packages continually arrive and the children are full of vivid
interest in them. I am going to keep Coco until the end of
your visit, although he is in danger of sudden dissolution,
being such a vagabond that he will not stay in the house, and
the police are on the track of all wandering dogs. Not even a
muzzle will save him, as there is an epidemic of rabies in
Chevy Chase; but I know you would like to see him before
he goes as a "paying guest" to the country. I shall have to
send him a good long distance from home, otherwise he will
turn up again, as he dislikes darkies as much as a Northern
man. And the only person I can get to take him until the
epidemic is over is a negro farmer living in Virginia.
Coco was a friend of yester year, an interesting mongrel
brought over from England by a dog fancier as a hound of
the purest breed. But he seemed to have been crossed by
a mastiff, for he soon began to grow to an enormous size
and his owner in disgust turned him loose upon the
community, where he picked up a precarious living, until he
made acquaintance with Sam. Then began his morning
calls at Brierbank. These continued for a few weeks, until
one afternoon, very quietly and unobtrusively, he entered
the drawing-room, and stowed himself away in a dark
corner. A few successive afternoons he did the same
thing; a little later he extended his visits until evening, and
one blessed night he stayed until next day, and after that
was legally adopted.
The days of his vagabondage were over; he was
homeless no longer, and he never put on airs, remembering
the time of his poverty and waifdom.
He was always enthusiastically grateful for the smallest
attention, or the slightest notice. His tail was like that of a
beaver, broad, wide and muscular. "Hello, Coco!" and that
heavy tail delivered a rapid number of heavy thumps, while
"Good Coco, good old dog," made him hysterical with
delight, and brought down a volley of thunderous strokes
which fairly shook the house.
On my former visit to Chevy Chase Coco and I had
become devoted friends, and I rejoiced to know he would
be there to welcome me. He was not like "Carlo," the
collie of Sam's neighbour across the way, quite unselfish,
gentle with children, always ready to play with them, no
matter how tired, and a perfect gentleman; but he had his
good points, and considering the want of training and
education of his puppyhood,
Coco was a very excellent specimen of the self-made dog.
Another of my letters was from Mary Clark, the loyal
and faithful friend of many years. She wrote:
I want you very much for Christmas week, but if the
family claim you, then my week must come later; but for
Christmas dinner I must have you. I know, dear Bessiekins,
how you still enjoy many things that grown-ups no longer
care for, and Bee and I (her daughter and my dearly loved
friend) have been preparing a surprise for you, an
old-fashioned Southern Christmas. Write or telegraph to me at
once, dear.
Mary, though a Southern woman, is extraordinarily
prompt and exact. She has not a drop, like me, of the "Old
Reliable" blood in her veins. If she arranges to go on
Tuesday she goes; if I arrange to go on Tuesday I go on
Wednesday, or maybe on Thursday morning, and why not
if the sun shines and someone wants me to stay?
I telegraphed to Mary that I would come to the Christmas
dinner, and to Sam to expect me the next afternoon.
Harrison Leffingwell met me at the station. He really is one
of the most comical looking negroes I ever saw. His face is
round with a wide flat nose, a huge mouth, splendid white
teeth, shoulders broad enough for a man six feet tall, and
arms extraordinarily long and strong, but he has scarcely any
legs at all, and somehow his idea of covering the deficiency
is to have his trousers made immensely wide. Consequently,
at a little distance he looks like the dwarf of the Arabian
Nights wearing Turkish trousers - certainly the lower part
of his body has the appearance of being attired in harem
garb. His strong long arms gathered up my
numerous bags and impedimenta, and we soon found
ourselves in Chevy Chase. Sam said that Harrison as he
advanced towards the house was entirely obscured by the
luggage, which appeared to be walking alone, but he was
as strong as a horse and could have carried more if
necessary.
Although it was late in December, the sun was shining
like May and there was every indication of a very green
Christmas. We were quite sure of this when Sam and I,
standing by a long French window looking out upon the
lawn, saw a flash of scarlet, and a slender Kentucky
cardinal swung himself to and fro on a little bare rose-bush.
He was soon joined by a blue-bird, with his faint rose
breast and his sweet little song, and later a silver dove
fluttered down from a tall tree.
"There," said Sam "did you ever in your life see such a
good-looking crowd? Is n't the red bird the handsomest
thing you ever laid your eyes on? And that blue-bird, with
his fashionable rose-coloured breast, I don't know but
after all he is the greater dandy of the two."
I said:
"And then comes the blue-bird, the herald of spring,
Who hails with his warble the charms of the season."
" 'In mantle of sky blue and bosom so red - ' "
added Sam.
"Of course," I said, "that 's purely poetry, because his
bosom is n't really red, it 's pink. Look at his profile, is n't it
classic?"
"I have never seen red birds and blue-birds and doves in
December," said Sam; "they are here to celebrate your
home-coming. Look at the combination, red, white, and
blue, - that 's to arouse your patriotism."
Then Mary Lois, Sam's only daughter, came up to the
garden walk and the birds flew away. Sam said, "Mary
Lois, did n't you see those birds? You should have gone
round the back way."
Mary Lois has, I am sure, a successful career before her.
I shall expect her even without a dot, - and this will be a
greater triumph for America than either a polo victory or a
yacht trophy - to marry at least a Duke. For already at the
tender age of six she has a number of admirers, her father's
friends, who believe in deeds not words; they give her dolls
and boxes of candy and toys of every conceivable
description, and she has already all the qualities to make her
popular as a belle. In the first place, of course, she is very
pretty. Men are always talking about liking intellectual
women and admiring clever ones, but they fall in love with,
and make tragedies over the pretty ones. Beauty is the most
important asset, for beauty governs the world.
Mary Lois has golden hair, sympathetic, observant eyes, a
neat nose, and a charming smile that she never takes off.
She does not talk too much and she is exceedingly
affectionate, and oh, greatest gift of all, she is for ever
looking up and adoring. She loves praise and she loves to
give it. She is very gentle, delights in pretty clothes, keeps
them clean, and is always gentle and flattering.
When on a very hot afternoon a gentleman, himself a
father, goes out to Chevy Chase laden with a wax doll
fashionably dressed in clothes that button and unbutton, and
Mary Lois's eyes sparkle with gratitude and love and
adoration as he presents it to her, my hopes for a future
Duke are in the ascendant. She takes every correction with
gentle placidity, and she was
immediately sorry that she had not gone through the back
garden, and avoided scaring the birds away.
Harrison Leffingwell proved an excellent servant. He
brushed my clothes, gave my shoes a brilliant polish,
cleaned my silk blouses, pressed my tailor-made coats and
skirts, and showed real talent as a maid. Also, when we
got to know each other better he told me he was a solo
singer in his church and sang hymns varied with rag-time
tunes to me, and certainly he has a beautiful tenor voice
and is quite capable of making a success in vaudeville. I
asked him one day whether he would go to England to live
with me. He said he would like it immensely. Sam was at
once interested about a livery for him. He thought there
ought to be scarlet somewhere, either a scarlet waistcoat
or a scarlet tie, and a blue coat with brass buttons and a
scarlet collar. He said: "Harrison can do the work of a
maid, answer the door, wait at table, and then in the
evening you can call him in, and let him entertain your
guests. It seems to me Leffingwell will be a unique
ornament to your establishment."
Rose is red and violet's blue,
Sugar 's sweet and so are you,
If you love me as I love you,
No knife can cut our love in two.
LOVE is a poor invertebrate thing, unless the people who
care for each other are congenial. They must enjoy long
talks, spontaneous laughs, long silences, and the confidences
that only midnight brings; for there is something about that
hour which induces a true communion of spirits. How Sam
and I have owled it, talking far into the morning, until Lois
has called out, "Are you two ever coming to bed?"
In every family certain members are particularly
congenial to each other. We two seem to have so much to
talk about - our father, first and best of all. I can always
talk of him, and Sam, who was only four when our father
died, can always listen. "You know," I said, disregarding
Lois, "Pappy was like the Pied Piper of Hamelin with the
tail of childern following after him. He had kept the heart of
a child and was one of them, and his pockets bulged with
candy and oranges for the little ones. He was tender to all
humanity, and he had a great taste for romance!"
And I told Sam my father's story of Jonathan Meigs,
who, some four generations ago, was a suitor for the
hand of a charming coquettish Virginia beauty. He was
desperately in love with her and anxiously uncertain as to
his fate. At last after months of abject devotion on his part,
he made up his mind to offer her his hand and heart, feeling
that if she refused him it would mean a life-long
disappointment.
The young lady lived on Capitol Hill in a house with a
garden in front and a long flagged path leading to the gate.
One beautiful moonlight night while she was sitting on the
balcony, and the mocking-bird trilled a love song to his mate,
Jonathan took his courage in both hands and proposed to the
love of his life. She was uncertain - said she liked him very
much, but she did not love him and could not marry him.
The blow of her refusal was even more terrible than he had
anticipated, and when he said good-night to her and walked
down the path, the moonlight streaming on his bare head,
she saw a face of deathlike pallor, and his shoulders were
bent like those of an old man.
In that moment pity entered her gentle heart, and a tender
maternal love came fluttering after it, for the love of every
true woman should have in it something of the mother too.
As Jonathan reached the front gate and raised the latch, he
heard a sweet, gentle, tender voice say, "Return, Jonathan!
Jonathan! Return!" In a moment he was a man again, the
colour came back to his face, he raised his head like a crest,
squared his shoulders, and walked up the path with the
proud step of a soldier who had won a battle. She was
standing on the balcony, and he knelt down before her and
kissed the hem of her gown, saying, "God bless you, dear,
for those beautiful words, 'Return, Jonathan.' "
there was a grand christening, and the name given to it was
"Return Jonathan."
There have been four Return Jonathans in the Meigs
family since.
"I hope," said Sam, "the name will ever continue."
The story of Senator Pettus was another of Pappy's
favourite love stories. Young Pettus belonged to an
excellent family, but his father had a moderate income and
he did not go to college. When he fell in love it was with a
girl of high education, great beauty and vaulting ambition.
She liked the attentions of the frank, agreeable young man,
but when he proposed marriage to her she said, "Mr. Pettus,
when I marry it must be a college-bred man, and a man of
energy and ambition. Life holds for me more than love."
He took his defeat very quietly, and the next thing she
heard of him was, that he had gone to college without even
saying good-bye to her. The years passed and she received
no letter nor any indication whatever that she was
remembered, but her thoughts often strayed to the young
man who had shown at least a practical regard for her
opinion, for she knew that his college course must have cost
both himself and his family a valiant effort. At the end of
four years, in the sweet summertime, she was sitting in the
garden in a little arbour all overgrown with roses, when she
heard a quick, triumphant step coming up the path, and
Edmund Pettus appeared before her, having graduated
brilliantly. He laid his diploma on her knee with a low bow,
saying, "Madam, I have been to college."
It had been a hardly won guerdon, for he was not like a
knight of old who had fought his fight in joust or tournament
in one glorious encounter. His battle had meant four years
of struggle and hard work, but
he had won. Of course the lady was his, for she looked at
the diploma with suspiciously shining eyes, and said, "I love
it." And, he answered leaning over and kissing her hand, "I
hope you love me a little too."
They were married shortly afterwards and lived happy
ever after. "Mighty pretty," said Sam, "all that old romance
of the South."
Lois called down the stairs, "Do you know the hour? It
is one o'clock; time for even owls to stop hooting."
"To-morrow," said Sam, "we will go to bed at nine
o'clock." Oh, those good resolutions, so delightfully broken!
The next day was Christmas, and Lois and I went into
Washington to dine with Mary. The house presented a
festive appearance, with wreaths of holly and bunches of
holly and mistletoe adorning the pretty rooms. The menu
for the feast included Blue Point oysters, fresh from the
mouth of the Potomac River, a splendid Christmas turkey
stuffed with chestnuts, and served with sausages from
Virginia, a smoked ham of rare excellence, fried hominy,
candied sweet potatoes, cranberries, and wonderful
complex ice-cream of different layers and colours. But the
chef d'oeuvre of this dinner was my Santa Claus chimney
which adorned the centre of the table.
Bee has a singular talent for carpentry and the creation
of all sorts of pretty things, and instead of a Christmas tree
she had made the top of a chimney. It was of wood,
covered with red paper simulating little bricks. The edge of
the chimney was heaped thickly with a deep layer of snow,
which if it was not real snow looked very like it and lasted
better than the genuine article. The table all around the
chimney glittered with snowflakes, and Santa Claus waited
to descend
and fish up the Christmas presents with a small hook.
There was an affectionate thought for everybody at the
table, but Mary had imparted to my family and friends the
secret of the chimney, and the pretty things drawn up for
me by that little Santa Claus and his hook were so numerous
that I was deeply touched and it was more difficult for me
to smile than to weep. My gifts were chosen with love and
discretion, many of them being things useful for a wanderer
over the face of the earth like myself. When the last
remembrance, a silver book marker was fished out of the
chimney I said, "Now, no more gifts, or I shall be undone."
Injustice or unkindness has always a hardening tonic effect
upon me, but kindness, ah! that is different, it touches me
and makes me weak - it is what I most value in life.
But with all the affection and friendliness of my dear ones
in Washington - Sam, Lois, and Mary, and my other dear
Mary, and Bee, and my sister Minnie, so clever, so capable,
so kind and unselfish, with the executive ability of a
statesman and the courage of a soldier - I could not seem,
even in the midst of these happy influences to get any better
in health, so I decided to act on Mary Clark's advice and go
into Miss Sylvester's Nursing Home for a rest cure.
The evening that I arrived there, feeling desperately
lonely and depressed, just as I got out of the carriage a
brisk-looking cheerful fox terrier ran affectionately to me, stood
upon his hind legs, thrust his icy nose in my hand and said,
"Don't be downhearted, I am going to stand by you, whatever
happens." He then whisked round and disappeared, and
when I went into the house and to my room, he was sitting
in the middle of
my bed, with his pink tongue hanging out, smiling most
cheerily.
The nurse said, "I am sorry, but you will have to send
your dog away, we do not admit dogs to the Home." "He is
not my dog," I said, "he is just a sympathetic soul who has
come to give me courage." The sympathetic soul, however,
had decided on the necessity of remaining permanently
and he sat perfectly rigid, growling, and showing his teeth
when requested to go. In the end, the cab driver was called
upstairs and led him away. He cast a regretful glance at
me, which seemed to say, "I am astonished that you have
refused my kind offices. I had intended to stay here and
comfort you." And, indeed, my last hope seemed to vanish
with him.
I cannot imagine anything more trying for a restless,
independent human being than the first week of a rest cure.
To give yourself, your mind, your body, your desires, your
wishes all completely into the hands of someone else is so
difficult. It requires strength of will to endure it. My one
consolation was my secret plan of a solitary elopement.
Every day during my rest I intended to dress myself in the
afternoon, quietly slip away, and appear unexpectedly at
Mary Clark's; and without my saying a word Miss
Sylvester divined my intention. She said she never entered
the room without expecting to find me gone. The next
week the régime was easier to bear; the week after that I
liked it; and the fourth week I was full of regret at leaving.
Miss Sylvester, a Johns Hopkins graduate, is an ideal
nurse, calm, firm, not affected by any untoward symptoms
and having much experience in nervous diseases. She
understands perfectly how to treat
patients suffering from them. I could not have believed it
possible for anyone to have gained as much benefit from
treatment as I did from that rest cure, and yet I did not
take it as intelligently as I would a second one. I was not
reconciled to the rigid rule of seeing no one, and writing no
letters and just being an obedient child, and I struggled to
the very end against my cold-water packs. Two a day,
forty minutes altogether in a cold sheet, and yet nothing
was more beneficial to my raw and blistered nerves than
this lingering application of cold water. When I have time I
am going back to take another rest cure, and no patient
that Miss Sylvester has ever had will be so docile, so
obedient, as I.
I went back for a few days to Chevy Chase before
going to Virginia. Sam always came to my room in the
early morning for our coffee together. "Are you dressed?"
he asked. "No, not yet," I said. "Well, put on your kimono
and I'll come in." We then began our usual long talk, and
I remembered to enquire one day what had become of our
old housekeeper.
"Is Josephine still living?" I asked him.
"No," he said, "she died some years ago. The fact is,
she never fully recovered from her affair with Silas Bundy."
"Poor thing," I said, "before that time she had never
looked at a man."
"What a misfortune," said Sam, "that in her middle age
she should fall entirely, helplessly, violently and jealously in
love with Silas Scipio Bundy." And as we drank our
coffee, Josephine's love affair came vividly back to me.
She was a bright-skinned mulatto who lived with us
from the time we started housekeeping in Washington.
Her pretty face was perfectly round, with bright dark eyes,
wavy, not kinky, hair, and when she smiled her teeth were
dazzlingly white. Being fat and hopelessly lazy, to
compensate for her worthlessness she made herself
diplomatically and flatteringly agreeable and she was, when
necessary, extremely capable. There was no regularly
appointed place in the house for her, but she was generally
filling in some hiatus. If the cook was suddenly taken ill,
Josephine went into the kitchen and we revelled in excellent
meals. If the housemaid left at a moment's notice she took
charge of the bedrooms. If the butler decamped without
warning, Josephine waited at the dining-room table, never
forgot the salt, or the pepper, or the mustard, or the clean
napkins; arranged the flowers with an understanding hand
and all went well until the new servant arrived.
Generally speaking, she was a sort of useful maid,
sewing a little, answering the door a little, brushing clothes,
cleaning shoes; and sitting with her hands restfully folded,
waiting patiently until the time came to quit work. Her great
attraction was her dependableness and her domesticity, for
she was consistently lazy - her fondest lover could not
deny that. She cared nothing whatever for people of her
own colour, she rarely ever went to church, she never went
out in the evening, and was as much a fixture in the house
as one of the chairs or tables.
When Sam was born, a much belated, but altogether
welcome little brother, Josephine became his devoted
nurse. In that capacity she was as excellent as in all others.
She did not wear out the baby's patience with too many
clean pinafores, or a too clean face, but she made his
childhood entirely happy. He could go out
in the morning in the garden and make mud pies all
day if he liked. If he refused to change his dress in the
evening she took his supper to the nursery and regaled him
with enchanting stories until he went to sleep. He was
certainly the most adorable child I
ever saw, with deep sapphire-blue appealing eyes, a tow head,
a little round face and a rare irresistible
smile. Of course he had his own way in everything, but he was
unspoilable.
All my people have an intense love of animals; in Sam
it is almost a mania. At one period he had
guinea pigs, prairie dogs, three chickens, two hens and a
rooster, a frog, a fox terrior, spotted Japanese mice,
and a good-sized alligator of unusually rapid growth. Of
all his family he loved the alligator best. When he and the
alligator were about the same size, he used to carry him
upstairs from the kitchen to the bathroom
in the evening for his swim. At almost every step he
walked on the alligator's tail, and we always expected to see
him enter the bathroom minus a hand or an ear,
but strange to say, this almost wooden animal seemed
to have developed a human heart, and he really looked
at his master with eyes quite watery with affection.
At this time, when Sam was about six, Josephine
had moved down permanently into the kitchen as cook,
and was not in the least disturbed by prairie dogs in one corner,
guinea pigs in the other, chickens walking in and out, the fox terrier
always under heel, and the alligator generally asleep in the largest
and most comfortable chair.
She still retained the old habit of never going out of the house
so how she met Silas Bundy remained for
ever a profound secret, but that she did meet him is a
tragic certainty. Every Thursday evening for about
six months, Silas Bundy in elaborate attire called upon
Josephine, who, for the first time in her life really cleaned up
the kitchen, arrayed herself in a stiffly starched calico dress,
put a table cover over the large table in the centre of the
room, and under this shoved the cages of the various
animals, and arranged a delicious supper for the tall black
plumber. Sam said he hid himself under the table with the
animals on several occasions, but he never noticed any
tenderness between Silas and Josephine. They conversed in
a distant manner with very large words of their own
composition. Josephine said she was glad she "war n't
skittish as the animals, who were always in competual
motion." Silas ate his supper and then rose to go, saying,
"Miss Josephine, I suttenly will see you dis nex' comin'
Thursday evening if I live an' nothin' happens." And
Josephine answered, "Mr. Silas, I suttenly will be mighty
sorry if anything wuz to happen."
On St. Valentine's Eve Josephine got a valentine, one of
the good old-fashioned kind with two splendid red hearts
pierced by a gilt arrow and upheld by robust, be-ribboned
cupids who balanced pink toes on a cushion of forget-me-nots.
All this loveliness was surrounded by a heavy wreath
of vivid pink roses, and underneath was written in violet ink:
Rose is red and violet 's blue,
Sugar 's sweet and so are you,
If you love me as I love you,
No knife can cut our love in two.
Sam told me that for many days, even in the middle of
cooking dinner, Josephine would get out her valentine, pull
the string that made the wreath come forward and the
hearts overlap, and breathe a deep sigh of
ecstasy, then put it back with a few stray bits of dried
vegetables into her table drawer until the next blissful
moment to look at it arrived; and ever afterwards it was her
most treasured possession.
Never going out and never spending any money for many
years, Josephine had saved a considerable sum and was
quite well off for a woman in her position, so Silas was an
impatient bridegroom and the future bride fixed an early
wedding day. All the family gave her useful and excellent
presents: linen sheets and pillow cases, a quantity of towels,
nice curtains, kitchen utensils, and to these mother added a
whole set of bedroom furniture.
Then a day came when all the meals were full of red
pepper and absolutely uneatable. Also the bride elect was
seen to go restlessly up and down stairs at least a dozen
times - a thing that had never occurred in all the years she
had lived with us. After supper she and a very cruel plaited
black cowhide whip with an end of knife-like sharpness,
which some friend had sent Sam from Texas, disappeared
together. A "grapevine telegram" had reached her about
Silas, and she waddled off to verify it. Perhaps she was not
greatly surprised to find him sitting in a small cosy house
with a very black lady by his side, presumably his wife, or as
the darkies say, "a lady friend." Josephine was a very large
woman, extremely muscular and strong. She had never been
the least bit angry in all her life, but now that she was
roused, there was an enormous accumulation of temper on
hand and she was like an elephant gone amok.
She stormed the room of the Silas Bundys', gave him a
cut with the keen lash of the whip across the face, severing
the skin from the flesh, nearly blinding him.
She then touched up Mrs. Silas, who ran screaming into the
yard; and after the Silas Bundys there followed through the
open door a perfect avalanche of china, glass, pictures and
furniture. George Washington and Lincoln were ruined for
ever by splinters of glass which scratched their faces. Silas
and Mrs. Bundy were also gashed and bleeding from
cut-glass goblets thrown with unerring aim. Then Josephine
went upstairs; and the wardrobe of Mrs. Bundy, torn and
fluttering in the breeze, with jugs and basins and ripped-up
mattresses, looking-glasses, Silas Bundy's best clothes
tattered and torn to bits, and pillows emptied of their
feathers, all wildly descended through the window into the
garden.
The frightened screams of the Bundys, or the crash of
falling furniture, or the clouds of feathers floating out upon
the night attracted the notice of the police, and eventually
they arrived at the gutted house, arrested Josephine, and
with tufts of feathers clinging to their fine uniforms,
escorted her home at ten o'clock for mother to go her bail.
If a miracle had been performed, the family could not have
been more surprised. That the quiet, sweet-tempered,
amiable and conservative Josephine should have wounded
and beaten husband and wife and demolished the contents
of an entire house was unbelievable, incomprehensible. The
policemen said the wreck looked like the work of a cyclone
or tornado. Josephine's eyes were of a deep red and the
black whip which she carried was quite moist and had a
suspicious substance clinging to it that might have been and
probably was human skin.
When the day for her trial came, Josephine, escorted by
mother, went to court. A good lawyer was employed for
the defence. Silas and Mrs. Bundy, with
their wounds neatly dressed, appeared against her. Our
lawyer made an excellent defence, giving a short account of
the blameless and amiable existence of the faithful servant,
and her many years of devoted service. He described in
glowing terms the blackguardism of the would-be bigamist,
sitting there in smug complacency by the side of his already
one too many wife. Mother was genuinely anxious, for she
really loved poor sorry Josephine.
The Judge, an old friend of the family, with a sense of
humour, turned to her and said, "Josephine Paschal, what
have you got to say for yourself?" Josephine, the poor
violent, destructive, faithful elephant, looked at the Judge
with imploring eyes, the corners of her mouth turned down
like a yellow baby about to cry, and for a moment made no
answer. Then bursting into tears, she covered her face with
her nice clean apron, rocked her huge bulk violently
backwards and forwards and said, "I ain't got nothin' to say,
'ceptin' I wants my Silas Bundy - I des wants my Silas
Bundy, my Silas Bundy."
The whole court room was convulsed with laughter, but
Josephine got off without even a fine, while Silas Bundy left
the court a vainer man than when he entered it.
I said, after I had finished my coffee, "How it all comes
back to me now, although I have n't thought of it for years!
Poor Josephine!"
"And," said Sam, "although Josephine continued to be a
splendid cook, the light of her life had gone out for ever with
Bundy. I don't think she was ever quite the same again. One
night when the alligator had grown too big for me to carry
upstairs, she carried him up for me, put him in the bathtub
and absent-mindedly
turned on the hot water and he was scalded to death.
Then my heart was quite broken. For there never was such
a temperamental alligator, so affectionate, so sensible, and
so handsome. Poor Josephine, she never saw Bundy again,
but she was faithful to the family until her death."
The man who melts
With social sympathy, though not allied,
Is than a thousand kinsmen of more worth.
EURIPIDES.
WE talked over various places for my after cure, and I
decided on Charles Town, West Virginia. I had heard of its
quaintness, and old-time charm, and I knew the weather
would be real West Virginia weather, crisp, frosty, and
delicious. Luckily for me my faithful Bee had not the heart
to let me go alone, and arranged that we should take the
afternoon train which reached Charles Town about six
o'clock. Dr. Venning met us at the station and advised Miss
Anna Hughes's Sanatorium. Usually it is a place for active
work, as many operations are performed there, but at the
moment it was unusually quiet.
I had a delightful bedroom, a little sitting-room, and a
bathroom all on the first floor. The weather was not too cold
for us to walk and drive about the country. Bee is born to
understand and love the whole animal world, but horses are
her first favourites, and she is an excellent whip. When she
went to the stable the livery man, in the process of
harnessing the horse to the buggy, said, "You 've got a good
horse here; Maud ain't got but one fault in the world and that
she can't help."
"Well," said the livery man, "she 's ugly. She was born
ugly. She was an ugly colt, and she 's ugly now, but except
for that she 's perfect and there ain't nothin' on earth that
can scare her, neither automobile, nor train nor nothin'."
And Maud was not only "ugly," she was uniquely ugly. A
more singular looking animal cannot be imagined. She was
evidently built for the present fashion, and could wear a
hobble skirt with great success. I have never seen such a
narrow figure, in fact her body looked like a brown almond
set on four slim legs. Her head was immense and very bony,
but she had large lovely eyes and as the livery man had said,
Maud was sensible. Neither trains of cars, nor snorting
motors made the slightest impression upon her.
A special sense indeed seemed to be given to the horses
of West Virginia, for Dr. Venning told me of an old negro
who was driving leisurely across a railway track, and even a
long train loaded with coal did not in the least hurry him, and
when one of the cars touched and lifted the back of the cart,
almost turning it over, the horse stood quite still, and the old
negro looking around, called out angrily to the passing train,
"You-all better min' out what you 're doing. I 'm goin'
straight home and tell Marse John Carter de way what you
is tryin' to destroy dis cart, and he' ll come down here and
gib' you a good and planty. He will so, I tell you dat right
now."
Charles Town was surveyed, laid out, and settled by
Charles Washington, a brother of George Washington. And
the Washington house was its special point of interest, with
a mantelpiece of fine carved marble, a gift from George
Washington, and a twin to the dining-room mantelpiece in
Mount Vernon. The old
house, which still belongs to some member of the
Washington family, is now in the hands of a working
manager, and though it has a park and noble trees, it is used
only as a farm, and lacks the graces and distinction that a
gentleman would give it.
The little town lies high and is beautifully situated. It was
in the Charles Town court house that John Brown was tried.
He was hanged in a near-by field, now the site of a fine
house of colonial architecture, which he is good enough not
to haunt, at least they have never had any sign or token of
his presence. Indeed if it had not been for the stirring song
of "John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave, but
his soul is marching on," I fear that he himself would occupy
only a very small and indifferent part in history.
One of the most historic, interesting, and beautiful old
places around Charles Town is that of Mrs. Briscoe. It is a
fine and exact copy of an old English mansion, a large
square hall with a quaint staircase and wide generous rooms
on either side. The beautifully proportioned drawing-room is
papered with one of those charming hand-painted panelled
papers depicting delightful Italian gardens, with swans and
marble fountains, and vistas beyond the bluest lake, and
deepest green of summer. In the hall there were some
interesting portraits, one of General William Dark, the
grandfather of William Dark Briscoe. He fought in the war
of the Revolution and was taken prisoner and confined in a
man-of-war outside Philadelphia. He said the English
soldiers would shove him a bowl of soup and say, "There,
drink, you rebel dog."
Mrs. William Dark dressed herself as a cabin boy, tied
her hair in a queue and got on board the ship to see her
husband. According to a portrait she was a
slender, black-eyed, rosy-cheeked, daring young Virginia
lady. The commander of the English man-of-war had a
keen eye for beauty and he discovered her sex almost
immediately, but was so filled with admiration of her
courage and daring, that when she left the ship, he gave her
a chest filled with fine linen and lace. A remnant of the
latter is still preserved as a family heirloom. Another portrait
is of the child of this American Rosalind, a little girl with
brown hair, neatly parted and worn in curls on either side of
the face, her leaf-green gown trimmed with the historic
lace, and a broad ribbon and locket round her neck. By the
side of her portrait hangs the speech of Thomas Jefferson
on his inauguration, printed on white satin and sent to the
Briscoes by special messenger from Monticello.
Among Mrs. Briscoe's treasures is a letter written on
thick, faded yellow paper and folded after the old-fashioned
manner to simulate an envelope. The red seals still dangle
on it, and the handwriting is frank and boyish. It is
addressed to Dr. John Briscoe, Birkshaugh, New Biggin,
Cumberland, and the letter reads:
OUIDIHAM, September, 1663.
To Dr. JOHN BRISCOE,
Greeting:
DEAR SIR,
As the privy council have decided that I shall not be
disturbed or dispossessed of the charter granted by His
Majesty, the Ark and the Pinnace Dove will sail from
Gravesend about the first of October. And if you are of the
same mind as when I conversed with you I would be glad to
have you join the colony.
Dr. Briscoe was of the same mind and sailed with Lord
Baltimore for America and settled in Virginia, where the
Briscoe family have lived ever since and have taken firm
root, for I think I never saw people love a home more. Dr.
John Briscoe's wife asked to be buried so that she could
look towards the house, and there is a little shaft of granite
in the garden where she wished it placed.
America instilled a strong love in her colonists. It is no
infrequent thing to find an old tomb in the beautiful garden of
a Southern plantation which marks the resting-place of a
former owner who wished ever to sleep among the flowers
he loved so well. There are fine old trees around the Briscoe
place, a bountiful spring bubbles up to the right of the house
and forms a pool, upon which ducks lead their little broods
for their first swim. The water is clear as crystal, is ice cold,
and by the side of this spring stands the spring house where
milk, watermelons, and fruits are kept cool on the hottest
summer day. In this little town, as in England, the young and
adventurous leave for the larger cities, but there are men
and women in the distant parts of America who look back to
their childhood in Charles Town with affection, and whose
tenderest memory is connected with the old Briscoe
mansion, the blossoming apple and peach orchard and the
deep sweet spring. Even the stranger finds a warm
welcome and hospitality from the gentle châtelaine within
that gate.
Another house that greatly interested me was "Claymont,"
where Frank Stockton wrote so many of his delighful books.
It belonged originally to Bushrod Washington, a nephew of
George Washington. Mr. Stockton paid thirty or forty
thousand dollars for the place, made enough money to
cultivate and improve
it, and left a considerable fortune, for humour always
commands its price. Dr. Venning, who was his friend as
well as his physician, told me he was a firm believer in
realism, and at one time when he was in New York he
called on a noted surgeon, sent in his name, and when he
was admitted to the consulting-room said: "Doctor, I did n't
come to see you about myself, I came to consult you about
a very dear friend of mine who has met with an accident.
He was knocked down on Broadway, suffered a fracture
of the skull, and is now in hospital. I am here to ask your
further advice for him."
The surgeon stiffened, and said, "I have not seen your
friend, Mr. Stockton; but even if I had, medical etiquette
forbids that I should interfere with the treatment of the
other physicians at the hospital."
"Well, doctor," said Frank Stockton, with a whimsical
smile, "to tell you the truth, the man is a hero of mine in a
book I am writing; and now that I have got him in hospital I
don't know how the dickens to cure his wound and get him
out again. Perhaps you would n't mind helping me."
"Oh, in that event," said the surgeon, "I am entirely at
your disposal." So he dressed the wound, there were no
complications following, the man rapidly got well, and he
was out of hospital before Mr. Stockton left the surgeon's
house.
"Now," said Mr. Stockton, "You have treated with
unsurpassed skill my friend's terrible accident, roused him
from unconsciousness and effected a wonderful cure, so I
must pay you his fee."
The doctor said, "I could n't think of such a thing." But
the writer insisted, and left his fee upon the surgeon's table.
Frank Stockton was a small, delicate, frail man, whose
body was not equal to his active, creative mind. I know no
books that have given me purer joy than his. He has a
charming style of his own, and his humour is inimitable and
natural. Take, for example, the beginning of The House of
Martha. A precise, exact, comfort-loving young man,
makes a long tour in England and on the continent. He was
not at all fond of travelling, and it was the anticipation of
telling his provincial friends who had never crossed the
ocean, what he had seen and done, rather than a love of
adventure, which caused his protracted journeyings. But
when he returned to the friendly, self-centred New England
village, nobody was in the least interested in listening to him.
As soon as he began to describe Windsor Castle to a
neighbour, the lady interrupted him with an account of a
blizzard from which the village had suffered while he was
away, and he found that Holyrood, Mary Stuart, and the
blood-stain of Rizzio, were nothing in comparison to the
founding of the free Kindergarten; the Venus of Milo and
the Arc de Triomphe paled into insignificance beside the
troubles of Jane and Adelaide who had to go without music
lessons for nearly ten days on account of measles in the
family. There was one person left, who he knew, would
listen to him with appreciation - the grandmother who had
taken his mother's place. But when he described to her his
three days in the forest of Arden, and the veritable Jaques
he met there, even her attention wandered and she
remarked: "That must have been extremely interesting.
Speaking of woods, I wish you would say to Thomas that I
want him to bring some of that rich wood soil, and put it
round the geraniums nearest the house." This was the last
straw. But the traveller,
gifted with a dogged perseverance, inserted in a Boston
paper this advertisement. "Wanted . . . a respectable and
intelligent person willing to devote several hours a day to
the recitals of a traveller. Address, stating compensation
expected. Oral."
Now, who has not experienced in life, at some time or
other, a very great disappointment in a listener? I know on
many occasions I have started out with enthusiasm on what
I considered a humorous story and in a few moments I
have found that nobody was paying the slightest attention,
and that the person I had most relied upon for appreciation
had herself begun another story, and everybody was
listening to her. The art of a good listener is indeed a rare
one. I never saw its absence more markedly demonstrated
than once in London, when a friend told a really witty story
and told it well. Suddenly a lady who had not heard a word
of it, turned vague and empty, though kind eyes, towards
the company and said, "That was funny, was n't it? It
reminds me of a story I know." And she proceeded to tell
the same story from beginning to end, leaving out the
point entirely. She never knew why it was greeted with
such uproarious laughter, thinking, of course, that she had
made an enormous success.
Beside Frank Stockton's humour, which was original
and unexpected, he wrote with remarkable charm. How
poetical is this little paragraph from The Late Mrs. Null:
There are times in the life of a man when the goddess of
Reasonable Impulse raises her arms above her head, and
allows herself a little yawn; then she takes off her crown
and hangs it on the back of her throne, after which she
rests her sceptre on the floor, and, rising, stretches herself
to her full height, and goes forth to take a long refreshing
walk by the waters of Unreflection. Then her minister
Prudence stretches himself upon a bench and with his
handkerchief over his eyes, composes himself for a nap.
Discretion, Wordly Wisdom, and even sometimes that agile
page called Memory, no sooner see their royal mistress
depart, than, by various doors, they leave the palace and
wander far away.
Then, silently, with sparkling eyes and parted lips, comes
that fair being Unthinking Love. She puts one foot upon the
lower step of the throne, she looks about her, and with a
quick bound she seats herself. Upon her tumbled curls she
hastily puts a crown, with her small white hand she grasps
the sceptre, then, rising, waves it and issues her commands.
The crowd of emotions which serve her as satellites seize
the great seal from the sleeping Prudence, and the new
Queen reigns.
If there has been a time in the life of a man or a woman,
when Reasonable Impulse has not been supplanted by
Unthinking Love, then I am sorry for them, for they have
missed much. Everyone, young or old, should have some
little green and fragrant memory hidden away from the
world, of spontaneous impulse, of surprised, uncalculating
love.
Dr. Venning is a bold motorist and we had long drives
along the banks of the Shenandoah, that river so closely
associated with the great soldier, whose legion stood a wall
of stone, in the fiercest fire of the enemy. "Do you," I said,
"remember the old war poem about Stonewall Jackson?"
"Yes," said Dr. Venning, "I used to recite it with
martial effect when a boy - "
Come! stack arms, men! Pile on the rails
Stir up the camp fires bright,
No matter if the canteen fails,
We 'll make a roaring night.
Here Shenandoah brawls along,
There lofty Blue Ridge echoes strong
To swell the brigade's rousing song
Of "Stonewall Jackson's Way."
We see him now - the old slouched hat
Cocked o'er his eye askew;
The shrewd, dry smile, the speech so pat,
So calm, so blunt, so true.
The "Blue Light Elder" knows them well;
Says he, "That 's Banks - he 's fond of shell;
Lord save his soul; we 'll give him - " well
That 's "Stonewall Jackson's Way."
Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off!
Old Blue Light's going to pray;
Strangle the fool who dares to scoff!
Attention! it 's his way;
Appealing from his native sod,
In forma pauperis to God -
Lay bare thine arm, stretch forth thy rod;
Amen! That 's "Stonewall Jackson's Way."
He 's in the saddle now. "Fall in!
Steady! the whole brigade!
Hill 's at the ford, cut off! We 'll win
His way out ball and blade.
What matter if our shoes are worn?
What matter if our feet are torn?
Quick step! we 're with him ere the morn."
That 's "Stonewall Jackson's way."
The sun's bright glances rout the mists
Of morning - and, by George!
There 's Longstreet struggling in the lists,
Hemmed in an ugly gorge.
Pope and his columns whipped before,
"Bay'nets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar;
"Charge Stuart! pay off Ashby's score!"
Is "Stonewall Jackson's Way."
Ah! maiden, wait and watch and yearn
For news of Stonewall's band;
Ah! widow, read with eyes that burn
That ring upon thy hand.
Ah! wife, sew on, pray on, hope on,
Thy life shall not be all forlorn;
The foe had better ne'er been born
Than get in "Stonewall's Way."
If there was no road the little car responded to the
hand of Dr. Venning and skimmed over bumps and hollows
like a swallow. Can there be, in all the world, more beautiful
waters than the Shenandoah? The Indians thought the origin
divine, and indeed it came by its name through an almost
miraculous happening.
Late in his life a girl child was born to a great chief, and
she grew up as perfect as though sculptured by a master
hand in bronze. Her head and throat were nobly fashioned,
and her round limbs were superhumanly agile. Her long,
black, silky hair was of great thickness and extraordinary
length, and the scarlet blood of an open-air existence
mantled itself like damask roses in her lips and cheeks. She
was not only beautiful but accomplished, for she could send
an arrow from the bow to rival Diana, and there was never
a fisherman so wily or so lucky as she. The name of this
beautiful goddess was Shenandoah, and the tribe of Indians
to which she belonged lived near a crystal-clear, low-singing,
swiftly-flowing nameless river. It was rich in many varieties
of fish, but especially renowned
for its bass, and one fish was bigger, handsomer,
and more crafty than all the rest. He was frequently seen
apparently trying to guide a reckless youngster away from
a seductively cruel morsel. If he ever cast his knowing eye
in the direction of bait it was only to frown and to warn.
Shenandoah respected his wisdom but was ambitious to
catch him. She had been fishing for many days and he had
been busy keeping guard. In a fatigued moment he was
seen in a deep pool, near the bottom of the river, apparently
taking a nap, for his watchful eyes were closed and he lay
without movement. Shenandoah, as noiseless as a still
summer day, raised herself to her full height, stretched out
her perfect arms and pointed hands, and suddenly cut the
water like an unerring knife. When she rose again to the
surface, it was with the struggling fish clasped to her bosom
with muscles of steel, but she could not land without
hands, so she swam down to a depth shallow enough for
her to stand upright. Her father, returning from his day's
hunt, found her on the bank of the river with the big
fish balanced in her strong arms above her sleek head. A
splash, and the bass slowly swam out to mid-stream. The
great chief asked why she had set free her longed-for prize,
and she said he looked at her with human eyes that said, "It
was not fair sport, you took advantage of me while I
slept. You are no Indian." She could not stand this
reproach so she returned him to the waters. But the big
fish was never seen again. Perhaps he died of
mortification from such an extraordinary unfishlike
experience.
The next day there was a great gathering to
celebrate her prowess, and with impressive ceremony the
river was named after the beautiful woodswoman,
"Shenandoah."
The clear water comes rushing through from the heart of
the mountain bringing with it cool and refreshing air, as it
winds along the side of the Blue Ridge. Its loftiest crags are
where the eagle builds its nest, and at evening the hunter
sees the wild deer drinking from its swift water, while
miniature fountains and wreaths of crystal are sent high up
in the ambient air by great rocks that bar its swift progress.
The Shenandoah has had many illustrious lovers -
Washington, and Jackson, and Jefferson, all appreciated its
beauties, and every Virginian loves it and the legend
connected with it.
After my week in Charles Town I was able to travel,
and, on my way to South Carolina, stayed some days in
Washington, that fair city which even in winter has the
appearance of spring, with its endless avenues of trees,
many of them evergreen, and numerous grassy squares of
late blooming flowers. In spring and summer, with every
shrub in leaf and every flower in blossom and the streets a
sea of unbroken green, it is like a great emerald. Governor
Shepherd's plans have been carried out - broad avenues,
fine streets, all the old trees saved and rows of new ones
planted. When finished it will be one of the most beautiful
cities in the world and it is to be hoped it will always keep its
independent character, southern atmosphere and individual
habits and customs.
In the summer there is no prettier sight in the evenings
than an open street-car going Chevy Chase way, looking as
if it had suddenly broken into blossom, with its freight of
hatless women and girls, clothed in fresh diaphanous white.
And on the warmest days
it is quite ordinary to meet ladies going to market or
shopping with a pretty parasol for a head covering, instead
of a hat. The market in Washington used to be quite a
rendezvous in the morning. The men of the family, if they
take an interest in the cuisine, often go to select some
particularly toothsome delicacy, and whenever a man takes
an interest in the table there is sure to be good cooking.
Even a poet assures us, that
"Man may live without hope - what is hope but deceiving,
He may live without love - what is passion but pining,
But where is the man that can live without dining?"
Cooks somehow are always more flattered by the praise of
a man than that of a woman and men will not put up with
bad cooking, also, they have the advantage of being
permitted to swear. I have often thought a Swearer in a
woman's club, who could be called upon to express what a
woman feels but dare not say when a dreadful dish is put
before her, would be most useful. For the office he would
require a stentorian voice, a fluent vocabulary, and prompt,
efficient action.
One of my red-letter days in Washington, I met Mrs.
Champ Clark at the Burlesons. She is, as all the world
knows, the wife of the Speaker of the House. But with her
strong personality, she is so much more than that. It is
difficult to describe a woman different from all other
women, and more difficult still to get a right perspective if
she has taken by storm your heart, your intelligence, and
your sense of humour. Mrs. Clark herself does n't look in
the least humorous. On the contrary, with her very slim,
erect, graceful figure, her white face and burning dark
eyes, she appears more like a tragic muse, for the sorrow
of the world weighs
upon her. I wonder whether happiness would not be quite
impossible for a sensitive human being - if, with a heart to
feel and a keen realisation of the cruel wrongs and
incurable miseries of humanity, every personal wish could
be gratified?
This distinguished lady says of herself: "I was the
youngest of seven children and they all waited on me, and
petted me. I had the happiest sort of childhood and then I
married Champ, and all the world knows what a husband he
is - perfect, as they go. And my children are satisfactory;
both of them have brought themselves up well. So what
have I to cast me down and darken my spirit? The golden
rule of 'Do as you would be done by,' and 'Love thy
neighbour as thyself,' - If I had my life to live over again how
I would flout and trample those mistaken rules! Now I've
formed a habit of caring for others and it 's too late. I 've
always got the poor, the unfortunate, and the failures on my
back. I 've always got a Civil Service list of women waiting
to get into office through my persuasive influence, and I 've
always girls on hand to recommend for all kinds of
occupations; I may hesitate to ask for something for a
woman, but I can refuse a girl nothing. You see my
Geneviève is a girl, a tender sensitive girl.
Suppose she wanted work, so sweet and modest
and pretty and old-fashioned as she is, she could n't
get it for herself, and if somebody refused to help her?
Sometimes I do get physically, mortally tired. Then I say
'Geneviève,' just a whisper of her name, and I go on and do
what I can. I 've a sort of feeling that what I do for the poor
and the needy will in some way come back to my child. It 's
her heritage from me."
lifts up the weak-hearted, comforts the afflicted, and
succours struggling womankind, for the sake of her
daughter! Surely the beautiful inheritance of sweet
Geneviève will not end here, but continue where "neither
moth nor rust doth corrupt and where thieves
do not break through nor steal."
I said, "Take care not to overdo your good work, you
are none too strong; and think of all your duties for the
coming winter." (The Speaker of the House of
Representatives has really as much power as the
President, and his wife is an overwhelmingly busy
woman.)
"I know," she said, "I know; and if I can just get two
women that I have on my hands now into one of the
government departments I 'm going to give myself a rest."
"No, you won't," said Adèle Burleson, Mrs. Clark's
great friend, and one of the wisest and cleverest little
women in Washington. "You'll have somebody else on
hand."
"No," said Mrs. Clark. "If I can only land these two I
won't bother anybody for a long time. Mr. Burleson, why
don't you help me?"
Albert said, "I 've done all I can, neither of the
women is qualified for the Civil Service. You know that."
"Qualified!" said Mrs. Clark scornfully. "They 've
got to live, and I believe sometimes they are hungry. Oh,
it 's weary work, I tell you. Champ's secretary has
written letters for me, and I 've made that nice secretary
of yours, Ruskin McArdle, who does all the things you
ought to do and don't do, write in your behalf, and I get
nothing done!"
"Has Ruskin been writing in my name?" asked
Albert.
"He has," said Mrs. Clark, "a beautiful letter in which he
spoke of the service of the lady's father to his country."
"No," said Albert, "I wrote that letter."
"Then," said Mrs. Clark, "what 's the use of being the
prominent member from Texas if your letters have no
effect?"
Albert said, "How long have you had this lady on your
hands?"
"Long enough," said Mrs. Clark, "nearly to give me
nervous prostration. You and Champ must storm the
departments. I must get her something to do; I tell you I
must. I 'll introduce her to you."
"No," said Albert, "not for anything in the world."
Mrs. Clark replied, "I 've introduced her to Ruskin; he
thinks she 's a dear woman."
Adèle remarked, "If Albert knew her, he 's easily
touched, - she would have him working as hard for her as
you do."
"Then," said Mrs. Clark, "some day I 'll surprise him
with an introduction."
Long ago it would have been the easiest thing in the
world for a woman of influence and importance to place a
clerk in Washington. A word would have done it, but that
time has passed and now, as in England, everything must go
by routine.
Adèle and I were lunching at the Capitol with Mrs. Clark
and I overheard her say in the Speaker's Gallery: "Now
why did you order such an elaborate menu?"
"She 's English," said Mrs. Clark, speaking of me; "I was n't
going to have her think we came from the creek."
I leaned over and said, "I don't know where you came
from, but I really did come from the creek, -
Waller's Creek in Texas. Not a very big creek, and not
always a wet creek, but that is where I came from. Adèle,
now, is more aristocratic; she came from Onion Creek, -
there 's always water there."
Mrs. Clark called me up on the telephone one morning to
ask if I had ever read Henry James' The Liars, and,
abbreviating the story, she told it to me in Henry James's
own language; all his expressions, all his subtleties, all his
exquisiteness came fluently through the telephone, an
instrument which he resents and abominates. I laughed so
constantly I could scarcely hold the receiver. Mrs. Clark is
an omnivorous reader and, what one rarely finds, a truly
enthusiastic one. She is an ardent admirer of the genius of
Thomas Hardy. "Oh," she said, "when I was in England,
how I did enjoy meeting him! I said to him, 'Mr. Hardy, you
have made me feel everything that your heroines felt. I 've
even felt everything that your villains felt! I 've loved and
suffered and sinned with everyone of your creations. I 've
gone to the scaffold with Tess, and I 've died with Elfrida.
You have given me the gamut of all the emotions.' We
talked for hours, I could scarcely bring myself to leave
him."
And I can imagine how this fresh, original, great-hearted,
unspoiled, frank, natural woman, must have impressed
Thomas Hardy. What an appetising morsel she would be
for jaded London society. In the expressive vernacular of
the stage, "They would eat her."
Champ Clark, brilliant and witty, has a way of making
unforgettable phrases. I asked him why a certain very
talented member of Congress had no following. "Well," said
he, "his opinion and his morals are in a fluid condition. You
can't take hold of him any more than you can of water."
"That not only describes him," I said, "but a few other
politicians of my acquaintance."
My days in Washington were all too short. I wanted the
sunshine of the South, and yet the idea of going alone was
distinctly depressing. One evening Mary Clark - I was
staying with her - came into my room and said,
"Bessiekins, I am going to let Bee go with you to Charleston
if you really want her." If I wanted Bee -
who is such a comfort, so companionable, and unselfish. I
breathed a great sigh of relief, and at once gave myself into
her capable hands. She intended to get a new kodak, and to
finish some shelves in the pantry before we started. "And,"
she said, "you want to see Mr. Page before you go, about
your Beloved South, don't you?"
"Yes," I said, "I do."
"Then," she replied, "we can leave on Thursday evening,
unless you don't mind Friday."
"Friday," I said, "has no terrors for me; Monday is my
'black Friday.' I was born on that day."
"All right," said Bee, who has no superstitions, "we will
start on Friday night."
Then - in that day - we shall not meet
Wrong with new wrong, but right with right:
Our faith shall make your faith complete
When our battalions reunite.
THOMAS NELSON PAGE has served his country well.
He built at a propitious moment a bridge between the
North and the South. The first great arch was laid
with those touching pages of realism, Marse Chan.'
At that time a gulf, not of bitterness, but of coldness
and indifference, separated us. He spanned it with
stories of the Old South, so true to life, so gracious, so
full of tenderness that the hearts of the North
understood - and warmed toward us. We were
grateful for their appreciation, - and the bridge was
builded. When I read Marse Chan' to Henry Ward
Beecher, he said, "I should regret the War less if
Marse Chan' had been spared; Page must be a first-rate
fellow to have written that story."
He is more than "a first-rate fellow" - he is a
high-minded gentleman, and a staunch American. How
patriotically he expresses his enthusiasm:
I have journeyed the spacious world over
And here to thy sapphire wide gate,
America, I, thy True Lover
Return now, exalted, elate,
As an heir who returns to recover
His forefathers' lofty estate.
How crude then and rude then soever
Thy struggles to lift from the sod,
Thy Freedom is strong to dissever
The Shackles, the Yoke, and the Rod:
Thy Freedom is Mighty forever,
For men who kneel only to God.
Even our ambassadors do not bend the knee to kings and
princes, they only bend the back. I should like Mr. Page to
represent our country at some European court. My
prophetic vision sees him the most popular ambassador since
the time of Mr. Lowell, when he gathered around him a
coterie of brilliant literary men and inspired Henry James to
carve delicately one of his most exquisite literary cameos.
Mr. Page is richer than Mr. Lowell, who was a widower, in
having the able assistance of his wife. Mrs. Page is a
charming lady and an ideal hostess, with the easy hospitality
of a woman born to the purple. He himself has the gracious
manner of a citizen of the world, but it never conceals his
real tenderness of heart and he is the most loyal,
disinterested, and encouraging of friends.
"I think," he said, "the binding of My Beloved South had
better be dark blue, with a spray of jessamine on the cover."
"No, I am not going to have yellow jessamine," I said,
"much as I love it, but something more characteristic of all of
that devoted land, something to express the life of the South
from Virginia to the Gulf, from Texas to the Pacific."
"That 's ambitious," asked Tom Page, "what is it to
be?"
"A palm leaf fan," I answered.
"It is n't a bad idea," he said, "even in the War they
had palm leaf fans."
For myself I have never been without one. Very likely
mine is the only one in London. It is kept in a special
drawer, and often in the cold, dark, sleepless nights, as the
raw, grey dawn penetrates my room, I will get out of bed,
take from its place my old palm leaf fan and lay my tired
head upon its uneven surface. It seems to give me a
moment's comfort when nothing else can, for it speaks of
sunshine, of the magnolia, of the banjo, that oldest of
musical instruments, born in the Ark and listened to by
Noah:
De Ark she kep' a-sailin' an' a-sailin' an' a-sailin';
De lion got his dander up, an' like to bruk de palin';
De sarpints hissed; de painters yelled; till, what wid all de
fussin'
You c'u'd n't hear de mate a-bossin' roun' an' cussin.'
Now, Ham, de only nigger what wuz runnin' on de packet,
Got lonesome in de barber-shop an' c'u'd n't stan' de
racket;
An' so, fur to amuse he-se'f, he steamed some wood an'
bent it,
An' soon he had a banjo made, de fust dat wuz invented.
He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridges, screws
an' aprin;
An' fitted in a proper neck, 'twas berry long an' taperin';
He tuk some tin, an' twisted him a thimble fur to ring it;
An' den de mighty question riz, how wuz he gwine to
string it?
De possum has as fine a tail as dis dat I 's a singin';
De ha'r 's so long an' thick an' strong, des fit fur banjo
stringin',
Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as wash-day dinner
graces;
An' sorted ob dem by de size, f'om little E's to basses.
He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig, 't was 'Nebber
min' de wedder,'
She soun' like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all togeder;
Some went to pattin', some to dancin', Noah called de
figgers
An' Ham he sot and knocked de tune, de happiest ob de
niggers.
Now, sence dat time, it 's mighty strange, dere's not de
slightest showin',
Ob any h'ar at all upon de 'possum's tail a-growin';
An curi's too, dat nigger's ways; his people nebber' los'
em',
Fur whar you find de nigger, dar's de banjo an' de
possum.
My old fan dissipates the London fog, and conjures a
picture of Aunt Polly Hynes and Aunt Lizzie, rocking slowly
in their light cane chairs and fanning themselves on the long
gallery that ran across the entire length of my old home in
Texas. My mother sat there, too, with her fan, which was of
a more sublimated pattern than the others, for it was made
of a young, tender leaf, finely sewn at the edge, and
mounted on an ivory handle with a tiny hole at the bottom
through which a green silk tassel was looped, and where the
ivory joined the leaf it was finished by a little carved rosette
of mother-of-pearl. But I love just the ordinary palm leaf fan
that is bought for a picayune. Its office has often been
beyond rubies and pearls, in saving the sick, comforting the
dying, and making life bearable on the hottest days to the
living. On every gallery when summer comes numbers of
these fans appear. In all the churches they are slipped in
between the cushion and the pew, and they can even be
found in the dear old musty Court Houses throughout the
South.
On one occasion they not only cooled the air but were
more intimidating than a regiment of soldiers to a renowned
prelate. An English bishop, a tall, erect, downright man,
called "the Soldiers' Bishop" on account of his influence
with the soldier-man, came to America to deliver a series of
sermons throughout the South. While in New Orleans the
weather turned suddenly hot, and when he ascended the
pulpit, what was his consternation to find a vast sea of
movement all over the church. Every woman, young and
old, wafted a palm-leaf fan. The grandmothers were
making a soft sideways movement, the girls, rebellious at
the sudden rise in temperature, were waving their fans back
and forth vigorously, while some very old ladies made
almost a pause between their movements, and there was no
spot of repose to be found for his bewildered eyes. The
Soldier Bishop said that for a moment he was dreadfully
perturbed, felt frightened and, indeed, rather sea-sick. He
even ingloriously contemplated retreating from the pulpit,
leaving the fans victorious on the field of battle. Then he
stood quite still, shut his eyes, offered up a stout prayer for
endurance, and got creditably through his sermon. A
Southern clergyman, brought up from infancy to the fan
habit, would probably not even have noticed this undulating
sea of creamy waves.
Every Southern woman must carry some memory in her
heart connected with this dried, brittle, but blessed and
grateful leaf. Girls of sixteen have used it, young mothers
have fanned their first babies with it, grandmothers sitting
on moonlit porches have brought back the memories of a
lifetime with its slowly waving motion. Even the gravest
and most dignified governors and judges have been driven
to its help in
torrid weather. There is, indeed, no nook or corner in the
South where at one time or another, it has not been an
almost vital necessity.
At one time in Texas we had - an unusual thing for us - a
spell of terribly, unceasingly hot weather. The sun sank to
rest a brazen shield, leaving the earth baked and cracked
like a pie crust; it rose the next morning a blazing eye of
unrelenting fire, and continued unblinking throughout the long
day. Old people died from exhaustion, middle-aged people
suffered, young people were excitable and impatient, and
the poor little children were simply scorched out of
existence by this dreadful tropical weather.
The first little baby of a young cousin of mine who lived
on the adjoining place, was taken suddenly very ill. The
doctor was almost hopeless about the child's recovery, and
said it depended on a change in the weather. For a fortnight
we had gone on merely existing under this cruelly
devastating sun. What was to be done? The young mother,
pale and wan from the heat, was in despair, but the negro
foster-mother, a strong, vigorous young woman, said, "Ef
dat 's all de trouble; ef it 's coolness dat 's wanted I 'se gwine to
save dis chile." And giving orders to a little darkey in the
room, she said, "Bring me a bucket of cold water, and drap it
deep in de well." And into the fresh water she dipped a wide
palm-leaf fan, and began slowly, evenly, and continually, to
make a cool moist breeze from the baby's hot head to his
little restless feet.
Except to nurse him she never stopped the flail-like
movement for thirty-six hours. The fan was dipped again
and again into the water, and on and on it went in its
regularity of movement, keeping down the fever,
and letting the child get an occasional hour or two of sleep.
Late in the evening of the second day came a merciful
thunder storm. The heavens were riven with lightning and
peals of thunder sounded like heavy artillery. The sky
opened and let down, not rain, but great waterfalls of cooling
water. The outsides of the houses were washed clean. The
cracks of the baked earth were filled with the blessed fluid.
The creeks began to murmur, and in a few hours the dry
beds of stream became roaring torrents. The air rapidly
cooled, and the baby was out of danger, but when his black
mammy dropped the fan her arm was the size of a human
leg; the muscles stood out swollen and rigid, and her hand
was almost paralysed. The doctor found the young mother
smoothing the big swollen hand, and crying like a baby. The
crisis was passed; for the first time in weeks the child had
taken notice of things about it, and was actually hungry.
"Well, Jemima," said the doctor, picking up the fan, "the
youngster owes his life entirely to you and to this."
"Why, laws a mercy, doctor," said Jemima, with a shaky
laugh, "you did n't spose I was gwine to let my chile die
when one ob dese here five-cent fans could save him, did
you? Course I would n't, but my arm feels mighty funny. I
'spect it will all pass away, though." And it did. In a few
days Jemima's strong arm was normal again, and to-day that
palm leaf fan baby is a flourishing and brilliant young lawyer.
Now, of course, science has arranged the electric fan to
be worked by machinery, but in those days cool air
came from love and service and splendid muscular
strength.
And one solitary fan at least figured on the field of
Gettysburg. Mrs. Pickett, in her touching tribute to
My Soldier, says:
Five thousand Virginians followed him at the start; but
when the Southern flag floated on the ridge, in less than half
an hour not two thousand were left to rally beneath it, and
these for only one glorious, victory-intoxicated moment.
They were not strong enough to hold the position they had so
dearly won; and broken-hearted even at the very moment of
his immortal triumph, my soldier led his remaining men down
the slope again. He dismounted and walked beside the
stretcher upon which General Kemper, one of his officers,
was being carried, fanning him and speaking cheerfully to
comfort him in his suffering. When he reached Seminary
Ridge again and reported to General Lee, his face was wet
with tears as he pointed to the crimson valley and said: "My
noble division lies there!"
"General Pickett," said the Commander, "you and your
men have covered yourselves with glory."
Another tender memory of mine of the palm-leaf fan is
one connected with a girl who came to New York from
South Carolina to seek her fortune. She was not pretty but
she had a wonderful figure, as slender as a reed, a little
round kittenish face with grey eyes, a snub nose, a line of
freckles across it, beautiful white teeth, a low forehead, a
quantity of dark hair, and she possessed to an unusual
degree that intangible thing called charm, and a rare talent
for music. Her voice, a warm soprano, had something in it of
appeal, a thrill of passion and an insistence that went straight
to your heart. The first manager she saw in New York was
Mr. Daly, who gave her a very small part in a comedy,
and one verse of a little song to sing. She made a favourable
impression, for she had individuality and a
great desire to please, combined with a vivid joy of life. Her
criticisms were encouraging and plenty of bouquets, boxes
of candy, and admiring notes found their way round to the
back of the stage. She was of a gregarious nature, loving
not only her kind, but light, laughter, music, gaiety and
amusement. She soon knew a crowd of artists, journalists,
actors and young men about town, was immensely popular,
always going about, and her more serious friends were
greatly troubled about her, but she was so radiant with all
her new emotions and experiences that she paid no heed to
anything but enjoyment.
After a year on the stage she married. It was a love
match. The man was a well-built, straight-limbed,
regular-featured, soft-voiced, dark-haired, human tiger. I never saw
a more repellent expression in any face. Nancy, however,
was desperately in love with him. She did n't mind his being
poor and they went to live in a small flat with such steep
stairs that to get to it was really like climbing a fire-escape.
The first time I went to see her in her spotlessly clean,
daintily furnished little apartment, she said to me, "I think I
am the happiest woman in the world. When Norman goes
down town I love him so much that I take one of his old
coats out of his dressing-room, and lay my head on the
shoulder and kiss the sleeve, just because he has worn it.
And, oh, how glad I am to see him when he comes home
from the office. It is just as if we had been separated for a
week."
After the honeymoon was over Norman came to the
conclusion that Nancy was a woman with a past, and he
became inordinately jealous and very abusive. She was
patient and hopeful at first of giving him confidence, but his
nature was mean, petty, and suspicious,
combined with an utter lack of generosity, and the brutality of a
wild beast waiting to spring upon his prey. Nancy's mother
sent her an old-fashioned diamond ring. It arrived one
morning when this heartless monster was at his office.
When he returned home she showed it to him and he said,
"A lover has given it to you."
She said, "My mother sent it to me from Charleston." He
answered by saying, "You lie," sprang at her, choked her,
knocked her down, and kicked her until she was bruised
from shoulder to ankle. He had been the winner of more
than one Marathon race, and his kick was no mean thing.
When I answered her telegram to come to her, she was
in a high fever and very ill. I never saw a more appalling
sight than her black, swollen, and almost broken limbs. Even
then she forgave him his murderous attack, but, of course,
their separation was only a question of time, and when it did
come, he left her bereft of all that an unprotected woman
needs. She had lost faith in everything, even in herself. She could
not live with him, she could not forget him, the pain she
suffered made her utterly reckless.
In the beginning she went back to the stage as a chorus
girl in a musical comedy. Then she got ill, and later she
became an artist's model. I urged her to go South and put
aside the feverish life she lived. I said, "There must be so
many things to offend you, for, after all, you are born and
bred a lady. Musical comedy people are not of your class,
and for you the life of an artist's model must be the saddest
thing on earth. Do give it all up and go back to the country
where you belong and teach music. You are quite capable
of doing it; you are so sweet and charming
and so young. Life must hold happiness in store for you
yet."
But she said, "No, it is too late, I must have excitement, I
am not like a widow who can live on memory. It is not the
quiet dead who kill us with grief. It is the terrible living
dead, who must be forgotten and never thought of a single
moment in the day or in the night, for that way madness
lies. Oh, these living dead, to what desperate straits they
drive us! If I could always have your steady hand, as now,
on my wrist, I could begin life all over again, but you are
busy. You must work. Let me go, dear, and only love me. I
don't say that I will do anything wrong, but I must have
forgetfulness at any cost. I must have it! Do you remember
the bruises, and how I loved my husband? Well, the ache is
still there. I don't mean only the hurt of the spirit, that never
leaves me; but the hurt of the flesh. I so often have a pain
in my side that I think he must have given me a vital blow."
And yet she looked well and was apparently always gay
and cheerful. Eventually she went back to Comedy, won
some success, and remained on the stage. She was the
most generous creature I ever knew. Once, when she had
only two pairs of shoes, she gave one pair to a girl in the
chorus poorer than herself. And for weeks during the
hottest weather in New York when she could have gone to
the country, she stayed on and sewed day and night to
make a pretty layette for a poor unwedded mother. She
never had a baby of her own, but she loved children with a
real mother's unselfish instinct. And she sold a rich gold
chain, her last remaining heirloom, and gave the money for
a course of treatment to a young actress, threatened with
blindness. That warm heart of hers was always full
of sympathy and kindliness and help for human suffering.
Her troubles were powerless to embitter her, and I never
heard her make a complaint.
Finally, I married and went to England to live. She wrote
to me cheerfully from time to time and said how much she
wanted to see me, but never mentioned her health. Then
came a letter telling me she was in a hospital, and had been
operated on successfully for appendicitis. She said the
Sisters of Charity were very kind, and that it was the
peacefullest and happiest time she had known for years, and
I must come at once to see her when I arrived in New York -
I was going over that autumn - and that she was looking
forward with great joy to our meeting.
When I got to the hotel I scarcely looked at my rooms,
but hurried off at once to the hospital and to Nancy. I was
too late; she had died the week before.
The Sister who had taken care of her, came into the room
and told me of her illness and unexpected death. She said:
"You don't know how we loved her. She was the most
charming and cheerful patient we ever had. When she
came, it was as if she was going on a pleasure tour. She
brought her banjo, tied with many bright ribbons, and slung it
across the foot of her bed. She was making Irish lace, and
that hung in a little brocade bag on the handle of her bureau,
and with her silver brushes and boxes and her candlesticks
on the mantelpiece and her books about, the room did n't
look a bit like one of our rooms. And her dressing jackets
and pocket handkerchiefs were so pretty and dainty, she
said she had made and embroidered everything herself.
"We put her photographs on the mantelpiece by her little
clock, one of her father and sister, and one," said
the nun looking at me, "of you. She used so often to talk to
me about you. I never saw anything like her courage. The
very morning of her operation she was playing on her banjo,
and she went quite gaily to the operating-room and
everything passed off well, and her recovery was quick and
satisfactory. When she was apparently quite herself
again she wanted a little fresh air, and we thought it would
do her no harm to take a short walk. She went out for half
an hour, a sudden rain storm came up and drenched her to
the skin.
"She came in shivering, her teeth were chattering with
cold, and that night pneumonia developed. I do not know if
she thought she was going to die. She was very cheerful,
but she said, 'If I die, as you are from "Way Down South
in Dixie," I want to give you my banjo.' One morning she
was terribly weak and restless; her fever was high, and I
was fanning her with a palm-leaf fan, when presently she
put out her hand and said, 'Sister, I am sure you are very
tired, give me that fan,' and taking it from me with a sweet
but tired smile, she moved it feebly for a few times; when I
turned, the little hand was still. She was dead. Her last
action was an unselfish one, a thought for another."
I said, "I hope you pray for her."
The Sister replied, "Oh, yes, I do, every day. She had
great temptations, but great love, great generosity and great
self-forgetfulness, and," she added softly, "God is merciful
- always merciful. Would you like to see her banjo? One
of the Sisters plays a little and I keep it in that box."
"No," I said; "I feel now as if I never wanted to see
another banjo."
Fair were our nation's visions, and as grand
As ever floated out of any fancy-land;
Children were we in simple faith,
But god-like children, whom nor death,
Nor threat of danger drove from honour's path -
In the land where we were dreaming.D. B. LUCAS.
It was said before the War that one letter of introduction
to Charleston would give you twenty-five dinners, and
twenty-five letters in New York would give you one
dinner. Dinners are, alas, more difficult to give in
Charleston now, as the present-day negro does not
approve of late hours, but the hearts of the people are as
hospitable as ever.
We arrived in that beautiful white city on Saturday, and I
had no sooner delivered my letters of introduction than
cards were left accompanied by invitations (such a pretty,
charming attention), to occupy various pews in St.
Michael's, a quaint, interesting church of English
architecture, very reminiscent of St. Martin's in the Fields
in London. The old-fashioned pews are so high they almost
hide the occupants, and the sweet chime of bells, like the
horses of St. Mark's in Venice, have journeyed far, as in
1782 Major Traille of the British Army, carried them as a
trophy of war to London. In 1783 they were re-shipped to
Charleston, replaced in the steeple, and once more rang
out their silvery peals.
For many years St. Michael's was a church by day and a
blessed lighthouse by night, sending out from its tall spire
rays of warning to ships at sea. The little sweet
old-fashioned churchyard is covered with grass and full of
flowers. The old tombs certainly bear witness to the healthy
climate, for almost everybody seemed to have lived to the
ripe age of seventy-five, seventy-eight, eighty or eighty-two
years. Probably the most unique monument in all the world
is a rude memorial on one of these ancient graves. A young
English settler came to Charleston with his wife and his
belongings, among them a very solid oak bedstead. When
his wife died he had no money for a headstone, but hoping
eventually to buy one he put up temporarily the head of the
bed. On it is cut in rude letters: "Mary Ann Luyton, wife of
Will Luyton. Died September 9th, 1770, in the 27th year of
her age." Perhaps he left Charleston before he could
provide another headstone; at any rate, this stout oak
memorial is as good to-day as when it was erected in 1770.
Its quaintness making it a subject of keen interst to the
tourist, it is now protected by a strong wire netting, and
there seems to be no reason why it should not last another
century.
Charleston had pleasant memories for me, as my Aunt
Polly Hynes had made a visit there in her youth, many years
before the War, and, as a little girl, I used to hear her speak
of the Rhetts, the Pinckneys, the Middletons, the Vander Horsts,
the Barnwells, the Pringles, the Ravenels, the Izards,
the Draytons, the Allstans and the Chesnuts, at whose
house she visited. The great families apparently lived like
princes, and even people who were not rich kept fifteen or
twenty servants.
Mrs. Chesnut was the "Southern Planter's Northern
Bride," having been born in Philadelphia. My grandfather,
Governor Duval, met them in Washington and
corresponded afterwards for many years with her husband.
The families interchanged visits, for the Chesnuts were as
hospitable as my grandfather, and fifty times richer. It was
said there were more than a thousand slaves on Mulberry
plantation and sixty or seventy servants about the house.
Mrs. Chesnut got all her gowns from Paris and was
distinguished for her beautiful head-dresses and her lovely
jewels. Aunt Polly, during her visit, was provided with an
accomplished lady's maid, who was an excellent
hair-dresser and a wonderful clear-starcher.
In those days ladies wore transparent India muslins
embroidered and trimmed with lace, and organdies with a
blue or purple ground. These dainty gowns required starch
made of gum arabic, which was as transparent as jelly, and
not every maid understood the art of using it. Aunt Polly
embroidered quite as well as any professional
needlewoman; her English thread lace was transferred
from one dress to another and her India muslins must have
been exquisite, so she appreciated a proper blanchisseuse.
I have a little cape of drawn work and embroidery, which I
believe she was several years in making, that is quite
worthy of a museum. After the death of my grandmother,
who was her only sister, she always wore black-and-white
or purple and I never saw her in a light-coloured dress.
Whenever dreams were spoken of, Aunt Polly
always related the fortunate dream of her friend, Mrs.
Robert Shubrick, which had, under extraordinary
circumstances, saved the life of her brother who was
coming to Charleston
by boat from Philadelphia. Three times in one night this
lady had a recurrent vision of him in a surging sea with a
little white flag floating in front of him. So impressed was
she with the truth of the warning, that she got her husband
to send a pilot boat to cruise in the track of the incoming
vessels, and the third day something small and white was
seen floating on the waves of the sea, and, coming nearer, a
half-starved man was picked up lying on a chicken-coop -
the only survivor of a ship which had gone down
three days before.
Aunt Polly, who was a famous gardener, had taken back
the gardenia with her to Florida and from there she had
brought it to Texas. It was named after Doctor Garden of
Charleston, a famous horticulturist, a popular doctor and,
although a Royalist, after the Revolution he never left
Charleston and died there. My mother, who was more proud
of her garden than of anything in the world, used to say
when she showed the hibiscus, a flower which in the
morning was white, in the afternoon rose and in the evening
red, and which I always thought in my childhood came from
fairyland - "This was sent me from South Carolina by one
of the Pinckneys."
The first time I went into the street in Charleston the
catalpa, and the sweet bay, and the pink mimosa, all old
friends, gave me a fragrant greeting. But the live oaks,
draped in moss, were the oldest friends of all. Bee and I
started out intending to take a long walk on Monday
morning. The open doors of the library, however, were too
tempting and there we stopped. It was organised in 1728 and
is truly a delightful place in which to spend an hour or two. It
contains some rare and valuable manuscripts and the
Gazette, Charleston's
first newspaper, a tiny little sheet, printed on grey paper
with a printer's ink which must have been very rich as it is
as thick and black as possible even to-day. Occasionally, it is
cold enough for fires, but the windows and the doors of the
library are continually open, the bright yet softened sunlight
of the winter streams in, and the air is like champagne, warm
enough for comfort and cool enough to be exhilarating, for
Charleston has a wide sea frontage. The beautiful East and
South Batteries with their splendid houses and avenues of
palmettos and magnolias, are suggestive of Nice, but the
climate is infinitely superior to that of the South of France, as
there is no raw chill with the setting of the sun, but just an
agreeable crisp coolness. A letter in 1617 to Lord Ashley in
England quaintly describes the climate of Charleston: "It
must of necessity be very healthy, being free from any
noxious vapours, all summer long being refreshed with cool
breathings from the sea, which up in the country we are not
so fully sensitive of."
The old houses are stately and beautiful. They combine
the best periods of English architecture with the needs of
the South. Generally two long balconies, one on the first and
one on the second storey, run along the entire side of the
house, and there Charleston people live during the summer,
which is said to be by no means an unpleasant part of the
year, with the bathing and boating by moonlight on the silver
sea. The water of Charleston is quite unique, it flows from
artesian wells, is very cool and pleasant to drink and highly
charged with soda, magnesia, and salt, therefore it is a
strong and valuable medicinal water, a splendid aid to the
digestion (it was marvellously beneficial to me), and a great
skin beautifier. If a little German village possessed
the waters of Charleston, half of Europe would be
flocking to drink them. A clever doctor from Boston
staying in the same house with me, who had suffered
for years from indigestion, said the waters of
Charleston had completely cured him. He declared
that if he was ten years younger he
would settle there, open a large sanatorium,
which with the combination of the sun, the tonic air, and the
curative properties of the waters would enable many a
chronic invalid to recover health. The environs of
Charleston are quite delightful. Summerville, a
beautiful little place, semi-tropical
in verdure, rich in the odour of flowering shrubs, is so
extraordinarily profuse in its abundance of wistaria that it
looks like a long amethyst picture from a Japanese screen.
There is an excellent hotel in the midst of pine and cypress
and magnolia trees, and a large tea plantation not far away,
which we drove through. The tea did not interest me so
much as the beautiful roses and camellias, but we bought a
small package and tried it. In this respect I fear I am
de-nationalised, for I infinitely prefer the tea we get in England.
On the other side of Charleston, fifteen or twenty minutes
by boat and a little distance by rail, is the Isle of Palms
where many of the residents have cottages. It is a charming
spot and might with equal appropriateness be called the Isle
of Oleanders, for they grow to a fine size and in great
luxuriance among the palmetto trees down to the very
water's edge. On our return from the Isle of Palms we
stopped at Fort Moultrie and saw the tomb of Oceola, the
Indian chief who fought for America during the Seminole
War. The Fort is now a pleasant military post and a
fine-looking Irish sergeant showed us over it, and pointed out
with pride Fort Jasper, named in honour of Sergeant Jasper,
a gallant non-commissioned officer of the Revolution. When
the British were besieging the fort the flagstaff was shot
away and the flag fell, arousing the British to a great cheer,
for they thought it meant surrender. Jasper leaped from the
wall, seized and tore the flag from the broken staff and,
climbing back fastened it to a rod, saying, "Colonel, we
must fight under our flag!" and the white crescent rose
again. Sergeant McCarthy said it was the only monument of
a private soldier in America.
I asked him a good many questions about military
service. He had been in the service for years and said it
was harder every day to get recruits. America has so many
resources and possibilities for the working man that he
hesitates to join the army. "Still there are chances even for
soldiers," the Sergeant added; "we have a private in the . . .
who owns a restaurant in Charleston."
"How did he manage that?" asked Bee.
"He is a Greek," said the Sergeant. "He enlisted as soon
as he came over here and he lent out his first month's pay
at a dollar-and-a-quarter interest on the dollar, the money to
be returned within the month."
"There is a Greek proverb in the East," I said, "that it
takes two Jews to be equal to one Greek."
"Since then," said Sergeant McCarthy, "while never
spending a penny himself, he has lent money to the whole
regiment."
"And always," I said, "gets back his usurious interest."
"Always," said the Sergeant, "although if the Colonel
knew about it he would stop his game. In four years he has
made about four thousand dollars, but," he
added with a sigh, "only a Greek can do it, not a native-born
American nor an Irishman. My pay is good, fifty or so
dollars a month. I am a bachelor with no kids to provide for,
and yet I go now and then to Calegeiri Clementeanio for a
loan."
What a pity that Greek cannot meet Greek only in this
world, for evidently he will always get the better of every
other nationality.
On my way home it was borne in upon me that I was
really in my own leisurely land, for as we were hurrying to
the boat the Captain smilingly called out, "We will wait: take
your time, take your time, we are not going off without you."
"Now," I said to Bee, "there is the true, considerate,
obliging spirit of the South."
Charleston socially is one of the most agreeable places in
America and one of the most English, though it really has no
right to be, for it was not like Virginia, settled by the
Cavaliers, but by a mixture of races - English, Scotch, and
Irish, Belgian, Swiss, and French Huguenots. But the
English curiously enough have left their impress here more
clearly than anywhere else in America. The accent is a
pretty, softened, musical English, the tastes of the people,
the literature, the atmosphere, after all these centuries, are
still English.
I went to have a dish of tea with Mrs. St. Julien Ravenel,
the author of that delightful book, Charleston, the Place
and the People, and found that she was intimately
conversant with English politics, literature, and present-day
affairs. She subscribes to a number of English periodicals,
pictorial magazines, and The Times, and is as well up in the
news of London as any lady living in one of the provincial
towns in England. She
is a tall, distinguished-looking woman of delicate and fair
appearance, not unlike the late Baroness Burdett-Coutts, for
she has the same serious manner and the same cultivated
dignity and lovableness. She said she had seen an article
lately in one of the Northern magazines which spoke of the
want of cultivation in the women who formerly lived on
plantations. "There was never a more unfounded assertion
than this," she declared, "because women who were brought
up on a plantation had little to do except read. They generally
had excellent governesses, with access to good libraries
and abundance of leisure. There was constant intercourse
between England and Charleston. The men of the family
were sent to Eton and Oxford to be educated, and their
sisters emulated them in learning. Many women knew both
Greek and Latin, were well versed
in literature and knew French well." This article went on to
say that they knew nothing of English literature; yet I
remember one friend, who had received her entire education
in England, telling me years ago that she had only read four
American authors - Poe, Hawthorne's Marble Faun, but
not his Yankee Tales, Washington Irving, and Prescott's
Conquest of Mexico, "although," she added, "I believe
that is mostly fiction."
Mrs. Ravenel herself is certainly one of the most widely
read women I have ever met and, indeed, I found all the
people of Charleston cultivated and intelligent, with the
charming manner inherited from aristocratic ancestors, who
already from older countries had great traditions, and pride of
family behind them. There is a certain stateliness of
deportment still remaining. Quite young people speak to their
elders as "Mistress Pinckney," "Mistress Pringle," and so
on. Even some of the very old negroes have beautiful
manners.
John Rutledge wrote to his brother studying for the
Bar in England in 1769:
The very first thing you should be thoroughly acquainted
with is the writing of shorthand, which you will find an
infinite advantage. Take down notes of everything in Court,
even if not worth transcribing, for your time may as well be
employed in writing as in hearing. By no means fall into the
too common practice of not attending a place of worship.
There is generally a good preacher at the Temple Church. . . .
If you stick to French and converse generally in that
language you may soon be master of it. Whatever study you
attempt, make yourself completely master of it; nothing
makes a person so ridiculous as to pretend to things he does
not understand. I know nothing more entertaining and more
likely to give you a graceful manner of speaking than seeing
a good play well acted. Garrick is inimitable, mark him well
and you will profit by him. You must not neglect the
classics. Get a good private tutor who will point out their
beauties to you and at your age you will in six months
become better acquainted with them than a boy at school
generally in seven or eight years. Read Latin authors, the
best frequently. . . . Read the apothegms of Bacon, English
history, and the enclosed list of law books; and when I say
read, I don't mean run cursorily through them as you would
a newspaper, but read carefully and deliberately and
transcribe what you find useful in it. Bacon, you know, is my
favourite. You will think I have cut out work enough for you
while in England, and indeed though it is a long time to look
forward to, if you mind your business you will not have too
much time to spare. . . . One word in regard to your
deportment. Let your dress be plain, always in the city and
elsewhere, except when it is necessary that it should be
otherwise, and your behaviour rather grave.
Farewell, my dear brother. Let me hear from you by
every opportunity,
Believe me,
Yours affectionately
J. RUTLEDGE.
It was the fashion in those days to preserve a grave exterior. Alas! It is
somewhat of a fashion still. I fancy it was supposed to
portend an ambitious future. Even now, any position of
importance and more especially the office of senator seems
to weigh heavily upon the American man. A gay and witty
senator would be a positive anachronism. Charles Sumner
said that in his early youth he made one or two jokes in the
Senate, and was advised by a friend if he hoped to
succeed in public life never to joke again, and he never did.
Imagine it!
But I have an idea that all the world over humour is
regarded as somehow inconsistent with seriousness of
purpose, yet how very clearly the eyes of a humourist can
see, for humour gives a just perspective, and warmth of
heart, keen affection, and a sensitive nature often
accompany it.
That gay and gallant jester, Henry Labouchere, who for
so many years illumined the House of Commons with his
transcendent wit, wrote me a letter after the death of his
wife in which he said now that she had gone before him,
death could not come to him too soon. Yet how often men,
who would scarcely give a sigh of regret or remembrance
at the death of their wives, have called him heartless. I
think American people are really graver and more serious
than English people. I suppose it is the fashion, just as it is
the fashion in England to take grave events with
sangfroid and composure.
Dr. Milligan, a surgeon, wrote to London from
Charleston about 1775, and said:
The inhabitants are of complexion little different to the
English, of good stature, well-made, lively, agreeable,
sensible, spirited, open-hearted, exceed most people in acts
of benevolence, hospitality and charity. The men and
women who have a right to the class of gentry, (who are
more numerous here than in any other colony of North
America,) dress with elegance and neatness. The personal
qualities of the ladies are much to their credit and
advantage. Middling stature, genteel and slender, fair
complexioned without the help of art, regular features, fond
of dancing, sing well, play upon harpsichord and guitar, etc.
There is a list made about this date of merchandise
shipped to Charleston: "Fine Flanders lace, the finest Dutch
linens, French cambrics, English chintz; Hyson tea; silks,
gold and silver laces; the finest Broadcloth, carpets, British
and East Indian handkerchiefs, gloves and ribbons, metals,
pewter, brass and copper wrought of all sorts; plate and
silver; watches, gold and silver; books, china, fans and other
millinery wares. Looking-glasses, pictures, and prints, salad
oil; beer in casks and bottles, wine of all sorts, but the chief
kind drunk here is Madeira, imported directly from the place
of growth." The day I dined with Judge Brawley and his
wife (he is one of South Carolina's most distinguished sons,
a brave soldier in the Confederate army, who lost one arm in
a gallant encounter almost at the beginning of the War), we
drank to the success of our beloved South in fine old
Madeira.
It was while I was at Charleston that Sam wrote to tell
me of the fall of Harrison Leffingwell.
We have missed you very much at Chevy Chase. The
birds all went South when you did, and after that a severe
snowstorm set in which lasted several days, but the weather
is now warmer again. Also, your maid has been discharged.
The motor, after it came back from the machine shop in
perfect order, suddenly and unaccountably went wrong. On
questioning George, the butler (he of the Knox Express
fame), it came out that Harrison Leffingwell had borrowed
the motor and taken his best girl for a long ride, which will
cost me at the very least $25.00, so I discharged him on the
spot. He was very saucy and said, "I take it, as you are a
man of honour and I am another, that this unpleasantness
between us will not prevent my going to England with Mrs.
O'Connor." I was not so severe with him as I might have
been because I considered that his wild career was
undoubtedly helped along by you. You made him think he
was a Caruso and a ladies' maid combined, and there was
no standing him after you left. He will doubtless revenge
himself on the family, as he has taken I Myself with him and
I suppose he will tear out the pictures and have them
framed. So you are probably by this time adorning some
small negro shack. You certainly have the faculty of spoiling
people more than anybody I know. Your family, however,
long ago got reconciled to you.
We don't want you to stay too long in the South, and
we hope you are coming back for a visit this spring.
There is a mocking-bird who builds his nest just outside
your bedroom window, and when the evenings are warm
he sings every night at nine o'clock, - and as this is going
to be a warm spring he will come early. So hurry up. With
love.
Your affectionate brother,
Sam.
P. S. Harrison Leffingwell had the impudence to call me
Page 144
up on the telephone and ask me to give him your address.
Maybe he has written you by this time; if he has I wish you
would tell him to send me back your book.
And my faithful Rose wrote to tell me of my dear old dog
Coaxy's death. I was glad to have Bee with me, for she
loved Coaxy well and was one of his best friends. She knew
there never was such a fox-terrier - so intelligent, so
original, so clever, so quick and so affectionate as Coaxy.
"Do you remember," I said to Bee, "that scarlet leather
collar with the brass nails that you sent Coaxy from Paris,
and how proud he was of it?" He never forgot Bee, even
after an absence of one or two years, and was filled with joy
when he saw her and remembered how in his puppyhood,
when ill with distemper, she had sat for a whole day with a
gentle hand in his basket. It was a sad thought that I was
never again to see my faithful friend Coaxy, a name evolved
from his sweet irresistible coaxing ways. When he laid
himself out to coax, nobody could resist him.
"Put on your hat," said Bee, "and come out in the sun, it
always cheers you, and here 's a little case for your
stamps." It was marked in gilt letters "Swizzlegigs." How
many, many long years since I had seen that comical dear
name, invented in my babyhood by my uncle John Duval, a
tender humourist, who said it expressed my peculiar
vagaries. I have often thought it wholly appropriate to my
entire restless, changing, inconsequent life. It would be
impossible for any human being who suggested the name of
Swizzlegigs to live an ordinary humdrum existence.
"Bee," said I, "how did you ever remember?" But I
need not have asked; Bee never forgets.
"Here are your gloves," she said, "we will go to the
Exchange and see the pretty things."
On our arrival in Charleston we had been lucky enough to
find shelter in the house of Mrs. Dotterer, a handsome,
agreeable woman and an excellent housekeeper. Mrs.
Chapman, her mother, after the War, started the Woman's
Exchange, a most useful institution with all sorts of
interesting objects for sale, authentic antiques, carved
looking-glasses, good specimens of genuine Sheffield plate
and good copies of old furniture. I bought a wild turkey-tail
fan and shall use it in England as a fire-screen. The "Lady
Baltimore" cake, the chef d'oeuvre of the Exchange, so
toothsomely described by Owen Wister, is now known all
over the world. The ladies there receive orders from Russia,
China, Japan, and I daresay, even from the Balkans. My
kind hostesses, hearing of my sad loss, gave me a little
surprise that evening, a "Lady Baltimore" cake all my own.
It was exceedingly good, but very rich, being made with
layers of delicate white cake filled between with a thick
sugared paste of divers sorts of nuts and citron. The top is
of richly flavoured icing, and covered with candied flowers.
That night at supper someone told the story of Mrs.
Pettigru King, one of the idols of my childhood. She had
incomparable wit, great charm, and, if not beauty, the
reflection of it, for her skin was exquisite, her bright shining
nut-brown hair a lovely colour, and her smile was
enchanting. Thackeray had heard of her wit, and, to draw
out her powers when she asked him the question, "Mr.
Thackeray, how do you like America?" his eyes twinkling
with mischief, he answered: "Very much, but the
Americans, they are vulgar." Whereupon she quickly
answered: "That is easily understood,
for we are all descendants of the English." He said,
laughing, "Forgive my rudeness, it was only to make
you unsheathe the dagger of your wit. I am quite
satisfied with the result." And after these sharp
thrusts on both sides they became the greatest of
friends.
CHAPTER X
THE CHARM OF CHARLESTON - THE SILVER GARDEN
THERE is no function
historically more delightful or
interesting in America than Charleston's St. Cecilia balls.
The society began in 1737 with a concert given on a
Thursday, St. Cecilia's day, and comprised originally a
number of earnest musical amateurs who soon became
ambitious and paid a large salary to the chef d'orchestre,
who in 1773 received five hundred guineas a year. The arts
and graces declined, however, as the years went by, giving
place perforce to more practical interests. Fewer men had
time for the study of music, and when President Monroe
accompanied by John C. Calhoun, his Secretary of State,
visited Charleston, it was decided that St. Cecilia must give
a ball in lieu of a concert. Since then, except during the
War, there has been no interruption of the three balls given
every winter by the St. Cecilia Society. The members are
elected by the society and it is no uncommon thing for the
father, grandfather, and great-grandfather of an applicant to
have been members before him. Mrs. Ravenel says, "If a
new resident, or a family recently brought into notice, there
will be inquiry, perhaps hesitation and a good backing will be
desirable. When a man is elected the names of the ladies of
his household are at once put upon the list and remain there
forever, changes of fortune affecting them not at all. The
members elect the Vice-President, Secretary and
Treasurer and Board of Managers; the managers continue
from year to year, vacancies occurring only by death, the
eldest manager becoming President and Vice-President in
due order."
The invitations are in themselves quite unique, for every
name on them has figured in history before and during the
Revolution, bringing back memories of the old picturesque
life of the plantation gone to come no more. Edward
Rutledge, one of the present managers, is a descendant of
John Rutledge who wrote so heroically to Moultrie in 1776:
"General Lee wishes you to evacuate the Fort. You will not
do so without an order from me. I will cut off my right hand
sooner than write it. - J. RUTLEDGE."
Joseph W. Barnwell, my escort to supper, a handsome
clean-shaven barrister, with dark humorous eyes is a
descendant of "Tuscarora Jack," a favourite hero of my
childhood, chiefly I think on account of his name, although he
was a daring, resolute fighter in the wars with the Indians.
Another of the family, Robert Woodward Barnwell, a
member of the Convention at Montgomery, gave the casting
vote which made Jefferson Davis President of the
Confederacy. But every name, - Middleton, Porcher,
Vander Horst, Sinkler, Stony, Barker, Ravenel - is
honoured in the history not only of the State of Carolina, but
of America, and these splendid names have been as nearly
as possible preserved in the invitations of the St. Cecilia's
Society by the election of sons, grandsons, and
great-grandsons throughout the centuries. They are as gallant
gentlemen as their great-grandfathers and even in the
present-day balls a trace of the old order exists. No sitting
out on stair-steps or hiding away in corners is allowed at
these historic parties.
A story is told of one of the "Four Hundred," who on
her way from Florida to New York received an invitation to
a St. Cecilia ball. She sat out one or two of the dances on
the staircase outside the ballroom. Such a breach of
etiquette was unknown and was certainly not to be allowed,
so the President, a man of beautiful manners and charming
address, found the lady in a secluded corner and offering
his arm said, "I have come, dear Madam, to conduct you to
the ballroom. We cannot afford, if only for a brief moment,
to lose so brilliant an ornament."
"Oh," she said, "I know I am breaking a rule, but all the
world does it in New York and London." The President
replied, "New York and London are too large to look after
individual guests; here we can see to their welfare, and I
fear you will take cold in this draughty hall." The lady
laughed, took his arm, and went back to the ballroom.
The men of Charleston subscribe liberally, and the balls
are beautifully arranged. The society owns its own napery,
silver, glass and table ornaments and, with each table
decorated with flowers, the balls have all the refinement of
private entertainments. The suppers are served promptly at
twelve o'clock, as the dances begin at nine, and are
prepared by negro cooks, the ladies of Charleston
superintending everything and often cutting sandwiches and
preparing some special delicacy with their own hands. The
round dances are interspersed with rather stately music
when the older people walk round the room, for the St.
Cecilias, unlike most balls in America, are by no means
given exclusively for young girls. Mammas and even
grandmammas are expected to be present and to
participate in the evening's enjoyment.
Etiquette requires the president to take down the latest
bride to supper, while the vice-president takes the most
distinguished stranger. The girls are supposed after each
dance to return to their chaperons, and in this way the men
are left free to seek in time the partners engaged for the
next dance. This is a fashion that might well be introduced
at other balls in America. All the invitations of the St.
Cecilias are delivered by hand and a stranger must almost
belong to the livre d'or to receive one. When, however,
the guest has arrived she is entertained like a queen; every
dance on her programme is filled up, or if she happens not
to dance, agreeable partners are provided for
conversation, and no one who has attended a St. Cecilia
ball is likely to forget its distinctive and hospitable charm.
There was one thing I wanted very much in Charleston
that I did not get, a palmetto salad - it is said to be a very
great delicacy and is made from the heart of the palmetto
tree. It seems a great extravagance to destroy an entire tree
for a dish, but on the plantations there are so many trees
that one more or less makes very little difference. Those
who have eaten of it say there is no flavour so fine and
delicate as this round white heart dressed with fresh olive
oil, lemon instead of vinegar, and a dash of salt. One of my
hostesses, sweet little Mrs. Mitchell, promised if I would
remain a few days longer she would send to her plantation
for this luxurious speciality of South Carolina, and make a
salad with her own tiny hands. I could n't wait, but some
day I am going back for it.
The morning for our visit to the Magnolia Cemetery was
glorious with sunshine, and Bee proposed that we should
make a détour and go by the East Battery to take our car.
Even grim Fort Moultrie looked cheerful
that day; there were several beautiful yachts in the harbour,
the avenue of palmettos rustled their leaves in a faint bright
breeze, and as I turned to look at the pretty white town,
peaceful and prosperous, it seemed amazing that so much
of it had survived the five hundred and sixty days of
bombardment it had sustained during the Civil War.
Certainly no city has suffered in the past more than
Charleston, for, after the long siege, when her sons by land
and sea kept her "virgin and inviolate to the last," came a
severe earthquake. The house we were living in carries a
great iron bar across the front in memory of this event. Fate
seems indeed to have tried the people in order to prove their
courage, which is indomitable.
The cannon along the Battery always detained us for a
little; they speak so eloquently of that long bombardment,
and each bears a brass tablet telling of the service it had
done. A big gun looking directly upon Fort Moultrie had
been down in the depths of the sea and this was its
honourable record: "This gun, having taken part in the
attack on Fort Sumter by an armoured squadron, April 7th,
1863, was recovered from the wreck of the sunken Keokuk
by an exploit of heroic enterprise, and mounted on Sullivan's
Island, where for two years it was used in defence of the
city it had once been brought to attack. Removed to this
place by the Civil Authority, August, 1889."Some of the guns
had seen four years of active service; when the sun shone
so brilliantly upon them it turned the black of the iron into a
shimmering blue. Fate, with even her hardest knocks,
cannot deprive Charleston of its ideal climate, and in another
decade all her old prosperity will return to her, for there is
no more beautiful spot in America than this lovely city by
the sea. Even Magnolia
Cemetery smiled that day, and the dead seemed in happy
peace. The monument to South Carolina's great soldier,
General Wade Hampton, stands in the centre of the
Confederate dead, whom with such valiant courage he led
into heroic action. The most beautiful monuments are not
however of stone; they are nature's great live-oaks, with
their widely spreading branches, bending tenderly over the
hundreds of little headstones, as if to say, "Soldiers, sleep
well." And I thought of Father Ryan's little verses:
Old trees! old trees! in your mystic gloom
There 's many a warrior laid,
And many a nameless and lonely tomb
Is sheltered beneath your shade.
Old trees! old trees! without pomp or prayer
We buried the brave and the true,
We fired a volley and left them there
To rest, old trees, with you.
Old trees! old trees, keep watch and ward
Over each grass-grown bed;
'Tis a glory, old trees, to stand as guard
Over our Southern dead;
Old trees, old trees, we shall pass away
Like the leaves you yearly shed,
But ye! lone sentinels, still must stay
Old trees, to guard our dead.
The sun grew so warm that to escape it I sat under one
of the trees with the long grey moss softly touching my face
like the gentle hand of an old friend. Bee was busy with her
kodak trying to get an impression of one of the ancient oaks
carrying seven centuries of mystic gloom, when a lady,
dressed in deepest mourning, with a sweet face, old, thin
and very white, came and
sat beside me. She said, "Good morning; the sun is very
warm for this time of the year."
I said, "It is, indeed, but having been out of the South so
long I am more than grateful for it."
"Do you," she said, "live abroad?"
"Yes," I said, "I live in London, at least I used to live in
London; but now I have no 'dwelling more by sea or shore.' "
"Ah," she said, "then it is better to wander."
"Yes," I said, "perhaps; - this is a very beautiful place for
rest."
She said, "I try to find it so, for, like Bobbie, the little
faithful dog in Edinburgh, who when he lost his master
spent his life by the side of his grave, I spend my life here.
All my six children sleep over there - " she pointed to a row
of graves not far off. "Whenever the sun shines I come
here in the morning, and I leave in the evening. I do not
always bring flowers, but I talk to them and often I go
away comforted, for I feel they have talked to me."
"I, too, have my sorrows, but they are nothing compared
to yours."
"I can bear mine," she said, "for I know I shall find my
children again. I am a little lonely and I grow weary of
waiting, but that is all."
"Good-bye," I said "I shall often think of you."
"I need not give you my address in Charleston," she said,
"you will always find me here."
Bee had photographed the noble tree and met me with
her camera.
"You look white and fagged, are you tired?" she asked.
"No," I said, "but a broken heart that still lives has been
shown to me. The quiet hearts of the dead
are at peace; it is the sorrows of the living that are
overwhelming."
And as we walked along under the brilliant sunshine, I
told her of the poor lady that we had left with all her devoted
dead; and when I had finished Bee's cheeks were not quite
so pink, for she has a very tender, maternal, protecting
nature. Her hand is instinctively stretched out to succour and
to help. If she gets out of a street-car and an old lady
follows, Bee waits like a perfect gentleman to help her out.
If a friend is ill, Bee never fails to make a daily visit; if a
child is fretful Bee can comfort it, and there is nothing in
medicine or science for the benefit of humanity which does
not appeal to her. To the world she presents a frank, boyish
front, and never, under any circumstances, indulges in gush,
even with her best beloved friends. But in her blue eyes
there is the same expression that I remember in the eyes of
a nun, who when she died, left eighteen hundred foundlings
and waifs under her roof. Bee is sensitively proud and the
soul of modesty. She is indifferently polite to men, unless
they happen to be engaged to her best friends, when she
puts aside her maidenly armour and is her own gracious
hospitable self.
"Why do you," I said to her, "stand that conceited bore of
a professor, give him Mary's best wine to drink, and have
turkey for dinner whenever he comes?"
"Because," said Bee, "he is going to marry my friend
Dorothy next month. She lives in Boston, and she has been
such a long time making up her mind to do it I felt that I
must give her some encouragement."
I said, "Poor Dorothy; she is going to be bored to
extinction."
But Bee answered cheerfully, "He has his good points."
Friendship is with Bee a sacred trust, something not to be
lightly embarked upon, but when once undertaken it
assumes for her life-long and loyal obligations. She belongs
to the type of woman who having married, would never,
however unhappily mated, divorce her husband, and at no
matter what cost to herself would bear her sorrows in noble
silence and live up to her highest ideals to the end. And
sometimes Fate is kind to me, for Bee is my friend.
It was early for the Garden of the Magnolias, that
marvellous spot of beauty now frequently described and
illustrated both in pictorial papers and in magazines. The
boats were not running yet to the Ashley River, and to go
first to Summerville and then a long drive to the garden and
back again in one day meant a fatiguing journey, so Bee and
I evolved an excellent plan. We found a man with a motor
boat who said if we secured eighteen passengers he would
take us on reasonable terms. Five people were mustered
from our house, and the remainder from different hotels,
which we notified of our excursion, and the next morning at
ten o'clock we embarked. It was a warm soft spring day.
The sky was deep blue, with a few billowy white clouds
blown by a bright wind into eager motion. In the distance, a
violet and pearl mist slowly lifted itself, leaving the fresh
tender green of budding trees and shrubberies greener still
from the soft moisture, and now and then a breath of yellow
jessamine or honeysuckle floated towards us, showing that
the sun had been kind.
We steamed along amidst pretty scenery, quiet
plantations on either side, many of them having historical
interest and all of them former scenes of open-armed,
hospitable gaiety. The grass at the landing of
the Magnolia Gardens was as green as that of Ireland. The
red-bud and flowering peach and plum and almond trees
were all in blossom, and the hum of the bees seemed to
belong to midsummer.
A cohort of black gardeners, male and female, met us, the
men in blue jean and the women wearing calico dresses and
plaid head handkerchiefs, as "befo' de wa'." They led us
politely through the winding paths, where on each side every
known flower was grown, yellow and pink old-fashioned
cabbage roses, the canary coloured tea-rose, the monthly
rose, which in the South is a daily rose until January, and
sometimes faithfully blooms the whole year round. The
hundred-leaf rose, with its close rosette in the centre; the
little white and pink Cherokee rose, the crimson and yellow
rambler; the musky moss-rose, in great luxuriance, and there
were wide beds of pinks and carnations, yellow, white, rose
and red. A carnation always breathes to me of passion, but
a clean passion; there is nothing heavy and sultry about its
fresh perfume, it is frank; robust and hardy. Even in the dry
hot atmosphere of an over-heated room this flower, so full
of vitality, refuses to die, and lasts for many days. A friend,
young, happy, distinguished in his career, once travelled a
day and a night to see me for only one hour. He gave me at
our parting half a hundred splendid carnations, a flower for
each day of our separation; - before they were withered he
was dead. I never saw him again, but every carnation
throughout all the years brings me a fragrant memory of
him.
Near the beds of these dear flowers was a stately tomb
of Italian marble; the negroes said it was a former owner
who wished to sleep always amidst the luxuriance of the
flowers he loved so well. If the gardens had been called the
Gardens of the Camellias
it would not have been a misnomer, for before the
blossoming of the magnolias they reign supreme and are of
every colour, size, and known variety. The white flower was
in perfection that gave Marguerite Gautier her poetic name,
The Lady of the Camellias, one of which she gave to
Armand Duval, saying, "When this flower is withered come
back to me." As a contrast to its dazzling purity, scarlet
flowers flamed on either side, and there were camellias of a
pink so evanescent that it was like the blush of a fair young
girl. Other varieties seemed to borrow the glories of them
all, scarlet flecked with white, white splashed with crimson,
and a pale pearl pink, the leaves deepening at one side into a
vivid vermilion. The real queen of the garden was an opulent
flower of a rich, pure du Barry rose, painted with splashes
of white, as if Puck had dashed on the colours with reckless
brush while waiting to go on that gay and breathless journey,
when he girdled the world in forty minutes. The bold-faced
trumpet flower, giving colour to the long pendants of sombre
moss, had climbed to the very tops of some of the beautiful
old live-oaks, the trees that in all the world I love the best.
For one of my first memories is of my father finishing a
chapter of Guy Mannering or The Bride of Lammermoor,
under the spreading shade of a great live-oak, with little
negroes and dogs tumbling at his feet, while I, a maiden of
five, called to him from the porch to come, for Buttons, my
pony, and Pomp, his horse, were waiting at the gate for our
afternoon ride.
There is an eternal beauty about the live-oak surpassing
that of all the other forest trees. With its great age, its
superb dignity, its rough, burly bark, and its thousands of
leaves, it is an inspiring poem:
"I have waked, I have come, my beloved! I might not
abide;
I have come ere the dawn, oh beloved, my live-oaks to hide
In your gospelling glooms - to be
As a lover in heaven, the marsh, my marsh, and the sea,
my sea."
Near the protecting branches of a splendid live-oak grew
a perfect tree, the glory of the South, the magnificent
magnolia grandiflora, in the first perfection of exquisite
bloom. Its glossy pointed dark green leaves held that divine
chalice of creamy white as if to shelter and guard its
unapproachable beauty. Each flawless leaf of the flower
seemed sculptured in fine, smooth ivory; its perfume was the
breath of all the South, evanescent, yet powerful and
alluring, creating a strange desire to breathe its manifold
fragrance again and yet again, for it was redolent of a
thousand odours, myrrh and sandalwood, musk and
mignonette, myrtle and olive, orange and oleander, rose and
geranium, mimosa and gardenia. It is all of them, yet none of
them, but only itself, this stately grandiflora, the most fitting
emblem of the South.
The azaleas were not in full flower, but they blossomed
thickly around a miniature lake, to the very water's edge,
forming a frame of pink and yellow fire, the blue water
reflecting again the rose and gold, made a very feast of vivid
colour. A trifle to the right of this rainbow lake, the
shrubbery seemed impenetrable, but I pushed my way
though and my startled eyes rested upon a silver garden, a
circle of shimmering patterned silver lace. It seemed a
beautiful unreal vision, this most strange and exquisite fairy
ring, formed by a belt of live-oaks, one standing a little
forward as if listening to the voices of the others; the
greenness of each tree softly and modestly veiled by the
long, pearly grey, waving moss, which from time to time had
fallen and been blown about, until a soft, light, and tender
silver grey resilient carpet covered all the earth. Each tendril
of the moss, dependent from the trees, was be-pearled by a
light rain of the night before, and where the strong rays of
the sun penetrated and shone upon the pearls they were
turned to myriads of sparkling diamonds. And beyond this
enchanting zone there were flashes of colour mingling with
the subdued radiance of the silver. From the outside of the
circle, yellow and white jessamine and purple wistaria and
coral honeysuckle had climbed over the tops of the trees
and softly trailed over the grey moss, forming on the inside
an irregular fringe of flowers. And, peeping impudently
through the lower branches of the trees, there appeared the
saucy face of a pink or rose or red japonica, while here and
there the outer edge of the carpet was brightened by an
occasional patch of fallen white and scarlet petals, and
underneath the tall oak, standing inside the charmed circle, a
little ring of pointed, green leaves, with their starry blossoms
had gallantly pushed themselves up through the silver moss,
and, covered with dew-drops, they glistened like a band of
translucent opals. And I knew that if I waited until nightfall
Titania and Oberon and Puck would meet me there.
No one came to see this silver garden and I was glad that
its solitary loveliness was to be mine alone. I heard Bee
calling and I walked down the winding path with long wands
of bridal wreath, flowering almond, and trails of roses
touching my face, but when I saw a little by-path I turned
back again for I wanted this vision of luminous pearl and
tarnished silver to be
fixed forever in my memory. And I thought of one who
could have immortalised its glory, a Southern poet, young,
gifted, beautiful, who died on the threshold of life. He
believed that "Music was harmony - Harmony was Love -
and Love was God." Perhaps these many years he has
abided in a silver garden whose radiance is unfading, whose
light is eternal.
"WHY on earth do you go to Savannah?" said a very old
lady in Charleston with thick white hair majestically rolled
back from her forehead, and her wrinkled hands adorned
with quaint diamond rings, relics of her ancestors before the
Revolution. "You won't see anything there except Jews
and Yankees."
"Jews," I said, "are a wonderful race. Look at the artists
and musicians, authors and financiers they have given us,
and for me they have been among my best and most
serviceable friends. At the close of the Confederacy Mrs.
Clement Clay could not have got to Washington to plead for
the life of her husband, except for the whole-hearted
kindness of a Jew. Don't you remember what she wrote in
her memoirs:
" 'The middle of November had arrived ere, by the aid of
Mr. Robert Herstein, a kindly merchant of Huntsville - may
his tribe increase' - (and so say I) - 'who advanced me one
hundred dollars, (and material for a silk gown to be made
when I should reach my destination), I was enabled to begin
my journey to the Capital,' - A distinguished Jew at a
grand party in London was once my escort to supper and I
ate so many olives he asked me if I was a Jewess."
"With that blunt nose of yours, my dear," said my friend,
"he must have been a stupid Jew."
"And," I said, "I know a true and wonderful romance of a
Jew gifted with godlike beauty, and an Empress. Some day
I am going to tell the story and call it The Heart of a Jew."
The lady drew herself up stiffly. "You are Catholic in
your tastes," she said, "and what do you think of Yankees?"
"Josh Billings," I said, "when asked after a tour in France
what he thought of the French, answered, 'I find that
generally everywhere human nature prevails.' I have
known very charming, agreeable, and generous Yankees."
The lady said coolly, "My dear, you have been very
lucky; but you are a Southern woman no longer, you are
merely a citizen of the world."
"No," I said, "that is where you are mistaken. The one
satisfactory thing in my shorn and unsatisfactory life is that I
was born a Southern woman. I love the South and
everything in it. I could be, if I allowed myself, rigid and
narrow, but I just open my heart and won't be. It seems to
me we should all try in a measure to understand the pæan
of praise written in memory of that brilliant Irishman, John
Boyle O'Reilly:
" 'Sees he the planet and all on its girth -
India, Columbia and Europe - his eagle-sight
Sweeps at a glance all the wrong upon earth.
Races or sects were to him a profanity:
Hindoo and Negro and Kelt were as one;
Large as mankind was his splendid humanity,
Large in its record the work he has done.'
least I cannot," I added, "but my beloved father, with his
broad humanity managed it, and not only his body, but his
soul - the very essence of him, belonged to the South."
"You loved your father," said the lady.
"I think," I said, "that every human being brought into
contact with that noble, generous spirit loved him."
"I too," said the lady, "loved my father. He was the
grandest gentleman I ever knew. He came from Savannah,
but that was, of course, before the War, and it was there I
met my husband at a fancy ball. How handsome he was,
dressed in black velvet as the Duke of Buckingham. I went
as little Red Riding Hood, wore a red cloak, long yellow
curls on either side of my face, and carried a basket of
eggs. My husband had this little gold egg, which is a
vinaigrette, made in memory of our meeting and I 've worn
it on my châtelaine ever since. My father is buried at
Bonaventure. Of course," she said, relenting, "you will
enjoy Savannah as a city, but you will see that it does n't
compare with Charleston."
I got up to say good-bye and a quaint portrait of two
children attracted my attention.
"Mary Ellen and Laura Lee," said my hostess, "they
were real Charles the First children in appearance and I
always cut their hair and dressed them in that fashion. It
was the only style that became them."
Yet it is said that America is modern! America is what
you wish to find it - intensely progressive, or entirely of
the past and conservative. In its broad area any climate in
the world can be found. Any taste in the world can be
gratified.
getting back to Washington to work. Can you go to
Savannah to-morrow?"
"Yes," I said, "I can; we could have gone before only I
dread your leaving me, and starting off to New Orleans
alone."
We, however, went the next day to Savannah and
found, as in Charleston, a heavenly winter climate. It was
warm enough to go to the theatre in the evening without
wraps or hats. We spent the next morning at the Art
Gallery, where they have the nucleus of an interesting
collection of pictures. Gari Melchers, himself a most
distinguished artist, buys for the gallery, and I never saw a
better Hitchcock - a long stretch of early tulips in Holland,
a very wealth of fresh, exhilarating, variegated, vivid colour.
In the afternoon Mrs. Lester, the widow of Senator
Rufus Lester, who for years so ably represented Georgia in
the United States Senate, came in her motor to take us out
to Thunderbolt, one of the picturesque and convenient
suburbs of the city. It is on the beautiful Warsaw River and
was named from a thunderbolt, which in a terrifying storm
buried itself deep in the ground, loosening the waters which
ever afterwards gushed forth in a bountiful spring. The
sunshine was white and weak, and a thin gauzy mist of blue
and lavender lingered on the river, but even while we looked
upon it the sun shone brightly, penetrated the fair veil and
promised the splendour of an orange and purple sunset.
"That," said Mrs. Lester, pointing to a picturesque house,
"is the Savannah Yacht Club." And as we motored farther
along the fine road, "There is Bannon Lodge, famous for its
wonderful variety of fish and the excellence with which it is
cooked." When we turned
towards the river I saw palmetto and myrtle, orange and
magnolia, catalpa, sweet olive and oleander, giving out
already their thin sweet scents and promising a wealth of
fragrance a little later in the spring. We were almost in
sight of Bonaventure, known to me from a much-liked
story that my father, who was born in Georgia, used to tell.
In 1760, the property belonged to Colonel Mulryne, an
Englishman. The grounds were of surpassing loveliness,
immense live-oaks draped in moss made the air cool with
their grateful shade. There was a large brick house facing
the grassy terraces which extended to the river, and a
famous grove of magnolias leading to the road scented all
the air. Colonel Mulryne was entertaining a large company
at dinner when he was informed that the roof was ablaze
and there was no possibility of saving the house.
"Ah," he said quickly, "then we must dine on the lawn."
The table was quickly removed by a number of slaves and
the dinner finished while the house burned to the ground.
Cool and sustained courage is certainly one of the most
picturesque and admirable of human traits. I know an
ex-naval officer who had gone into business in New York.
While giving a large dinner at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, he
happened to look up at the special report of the stock
market while the guests were being marshalled in the
dining-room, and saw that through an unexpected panic
everything he owned had been swept away, leaving him
penniless. His face never changed, and no one at the
dinner was more gay or agreeable than the self-possessed
host. Next morning, one of the guests, a millionaire, hearing
of his loss and remembering the way he had borne it,
called upon him
and said, "I 've come to place forty thousand dollars at your
disposal. A man with your steady nerve is bound to win."
And he did, eventually becoming president of the Pacific
Mail Steamship Company, with a salary of fifty thousand
dollars a year.
Colonel Mulryne rebuilt his house and was living in it at
the beginning of the Revolution. He was a Whig, but his
patriotism stopped at the Declaration of Independence; and,
giving shelter to Governor Wright, he was persuaded to
accompany him when he left America and sailed in a
man-of-war for England. Mary Mulryne, his daughter, an heiress,
had married Josiah Tatnall, a Royalist, who in disgust also
went to England to live. Her boys, however, born in
America, wished to return and the eldest, Josiah, finally ran
away, and on his arrival in Georgia joined the army of
General Nathaniel Greene. Inheriting the cool, intrepid
courage of his grandfather, he served with great distinction
during the War of the Revolution and was rapidly promoted
from a lieutenancy to be Colonel of the first Georgia
regiment. In recognition of his services, part of his estates,
including his birthplace, Bonaventure, were restored to him,
and when the war was over he made a no less distinguished
statesman than soldier. He served first in the Legislature,
and was afterwards sent to Congress. On his return from
Washington he was elected Governor of Georgia, and all this
brilliant career was compassed in the short space of thirty-six
years. Had he lived, his would doubtless have been one
of America's most illustrious names. He was buried in the
grounds of Bonaventure that he loved so well, beneath a
great oak, and his son inherited the beautiful estate won
back to the family by his father's patriotism. But it was not
to remain with the Tatnalls, for nearly
a century later Bonaventure was again confiscated, when
his grandson, Commodore Tatnall, refused to remain in the
service of the United States Navy. He was the officer who
in June, 1859, had helped the British fleet in the Peiho,
giving as his reason in a despatch to the Navy Department
"that blood is thicker than water." During the war with
Mexico, he fought so gallantly that the State of Georgia had
sent him a splendid sword. He could not turn that sword
against her in her bitter hour of need. And yet he had been
a distinguished officer in the United States Navy for fifty
years when he joined the Confederacy. A whole long
lifetime.
Americans are the most patriotic people in the world, for
theirs is a sort of double-barrelled patriotism, first the love
of their State, of which they are inordinately proud, and in
no lesser degree the love of the United States. To fold a
flag and put it out of sight under which a man has served
for fifty years, must have been a moment of supreme
tragedy. The pain could be no less intense in divorcing an
old wife.
I knew an English couple who separated after fifty years
of married happiness and the quarrel, alas, arose out of a
book. The man in his old age, was deeply interested in
writing his experiences of travel by land and sea. The lady,
who had always found him an exemplary husband and, that
rare individual, - a man willing to put aside his desires to
please his wife, asked him one day to come for a drive. He
refused, saying he was busy writing his book. She told him
with cruel frankness that he would never find either
publishers or readers. When she came back from her drive
he was gone, never to return, - and thus do separations and
tragedies of life grow out of trifles light as air.
There will be no more changes for beautiful Bonaventure,
for it is now a sweet and peaceful, quiet resting-place for
the dead, and the Tatnalls, after a life's feverish struggle can
once more go home. Mrs. Lester pointed out as we passed
it a handsome house, very interesting to me with my love
and admiration of Thackeray, for it is said that he wrote the
greater part of The Virginians there while visiting Andrew
Low, the Englishman who built it.
How Thackeray was entertained in America! Everything
this bounteous land produces - fish, flesh, fowl, vegetables
and fruit - were served to him in lavish abundance by
proud but anxious hostesses. He afterwards said that at
every American table he was first served with "grilled
hostess." The poor ladies at the head of their tables, fiery
red, anxious and hot, had evidently been until the last
moment occupied in superintending some special dish!
There was an ancient fashion in South Carolina and
Georgia of serving an enormous turkey which, like a
Chinese box, contained one after the other about six other
birds, until it finished with a rice bird, small and delicate
enough for even the little bones to be edible. The juices of all
the different birds, basted in fresh butter, were supposed to
be of unique and marvellous flavour. Probably Mr.
Thackeray ate of this gastronomic complexity on more than
one occasion.
Mrs. Clay, in A Belle of the Fifties, says: "Mr.
Thackeray's lecture and poetry were a red-letter occasion,
and the simplicity of that great man of letters, as he recited
Lord Lovel and Barbara Allen, was long afterwards a
criterion by which others were judged." And in that sprightly
and human book, A Diary from Dixie, Mrs. Chesnut writes:
Letter from home carried Mr. Chesnut to Charleston to-day.
Thackeray is dead. I stumbled upon Vanity Fair myself.
I had never heard of Thackeray before. I think it was in
1850, I know I had been ill at the New York hotel, and when
left alone I slipped downstairs and into a bookstore that I
had noticed under the hotel for something to read. They
gave me the first half of Pendennis. I can recall now the
very kind of paper it was printed on, and the illustrations as
they took effect upon me, and yet when I raved over it and
was wild for the other half, there were people who said it
was slow."
Even to-day there are great Thackeray lovers in
America. When Major Judson, that brilliant officer of the
Engineer Corps, was - luckily for the American army -
ordered to the East to study the methods of fighting during
the Russo-Japanese War, he carried with him only two
books, one of them being Vanity Fair. On a roof garden in
Washington one blazing night this last memorable summer,
he went through a highly creditable examination on that
wonderful book, which is as familiar to me as Pinkie and
the Fairies.
After a day of activity and motoring in Savannah, any
normal human being would have slept, but it was my off
night and if sleep comes to me at all every other night, it is
as much as I can hope for. Fortunately I discovered
before I went to bed that my room was bare of books and
the manager at the office lent me two volumes which,
although read before, interested me until seven o'clock
next morning. One of these was Mrs. Chesnut's Diary from
Dixie, and contained this paragraph about the mother of
my Nancy who had died in New York;
CAMDEN, S. C., August 2nd, 1865.
Mary Kirkland has had experience with the Yankees.
She has been pronounced the most beautiful woman on this
side of the Atlantic and has been spoiled accordingly in all
society. When the Yankees came, Monroe, their negro
manservant, told her to stand up and hold two of her children
in her arms, with the other two pressed close against her
knees. Mammy Selina and Lizzie stood grimly on each side
of their young missis and her children, while for four mortal
hours the soldiers searched through the rooms of the house.
Sometimes Mary and her children were roughly jostled
against the wall, but Mammy and Lizzie were staunch
supporters. The Yankee soldiers taunted the negro women
for their foolishness in standing by their cruel slave-owner,
and taunted Mary for being glad of the protection of a poor
ill-used slave. Monroe, meanwhile, had one leg bandaged
and pretended to be lame, so that he might not be enlisted as
a soldier, and kept making pathetic appeals to Mary. "Don't
answer them back, Miss Mary," said he, "let 'em say what
dey want to; don't answer em back, don't gib em any
chance to say you were impudent to em."
How dramatically my poor friend Nancy began her life,
although she was then only a baby in arms.
A further extract from Mrs. Chesnut's diary relates two
incidents, one tragic the other amusing.
July 13th, 1863.
Halcott Green came to see us. Bragg is a stern
disciplinarian according to Halcott, and he did not in the least
understand citizen soldiers. In the retreat from Shiloh he
ordered that not a gun should be fired. A soldier shot a
chicken and then the soldier was shot. "For a chicken!" said
Halcott, "A Confederate soldier for a chicken!"
Mrs. McCord says that a nurse who is a beauty had
better leave her beauty with her cloak and hat at the door.
One lovely nurse said to a soldier whose wounds could not
have been dangerous "Well, my good soul, what can I do
for you?" "Kiss me," said he. Mrs. McCord was furious
at the woman for telling it, for it brought her hospital into
disrepute, and very properly.
Frederic Norton, the frankest of humourists, once said to
me: "The difference between a man and a woman is this -
a woman only wants to kiss the man she loves; a man will
kiss any woman who will let him - tall, short, fair, dark,
fat, thin, grave or gay." Some men I am sure are not quite
so universally affectionate, but "out of evil cometh good;"
the request for a kiss made to a friend of mine completely
reconciled her to the short-comings of her husband.
She had quarrelled with him and left him, and her idea
had been to take her broken heart to the stage, that kind
refuge for so many troubled souls. She had a beautiful voice
which had been trained with extraordinary care by the best
masters in France and Italy, and she carolled like a veritable
canary. Her husband was rich and she, young, pretty, and
attractive, had been at the head of a large establishment and
had had not only the protection of a home, but of a man. It
was a very different position from that of a woman alone in
the world, who generally comes to know that in spite of the
boasted chivalry of man, she will meet one at least, now and
again, ready to take advantage of her defenceless situation.
My friend went to sing for a fat, bald, old impresario. He
sat at his ease on a sofa with arms outstretched, while she
hurriedly unfastened her gloves, played the introduction to
Proch's variations, and began to sing. She knew she was in
good voice and she displayed all her vocal pyrotechnics with
great effect. Roulades, the chromatic scale, trills, all came
like smooth silver
that morning. She improvised a little, her voice mounting
higher and higher, and finished with a bird-like D sharp.
Then she turned to the quiet gentleman, expecting that he would
at least say, "Your voice has been admirably trained." But what he
did say was, "Come and kiss me!" He did n't even offer to get up
and go to her, so sure was he of his power. There he sat, old, fat, common,
vulgar, calmly asking such a favour as a matter of course. It really was an
intensely comical situation, but my friend had no sense of humour.
"Think of the humiliation," she said; "I almost die at the memory."
I sent for her husband. Luckily he had no sense of humour either. He wanted
at once to thrash the impresario for insulting his wife. "He would show him,"
etc., etc. I suggested that if his wife had been in her own home, which she would
never have left except for his vagaries, the kiss would not have been demanded,
and a sensible reconciliation followed.
I am terribly opposed to a condemnation based upon circumstantial evidence.
What a commentary upon it is this other little story, taken from A
Diary in Dixie:
April 22nd, 1861.
Arranging my photograph book. On the first page
Colonel Watts. And here goes a sketch of his life: Beaufort
Watts, bluest blood, gentleman to the tips of his fingers,
chivalry incarnate, he was placed in charge of a large
amount of money and bank bills. The money belonged
to the State and he was on the way to deposit it. When
he went to bed at night he placed the roll on a table at
his bedside, locked himself in, and slept soundly. The
next morning the money was gone. Well, all who knew him
believed him innocent. Of course he searched and they
searched, but to no purpose - the money was gone. It
was a damaging story and a cloud rested upon him. Years
after, the house in which he had taken that disastrous sleep
was pulled down. In the wall behind the wainscot was found
his pile of money. How the rats got it through so narrow a
crack was most mysterious. Suppose that house had been
burned, or the rats had knawed up the bills past recognition.
People in power understood how that proud man had suffered
those many years in silence when men looked askance at
him. The country tried to repair the work of blasting
the man's character. He was made Secretary of Legation
to Russia, and was afterwards our Consul at Santa Fé de
Bogotá. When he was too old to wander far afield they
made him Secretary to all the Governers of South Carolina in
regular succession.
Yet another extract from the diary:
Camden, S. C., Nov. 5th, 1863.
Mattie Reedy (I knew her as a handsome girl in Washington
several years ago) got tired of hearing Federals abusing
John Morgan. One day they were worse than ever in their
abuse and she grew restive. By way of putting a mark
against the name of so rude a girl the Yankee officer
said, "What is your name?" "Write, Mattie Reedy now, but
by the grace of God, I hope one day to call myself the wife
of John Morgan." She did not know Morgan, but he
eventually heard the story - a good joke it was said to be.
But he made it a point to find her out; and as she was
as pretty as she was patriotic, by the grace of God she
is now Mrs. Morgan! These timid Southern women
under the guns can be brave enough.
The Fates evidently liked Mattie Reedy. They
gave her what she wanted, and had no such
surprise in store for her as they had for an
American girl who when travelling by carriage
in Italy with her mother stopped at a wretched,
muddy, damp, dirty little village for supper.
It was late, the horses were tired,
the idea had been to spend the night there, but her
sensibilities were so offended that she urged her mother to
try the next little township, which she agreed unwillingly
enough to do. In Rome, the following winter, the girl met an
Italian who lived in a tumble-down villa in that same
abhorred village. She married him. It was a love match and
they were poor, so she went back to the shabby villa and
lived in the impossible hamlet without leaving it for seven
years.
How Fate disciplines us with mocking laughter and quaint
surprises. "I cannot bear it," "I would die with that," and
straightway, both inflictions are sent to us. She had a rod in
pickle for Frances Anne Kemble when her marriage with
Pierce Butler was ordained. He was a handsome, not too
brilliant American, whose wealth all came from his
plantations in Georgia. There was nothing of the assimilative
blood of her French grandfather in this admirable lady. She
was a straightforward, respectable British matron, though
she lived in both Pennsylvania and Georgia; and in spite of
the appreciation and fortune she received when she gave
her Shakespearean readings throughout the country, she
disliked America cordially, and had little good to say of it.
When she wielded that conscientious and prolific pen of
hers, it has always the heavy touch of the tragedian, and
never by any chance the lighter one of the comedian.
I was fond of a certain little old-fashioned poem which
she gives in the records of her girlhood, a little song called
the Spirit of Morn.
Now on their couch of rest
Mortals are sleeping
While in dark, dewy vest,
Flowerets are weeping.
Ere the last star of night
Fades in the fountain,
My finger of rosy light
Touches the mountain.
Far on his filmy wing
Twilight is wending,
Shadows encompassing
Terrors attending:
While my foot's fiery print,
Up my path showing,
Gleams with celestial tint,
Brilliantly glowing.
Now from my pinions fair
Freshness is streaming,
And from my yellow hair
Glories are gleaming.
Nature with pure delight
Hails my returning,
And Sol, from his chamber bright,
Crowns the young morning.
And there was a time when she seemed to me the
sweetest poet in the world. It was in my extreme youth at
(to be exactly accurate) fifteen and a half, after my parting
from a young artillery lieutenant, a brand new graduate of
West Point, all brightest of brass buttons, bluest of eyes
and untiringest of dancers. When my first love letter from
him followed me to Texas he quoted her poem of
Absence:
What shall I do with all the days and hours
That must be counted ere I see thy face?
How shall I charm the interval that lowers
Between this time and that sweet hour of grace?
Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,
Weary with longing? - shall I flee away
Into past days, and with some fond pretence
Cheat myself to forget the present day?
Oh! how, or by what means, may I contrive
To bring the hour that brings thee back more near?
How may I teach my drooping hope to live
Until that blessed time, and thou art here?
I will tell thee; for thy sake, I will lay hold
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee
In worthy deeds, each moment that is told
While thou, belovèd one! art far from me.
I will this dreary blank of absence make
A noble task-time, and will therein strive
To follow excellence, and to o'ertake
More good than I have won, since yet I live.
So may this doomèd time build up in me
A thousand graces which shall thus be thine;
So may my love and longing hallowed be,
And thy dear thought an influence divine.
And he ended the letter by imploring me to return to
Washington and end as soon as possible the "doomèd time"
of our separation. But long before this dreary blank of
absence was over there was a curly-haired officer of the
Engineers, and a fair Cavalryman looming in the horizon,
also the Captain of Engineers had the advantage of writing
original and very eulogistic poetry, so my taste for Frances
Anne as a poet soon suffered an eclipse.
No one in Savannah remembered that Frances
Kemble had lived both at St. Simeon's and in Butler's
Island. Yet not only was her home there, but she had
really appreciated the beauties of the country.
In 1838 she wrote:
Last Thursday evening we left out hotel at Charleston for
the steamboat which was to carry us to Savannah. About
the middle of the day we landed at the Island of Edisto
which is famous for producing the finest cotton in America,
therefore I suppose in the world. On Sunday morning the
day broke most brilliantly over these Southern waters and
as the sun rose the atmosphere became clear and warm as
in the early Northern summer. We now approached
Butler's Island and on landing from the boat, we were
seized, pulled, pushed, carried, dragged and all but lifted in
the air by the clamour of the black multitude (the slaves).
They seized our clothes, kissed them, then our hands, and
almost wrung them off. "Howdy Missy!" "God bless
Missy!" "Hallelujah! Missy 's come!" they cried . . .
And later she wrote from St. Simeon's:
March, 1839.
I wish, dear Emily, I could for an instant cause a vision to
rise before you of the perfect paradise of evergreens
through which I have been opening paths on our estate in
an island called St. Simeon's, lying half in the sea and half
in the Altamaha. Such noble growth of dark-leaved, wide
spreading oaks; such exquisite natural shrubberies of
magnolia, wild myrtle and bay, all glittering evergreens of
various tints, bound together by trailing garlands of wild
jessamine, whose yellow bells like tiny golden cups, exhale
a perfume like that of the heliotrope and fill the air with
sweetness, and cover the woods with perfect curtains of
bloom; while underneath all this spread the spears and fans
of the dwarf palmetto, and innumerable tufts of a little
shrub whose delicate leaves are pale green underneath and
a polished dark brown above, while close to the earth clings
a perfect carpet of thick growing green, almost like moss,
bearing clusters of little white blossoms like enamelled stars;
I think it is a species of Euphrasia.
At least something of the charm of my dear Southern
land had penetrated her Northern spirit.
In the morning when Bee came in she found me with
Mrs. Chesnut's book still in my hand.
"Is it possible," she asked, "that you have been reading all
night?"
I told her it was, but nevertheless I felt fairly fresh, quite
well enough to go for a sight-seeing walk after breakfast.
Savannah has any number of excellent shops. It was a
perfectly beautiful morning and we stopped to look at the
pretty spring fashions in the windows. Walking along Liberty
Street I had the impression of pearls in the air, but it was
only a negro shoe-black smiling a broad smile and disclosing
two perfect rows of milk-white teeth. "Mek yo' shoes lak
black diamonds." And as my shoes had never been "lak
black diamonds" I stopped. He brushed, and he blew long
breaths upon them, and he smiled and blew again, and
brushed and blew, lifted each foot, cleaned the soles, and
when he had finished they certainly did resplendently shine. I
asked his charge. "Twenty-five cents," he said. "Twenty-five cents!
Is n't that very dear?" I asked. "Not," he said,
"when I breffs 'em. Eff I jes blacks 'em it 's only fifteen
cents, but eff I breffs 'em it 's twenty-five." Then he smiled
his superb, appealing smile, and I willingly gave him his
quarter.
"I suppose," I said to Bee, "breathing on them is an extra
effort. He has a great deal of breath; they feel quite damp."
We talked about taking the trolley to the beautiful old
plantation of "The Hermitage," where the long row of slave
quarters are still to be seen. But Bee said that we really
ought to go down first to the wharf and see the cotton.
"Don't forget," she said, "that Savannah is the largest cotton
port on the Atlantic and the third largest lumber port in the
world."
The wharf proved a most busy and intensely interesting
place, and Savannah will find it an immense advantage to
be the nearest port to the Panama Canal, when that work
of genius is completed.
The morning passed all too quickly and in the afternoon
Judge Speer, that courtly and accomplished gentleman,
came with his wife to call upon us. He brought me a book
of Sketches of Prominent Men of America to read in
the train and in the evening Bee and I separated.
She went back to Washington and her Art School, and I
alas, started alone for New Orleans.
"Take out yo' mule, boys,
Hang up yo' gear;
Daytime is gone, boys,
Night-time is here."
ALTHOUGH fine gentlemen in Virginia refused as late as
1820 to breed the mule, he has become since that date
almost as much of an institution in the South as the palm
leaf fan.
After the war, in 1865, a cousin of mine who had gallantly
served his turn in the Confederate army returned to his
home in Georgia. He had left a pretty little white house of
two storeys, with balconies stretching across the front,
overgrown with flowering vines. At the rear there was a
neat stable, a smoke-house, a wash-house by the
never-failing old spring,
a big barn which held enough hay to feed
the cattle for the winter, and all the usual comfortable
outhouses of a Southern plantation. His place lay directly in
the path of Sherman's march to the sea. He returned in his
ragged grey clothes, with a tarnished star on his collar, and
the bridle of a big gaunt mule over his arm, to find even the
land blackened by fire. The only evidence of former
habitation was a handful of salt under one of the charred
logs of the smoke-house.
A few negroes agreed to work on the chance of a cotton
crop. He then cut down from the primeval forest near by
enough logs to make a rude cabin, and to this home he
brought his wife and three little children to begin life over
again. Their sole and only dependence was Satan, a mule
who in the first place had inherited from his mother a
defiant, reckless, suspicious mind, and, in the second, had
begun life under the management of a rather cruel negro.
Consequently, his disposition was early made sour,
resentful, and pessimistic.
Almost in his colthood the war came on, and he changed
the negro for another master and the strenuous life of a
hard-worked Union mule. His indifference to calamity
caused him always to place himself in the front of the
battle, and he was very soon shot in one of his hind legs.
With his excellent constitution, he rapidly recovered, and
was later captured by the Confederate artillery. With them
he served until the end of the war, his disposition getting
daily more cranky, and his views of life more saturnine.
Every time he hauled a heavy gun it always gave his lame
leg a recurrent pain. He had no faith in the goodness of
man, either white or black. He had no affection for any
human being and was filled with bitterness and cunning. If
a horse or a mule stood too near him he invariably left the
mark of either his teeth or his hoofs somewhere about the
unfortunate animal, and though of enormous size, he had
the agility of a cat in his movements.
More than one negro had to be taken to the hospital with
literally a terrible sinking of the stomach after one of the
mule's hind feet had been planted there violently and
unexpectedly. His feet, indeed, as he had no hands, were
against every man, and he felt that every man was against
him. Anything more resentful, more hopeless or full of
scorn and wickedness than Satan
could not be found in the world. Even his splendid strength
and robust health never lifted the black clouds that
environed his sad mule estate. He rarely lifted his voice, but
when he did his "heehaw" was full of satanic rage.
This was the capital that my cousin brought home from
the war.
One of the negroes, whose business it was to load the
waggon with logs for Satan to haul from the woods to the
former site of the house, said, "Dat mule suttenly am got de
right name. Dere could n't a been one found better suited
to him, an' he look like it too. Dere ain't no time when he
can't show de white ob his eye, an' he jes' curl up his lip at
you and frof at de mouf if you speak to him, like his whole
soul wuz full ob hate. He suttenly is a scornful mule.
Sometimes he eben scorns de fodder, but I will say he can
do 'bout three times de work of an' ordinary mule, an' dere 's
one thing to be said 'bout him, he will work. It seem like to
me he got some secret sorrow, an' he des tries to fergit it by
his job, 'cause if he took it into his head not to work, it would
be des like gettin' one of dese here ellifants to move."
And early and late Satan and the Major were up and
stirring - three o'clock in the morning often found them
ploughing. "The Lord tempers the wind to the shorn
lamb" - sometimes. There certainly never was such a crop
as those first years of cotton and corn. Every acre yielded
two bales, and the silky gold of the myriads of corn tassels
promised a rich harvest for the autumn.
A little smoke-house had been built, and the Major had
bought several pigs that were being fattened for the winter's
hams and bacon. They were allowed to
run at large, and had made a deep crescent-shaped hole
under the logs at the back of the house. One joyous day
for Satan the Major was obliged to go to Atlanta and he
was given a holiday. Such a thing had not happened to
him since he ran by the side of his mammy, and he
became quite active and gay. He ran round the fields
kicking his heels in the air, and finally lay down to take a
good wallow, but unfortunately he stuck his great head in
the hollow place under the smoke-house and had n't
enough horse sense, being a mule, to get it out again.
There he lay screaming and kicking and floundering about,
with his legs flying round like the arms of a windmill. No
negro dared to go near those horrible heels that were
ready to destroy anything within range.
Jenny Lilly, the Major's wife, attracted by the noise,
came out of the house and her imagination at once
projected the consequences of this scene. It meant future
desolation - the mule would die, for there was no way of
extricating him, the splendid cotton crop and all those
plumes of corn tassels would mean nothing. How could
they get the bales of cotton to Atlanta? How were the
bushels of corn to be hauled to the railroad? And success
seemed so near - even the new frame house was just in
sight. She covered her face with her hands and cried like
a child. What could be done?
Then an idea occurred to her. She went into the
smoke-house and, regardless of the curling lips and wild
eyes of the mule, she seized his head and with superhuman
strength pushed it until it just escaped the logs. Satan was
free! Her arms were covered with blood and she was
almost in a fainting condition. As for Satan, one of the
negroes wanted to shoot him at once
and put him out of his agony. The whole side of his long
head was torn and bleeding; the bare flesh could be seen;
one eye, apparently, was blind, and there he stood, a horribly
skinned, maimed, and dangerous creature.
Jenny's greatest attraction was her soft, pretty, caressing
voice. She fearlessly went quite near the poor suffering
creature, and began to condole with him, "Oh honey," she
said, "oh honey, don't die and ruin us." It was the first time in
his life he had heard that word and it sounded very sweet to
his ears. " Honey," how different from "damned beast." But
what was to be done? One negro had already gone to the
house and loaded a pistol. "Miss Jinny," he said, "dere ain't
no use in de worl' tryin' to do nothin' wid dat mule, he des
boun' to die. De wedder is so hot, his head will mortify in a
day. Dere ain't no more use in tryin' to sabe him, den dere
would be, to 'spect a cool stream ob water to come out ob
dis here dry rock."
But a woman is usually dauntless and resourceful in the
interest of the man she loves. Miss Jinny pictured the Major
coming home in his old grey soldier clothes - he still wore
his uniform minus the star and epaulets - and the death of
Satan would be a too cruel and horrible blow to him. Who
would break the news? And something had touched Satan;
some chord in his memory had been awakened; perhaps as
a colt a little darkey had given him a bit of bread and honey.
Now, with his great head sore and bleeding he was standing
quite still, tortured but evidently thinking.
Miss Jinny went fearlessly up to him, took him by the
mane, and led him to the little log house. There was a long
window opening into the kitchen. She placed him near it and
when she went in she took a pone
of corn bread, recklessly covered it with butter, and held it
out to Satan. He put his huge head through the window, and
bit by bit she fed him. Then she gave him a drink of cold
water. By this time the flies had begun to settle on the bare
flesh. Miss Jinny then filled a bucket with fresh water and
sponged the wound gently, oh so gently, scraped an old linen
sheet into a square of lint, put it all over the raw flesh, made
an enormous linseed poultice and laid it comfortingly over
the lint. Strange to say, Satan stood perfectly still while the
poultice, quite a yard long and three quarters of a yard wide,
was gently but firmly bound around his big head.
For two weeks or more Miss Jinny was up day and night,
stirring linseed and poulticing that great, black, stubborn
head. Never during that time did he attempt to bite her, nor
was he in any way vicious. At the end of the fortnight he
gave the first instance of his reformation; he put his black
nose on her hand and kept it there for quite a minute. This
was in appreciation of a beautiful sort of mule baby talk, that
had been evolved for his condition. He could not at first
believe that any human being had such a sweet voice and
such a sweet nature, and so much confidence in mules.
When he heard, "Hold still honey, poor good honey, Miss
Jinny would n't hurt her old mule for all the world," he felt
his life-long cynicism flowing away like honey. At last the
climax was reached when the nine months old baby was
lifted up, and put his soft arms around Satan's neck, bubbled,
cooed, kissed the white star on his forehead, and laughed
and tried to poke his finger in Satan's eye. There was only
one visible, for the poultices were still over the other.
had softened, his faith in human nature was awakened, his
love of mankind was fast being developed. At any rate there
was one woman, slim and tall, with a sweet anxious face,
gentian-blue eyes and hands never idle, who worked from
daylight until dark, for whom Satan could really have died.
When his convalescence was over and he began to work
again and was put back into the plough, he kept one weather
eye on that magic window, outside of which he had stood
for so many hot and feverish days, and where he had found
gentle hands, and heard for the first time in his life words of
sympathy and tender love.
The moment the plough stopped he turned, gently trotted
to the kitchen, put his huge head in the window, and
patiently waited for his Miss Jinny. Every night he had his
little pone of corn bread and butter or an autumn apple or
some little delicacy. He even pretended to have a taste for
bananas, notwithstanding he considered them a most
effeminate fruit, without the least flavour, but then Miss
Jinny and the children ate them, that was enough. Whatever
they offered him, like Adam with the apple, "he did eat."
The next year when the second crop came, there was
enough money to buy a basket phaeton. Satan actually
allowed Miss Jinny to harness him to it, although he found it
a most trivial affair, and drive to the nearest little town,
about three miles distant and back again.
After his recovery he had a great deal more white hair
than the star on his forehead, as it had grown in patches of
black and white all over his long head. With his gay harness
and jingling bells, everyone stopped to look at him, but Miss
Jinny did n't mind, for she said that after the Major and her
children,
Satan was really first in her affections. She petted him,
called him "Satan-honey," "Satan-angel," and to the day of
his death he was allowed to stand with his head in the
kitchen, while he ate his evening meal.
His heart had been unearthed, his affections had been
developed, and this had made him the gracious and tolerant
mule that he had become. He was even amiable towards
the darkies. The ploughman said, "I tell you what it is, Miss
Jinny's bin dat mule's salvation. He 's bin on de mourners'
bench shoutin' an' gone an' got religion. 'Tain't nothin' else
could a done it. Whenever he see her he do jes' like de
glory ob God done shine on him. Maybe mules is got souls;
I tell you I b'lieve dis one is, he 's gone sho' nuff from de
sinner to de saint. Why you can even rely on him, an' dat
ain't natchul for no mule. Eve'y day I watches him, spectin'
a outbreak, but it ain't come yit. Maybe it never will. An' his
eye is des as sof' as a dove."
When they could afford a cook and the negro woman
first came, Satan showed some of the old spirit and gave
the tip of her ear one small nip. But perhaps it was just as
well, as she was the greatest "borrower" in the
neighbourhood, and the Major and Miss Jinny, at that time
could not afford to have little sacks of coffee, and sugar
and flour and jugs of molasses carried away. Satan had
sound instincts after all; he brayed triumphantly and kicked
up his legs with joy when the cook left, and Miss Jinny
again handed him his corn bread.
He lived to be very old, his teeth were all worn away,
and he could no longer chew. Miss Jinny with her own
hands made him delicious corn mashes; the children wove
daisy chains for his neck, and basking in consideration and
love, he forgot all the sorrows of his youth
in the happiness of his old age (oh, thrice happy mule)! and
met a gentle death with calmness and fortitude. The last
words he heard were Miss Jinny's blessed ones of long ago,
"Oh, honey, don't die." And he would have lived for her if he
could, but he was old and weak; his time had come. The
children, big boys now, built a paling fence round his grave
and cut on a little block of limestone: "Here lies Satan, Miss
Jinny's old Angel Mule. He combined all the virtues of a
mule and a horse. His family loved him. August 1875." And
although he was only a black devil of an outcast mule, Love
never worked a greater miracle than when he gave Satan a
gentle trusting heart.
Last summer a group of gentlemen went hunting in Maine.
One night around the camp-fire a prize was offered to the
man who could tell the best animal story. That delightful
lover of all animal nature, Thompson Seton, was to be the
umpire, and the prize was a set of his delightful books. Dr.
Venning of West Virginia won it with the following story:
A retired gentleman jockey [he said], living near
Charleston, a mighty good fellow of an inventive turn of
mind, had been lucky in his dealings with a man in Saratoga
who had won several races with Virginia bred horses. One
day going through a field he noticed a negro ploughing with
a young, agile, good looking, intelligent black mule which,
when unhitched from the plough, instead of going home by
the road with the other mules, leaped a six foot fence with a
"hee" and with an exultant "haw" alighted on the other side,
nimbly trotted over the field, with a regular professional gait,
took another fence, and was eating his oats, almost before
the other mules had started by the regular road. The
gentleman jockey turned to the ploughman and said, "Don't
put that mule in the plough again; I see glory
and fame awaiting him in the North." He then sent for a
veterinary surgeon, renowned for the skill with which he
used the knife, and told him to fashion the mule's ears and
tail according to the pattern of a thoroughbred horse. This
was done. The cuts healed quickly, he was clipped and
curried until he looked like a piece of shining satin, and
although his head was somewhat long and his nose rather
flat, this was not noticed when he was in rapid motion,
leaping into the air like a deer, and taking any fence that
came.
When his training was finished the man from New York
was invited to come down and inspect the wonderful
jumper. He came, and the mule, untrue to the traditions of
his race, behaved not with contrariness, but quite as a
thoroughbred steeplechaser. He ran like a steam engine
round the track, and a five-barred hurdle seemed to him a
positive joy. The Northern sportsman, tremendously
surprised said, "He 's fast, but there 's something queer
about him. His head looks to me very bony; and is n't one
ear a trifle longer than the other?" The Virginia jockey said,
"My dear fellow, you 're not running his head, it 's his legs
you are after. Did you ever see anything like him?" "No,"
said the man, "I never did." So he agreed to pay ten
thousand dollars for the wonderful steeplechase horse, and
he was sent on a special train to Saratoga.
The day of the races came, and he won everything.
When the horses were put in line he stood at the head,
waiting for the blue ribbon to be placed on his proudly
arched neck, victory in his eye and pride written all over
him, when suddenly he seemed to collapse, his head
dropped down with a humbleness of which even the least
respecting cab horse would not be guilty, his big upper lip
curved back, showing all of his mule teeth, and the air was
filled with an agonised bray. "Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw."
The blue ribbon in the judge's hand waved as if a
Texas norther had struck it. The dread secret was out, and
the horse was submerged in the mule.
I don't know why it is that the most ruffianly of all the
mules in the world seem to come from Georgia. The
inimitable history of this one is described over the telephone.
"Hello - yassah - hello - dis Marse Henry?"
"Yassah - dis Bob - yassah - Maud, dat ar mule, she
dun bawk! Not far - 'bout two blocks outen de stable -
Yassah."
"Oh, we dun dun dat, Marse Henry. Yassah - we dun
twis' her tail."
"Yassah - little ole' trav'lun man f'um Boston - he twis'
her tail. Yassah, he 's in de hospittle - dey dun kerried him
ober dare."
"Yassah - he 's hurt mighty bad, Marse Henry, but dey'll
take keer ob him in de hospittle."
"Yassah, Marse Henry, we dun dat too, we tied up her
fore foot - yassah."
"Nawsuh - nawsuh - hit did n't wuck - she had two
hind foots lef'."
"Yassah - yassah - nice man whut preaches - yassah
he said no mule could do it wid one foot tied up."
"Yassah - yassah, but she dun dun it, yassah - biffed
him in de stumick - de p'leece pourin' water on his head
now - yassah."
"Yassah - yassah - we dun dat too - tied a horse hair
'roun her year."
"Yassah, yassah - a big fat man, yassah - jes' passin'
by - don't know his entitlement - yassah."
"Nawsuh - nawsuh - not a bery big piece - jes' bit a
little chunk outen his jowl - it 's bleedin' right smart but he
ain't hurt much."
"Yassah - yassah - dey are sewin' up his jaw - right
now - he 's all right."
"Yassah - yassah - we dun built a fire under her
too, yassah."
"Burn
part ob de cart? yassah."
"Yassah - yassah - dun burn right smart ob de cart.
Dat 's exactly what I 'se been tryin' to tell you, Marse
Henry - dun burn de whole cart all up, but I did n't want
to shock you, an' I wuz jes' gwine to ax you when you
gwine send a nurr' cart down heah sah, yassah."
List, e'en now a wild bird sings,
And the roses seem to hear,
Every note that thrills my ear,
Rising to the heavens clear,
And my soul soars on its wings.
Father RYAN.
IN Florida, that land of flowers and of birds, it is said the
mocking-birds sing more sweetly than anywhere else in all
the world.
On a mellow summer afternoon, when even the air,
hushed to stillness, seemed waiting, there lay dying in a long,
low, white cottage covered with trumpet flowers and
honeysuckle, a little child. Her father and mother, bowed
with grief, were kneeling by the bedside and her negro
Mammy stood over her, with all her strength turned to pain,
listlessly moving a palm leaf fan. Outside the window grew
a splendid live-oak, the noble tree that inspired Sidney
Lanier's exquisite appeal:
Teach me the terms of silence, preach me
The passion of patience,
Lift me, impeach me,
And there, oh there!
As ye hang with your myriad palms upturned in the air,
pray me a myriad prayer.
From its branches came the silver note of a mocking-bird.
He sang with crystalline sweetness, as if to pour out
his pure heart in one last gush of melody. It was thrillingly,
appealingly tender, then piercingly triumphant, and finally
victoriously exultant.
In the midst of his silent grief the father could not endure
those tuneful, iridescent dew-drops of sound; he arose from
his knees and went out into the garden to frighten the bird
away. As he stood under the tree the notes mounted higher
and still higher, up! up! up! until they floated away into blue
ether and then seemed to break all together into one
exultant chord of soul-stirring harmony. There was a
moment of profound silence, then the bird dropped dead at
his feet. He picked it up and went into the house to find the
negro Mammy closing the blue eyes of his little girl, and he
placed the dead bird in the little dead hand. Was it, he
wondered, the song of an angel or the song of a bird?
One bitter cold winter day, long ago in New York, an
accumulation of homesickness flooded my soul, and I
determined to drop my work and hear the mocking-bird sing
once more. Going to Texas by train was too expensive for
me in those days, so I went by boat, and was luckily
accompanied by my friend Phoebe, a most agreeable
companion, and by far the wittiest woman I have ever
known, for her wit was innocent, gay, impersonal,
infectious, and never hurt a human being in the world.
We left New York in a driving snowstorm, and in two
days we were sailing into perpetual sunshine with the
Atlantic as calm as a lake. The only fellow-passenger that I
recollect was a girl baby, a very beautiful child about a year
old, with little soft, gold rings of hair all over her head, dark
eyes with black fringes, a dimple in either cheek and in her
chin, and the gayest,
happiest little laugh I have ever heard. - "There are only
three things real on all the earth, Birth, Mother love and a
little child's Mirth." - She was travelling alone with her
nurse, a worried-looking, but very kind negro mammy who
told us the child's history.
Her father, a young clergyman, had died of consumption
leaving a family of five children. It was not long before the
mother developed the same disease. Before her death she
wished to see all her little flock cared for, and so, one by
one, she had given them away to people who wished to
adopt them, and a lady from Key West was going to take
the last one, the baby. What sorrow it must have been to the
Spartan mother to give up that dimpled darling before the
end came!
When we arrived at Key West, although in December, it
was the most heavenly summer day, and in the dusk of the
evening we saw myriads of roses lifting their pink-and-white
and scarlet buds and blossoms in the soft, dewy air. The
first three people to board the boat were the baby's new
family. First came a lady, dark, tall, and vigorous, with quick,
capable movements, dressed in a black tailor-made gown.
She wore a little black hat on her abundant hair, and carried
a charming bouquet of Cloth of Gold roses in her hand.
Walking quickly to the nurse she said, "Is this my baby, my
little Margaret?"
She took the child in her arms with a most beautiful,
close maternal embrace and, turning, called to her husband,
"Harry, come quickly, our daughter has arrived!" A tall
gentleman, with an indulgent smile, stepped across the deck
followed by three sturdy, dark rather shy little boys. "Hurry
up, boys," said the lady, "here is your little sister, come and
kiss her." And all the boys stood in a row while the little,
golden-haired
child cooed, made fluttering noises, and held out her
arms towards the eldest, who carried her off the boat, the
mother and father, the two younger boys, and the nurse,
following. It was such a pretty, attractive picture,
particularly after New York, where children are not
convenient and often are not wanted even by their own
parents.
And, oh, what a night of nights we spent at Key West!
The boat cast anchor on account of our heavy cargo, and
we did not leave until the next morning at nine o'clock.
Phoebe and I - dear, witty Phoebe, who is now waiting for
me on the other side - went up on deck to sit for an hour
or two, but the glory of the night was so great, so
stupendous, so wonderful that we never went below until
seven o'clock next morning. There was a full moon of such
penetrating radiance that we could see the clear sapphire
colour of the sky, with occasional clouds of silver floating
across it, and the sea was like an enormous looking-glass,
reflecting all the glories of the world. Phoebe said, "I
understand now
" 'Peace, deep as the sleeping sea,
When the Stars their myriads glass
In its blue immobility.' "
The sapphire chalice of the heavens, studded with
glittering stars, and the silver clouds were all reflected in its
smooth glittering surface, and there were many flying fish
of purple, of azure and silver, leaping out of the still water,
like amphibious butterflies, leaving a shower of diamonds in
their wake. As the morning dawned, the wind came up out
of the sea and rippled a thousand little foam-crested waves
into being, and on each one rode a tiny, opalescent craft in
full sail, of
pink and gold, and mauve and orange, for a shoal of flying
fish were floating out to deep water for their morning swim.
There was a glow of rose in the East, at first of the palest
pink then gradually deepening and, inch by inch, the sun
began to push his luminous head up into this rainbow world
of marvellous colour. But the moon, in her sea of blue, shone
bravely on, till at last there was a silver moon in a sapphire
sky in the West, and a golden sun in a roseate sky in the
East. Between the sunshine and the moonshine there was a
great dividing bridge of thousands of little clouds, making an
immense path of translucent opalescent enamel, like the
scales of a giant silver fish, some of them pink, and some of
them silver, and some of them gold. And the blue, blue
water was so clear we could look down into its depths and
see, shining on the golden sand, a lost bit of silver. Far away
to the South, the flying-fish were disappearing like fairy
shallops of mother-of-pearl. To the right lay Key West,
embowered in flowers, a little white, smokeless town (for
there were no chimneys, save those of the kitchens). A
bright wind came up and freshened all the world, and we
went downstairs permeated and intoxicated with the vivid
beauty of that scene.
It was something of which painters have dreamed. It was
Turner's visions quickened into air, and light, and harmony.
All that he ever imagined or painted of subtle, pellucid,
penetrating, soul-satisfying, transparent colour was in this
marvellous picture of Key West.
My mother and grandfather always loved Florida, and my
mother talked of it continually, but I am sure neither one of
them ever saw anything so beautiful as
my unforgotten night and morning there. And it is Florida
that has produced the American song best known to all the
world.
A little time ago six Southern people were dining in a
pretty house in London, and one of them announced that he
had crossed the Suwanee River between Texas and
Louisiana. The other four jeered at the assertion, but at the
same time were absolutely vague as to the geography of
this river. In spite of the world-wide reputation of the song
which makes so pathetic an appeal to many great singers
and has become to one famous vocalist her favourite
encore, there was but one person at the table who knew the
situation of the Suwanee River, which has its source in
southern Georgia and flows south through Florida into the
Gulf of Mexico, and her knowledge came not from a map
but from an unforgotten story.
A friend of mine, [she said], a well-known fisherman
from the North, went to Florida for Tarpon fishing. He said
that one night the boat was floating down a small, narrow
stream with giant trees meeting overhead so closely that
they completely shut away even the starlight. Suddenly the
boat turned and they entered a broad, shining river. The
moon had just risen, that radiant Southern moon that
illumines the darkest shadows, and turns everything to
purest silver. There were primeval trees on each side of the
bank which threw black shadows on the water, and the
grey moss was of such luxuriant length that some of it
dipped into the silvery ripples. It was a scene of marvellous
beauty, while a hundred different perfumes - honeysuckle,
night-blooming jessamine, wild roses, rain lilies, oleander,
magnolias, pink mimosa and myriads of orange blossoms
- were wafted from the shore.
The gentleman drew a long breath and rejoiced that he
was alive, and alive in that particular spot. The boatman,
a Florida cracker, could neither read nor write; he knew
nothing of the world nor in the world, but that he was a
fisherman. My friend turned and asked him what river it
was.
"This," he answered, "is the Suwanee River."
"What!" said my friend, "the Suwanee River, the river that
is beloved of all the world and has been the inspiration of an
unforgotten song?"
"I ain't never heard of no song, but sho' 'nuff it 's the
Suwanee River."
My friend said, "You have never heard the song with
which Christine Nilsson, the greatest singer in the world,
has brought tears to the eyes of thousands of people? You
never heard, ' 'Way Down Upon The Suwanee River?' "
"No, I ain't never heard it, and I ain't never heard of it,"
said the man.
"Well," said my friend, "you are not to go to your grave,
my good man, without hearing it. I have never sung before
in my life, but I am going to sing it to you now."
And he raised his voice and sang,
" 'Way down upon de S'wanee ribber,
Far, far away,
Dar's whar my heart is turnin' ebber,
Dar's whar de old folks stay.
All up and down de whole creation,
Sadly I roam;
Still longing for de old plantation,
And for de old folks at home."
"Well," said the man, with indifference. "I ain't never
heard the song before and I don't care if I never hear it agin."
I suggested to my friend that perhaps it was the way he
sang it, but he said: "No, I was inspired and am sure I sang
it quite beautifully; it is simply that a river, like a man, is not
a prophet in his own country."
Strange to say, one of my most vivid memories of this
haunting song is connected with Venice. Renée, a beautiful
young friend, and I were floating along in a gondola on the
Grand Canal. It was the middle of October, the air was
delightfully fresh and crisp, and to add to our pleasure there
was a harvest moon. Presently we turned, leaving the other
boats behind, and lazily faced the Lido, when immediately in
front of us, gliding silently along, we noticed a gondola
which suggested the introduction to an interesting romance.
The boat was spick and span and beautiful. The gondolier,
tall, handsome, with a red cap on his head, a silken sash
around his waist and most graceful in all his movements,
was leisurely handling the oar. A tall, lonely lady, partly sat
and partly reclined on the black cushions. She was dressed
all in black and enveloped in splendid furs from her neck to
her feet. An enormous black hat, with drooping black
feathers shaded her face so that we could only see a little
of her white neck. A subtle perfume was wafted towards
us, there was something magnetic and mysterious in her
appearance, and I said to Renée, "She is our first chapter in
a thrilling novel." Her gondola was a little in advance of
ours, and we told our boatman to follow it. For some
moments the two gondolas floated along in perfect silence,
there was no one else in sight, and we were getting nearer
the Lido. Suddenly the lady in the furs began to sing, Way
Down Upon the Suwanee River, with such a voice, such
feeling, such sweet tenderness and longing, that the tears
rushed to my eyes and Renée seized me by the wrist and
exclaimed, "Why, it's Calvé."
When she finished the Suwanee River her voice
became full of supplication and tenderness in Victor
Hugo's Sérénade.
"Quand tu ris sur ta bouche l'amour s'épanouit, Et soudain le farouche soupçon s'évanouit. Ah! le rire fidèle prouve un coeur sans détour. Ah, riez, riez, ma belle, riez, riez, toujours! Riez, riez, ma belle, riez toujours, riez."
Then she flashed out her great song, the Habanara in
Carmen, and Dixie followed with an adorable accent and
all the fire of the South. How my heart thrilled at her
intensity as she sang,
"I wish I was in a land of cotton
Cinnamon seed and sandy bottom,
Look away, look away, look away, down South in Dixie."
By this time we had arrived at the Lido, and although it
was after ten o'clock and dark, the inhabitants recognised
Calvé's wonderful voice. Windows were thrown open, and
calls of "Calvé!" "Bravo!"
"Calvé!" "Calvé!" "Bravissimo!"
came towards us with spontaneous
applause. As the boats turned round and faced Venice,
she turned her noble head and said, "Madame, quand je
suis triste, je chante toujours."
And I answered, "Madame, your sorrow is our joy."
Renée and I were full of wonder and talk until we
arrived at our hotel, when it was our pleasure to find that
Madame Calvé had preceded us and was occupying a
suite of apartments on our floor. My charming friend in
Paris, Madame Runkle, a delightful musician herself, had
asked me once or twice to meet Madame Calvé, but it had
been impossible, and when I introduced myself as
Madame Runkle's friend, she said, "But I felt when you
passed me in the boat, that it contained a sympathetic soul,
that is why I spoke to you. Now we must be together
every moment while we are in Venice." And we were.
Apparently she was there to make a pilgrimage of churches.
She said she had a dear memory connected with that adorable
city at the sea. At the moment she was very sad, so our being
together meant that she and I and handsome Renée said our
prayers, and wept together in every church in Venice. She wept
for the sorrows of the present, I for the sorrows of the past,
and dear, young Renée for the sorrows of the future,
At night we went to the Lido and she gave us heavenly concerts
all along the way, but the Suwanee River,
and Dixie have
never been sung with such beauty, such pathos, such hopeless
longing or such fiery defiance as by this great artist.
THE "Crescent City" is no meaningless name, for the
Mississippi in its constant movement has shaped the banks
where New Orleans lies into a half-moon, and this Spanish,
French, Creole city preserves to a very great extent its
romantic atmosphere. Its distinctive charm and character
remain French. There is no slightest reminder of the Pilgrim
Fathers in its warmth and colour, but a suggestion of the
mail-clad Spaniard who came in quest of glory, and the
sanguine Frenchman, believing in visions of the seven fabled
Cities of Gold. With the Spanish knights came dark-eyed
beauties with fan and mantilla, and from France ladies with
powdered hair, high-heeled shoes, music, song, and dance.
The English Cavalier came later, followed by the Colonial
squire with his comfortable fortune and his slaves. But
already, the gay and witty Latin gentleman, the man of
adventure, had set his seal on Louisiana, and to-day, even in
the midst of its advance and progress, the foreign spirit, the
delightful atmosphere of the past lingers in the lap of the
present.
The Southern woman has always been distinguished for her
spirit and self-possession. When New Orleans fell in 1862
and all was wild excitement and tumult, a very pretty lady
with dark eyes, a white dress and rose-wreathed hat, was
gracefully and coquettishly walking
along the banquette, her sweet face quite placid and
undismayed.
"What," she said, stopping to speak to a soldier, "is the
latest order?"
"They say," was the answer, "that General Butler is
going to imprison women, if they do not behave
themselves."
Her lip curled in scorn.
"How very gauche of him," she observed,
"this timid
General who fears a petticoat."
"Take care, Madame," said the soldier, "I shall have to
arrest you."
"Really," said the lady, "that would not be very polite of
you. I hope you will permit me to change my gown first.
What would you like me to wear in prison?"
"It would be an impertinence for me to advise you,"
said the Northerner. "If I was n't a soldier and a despised
Yankee, I might add 'in any gown you would be gracious in
my eyes.' "
"Perhaps," said the lady, "I may give you an
opportunity of saying that to General Butler in my defence.
Meanwhile, why are those boys and men screaming,
yelling, and running?"
"Madame," said the soldier, "a shell has burst over their
heads or under their feet."
"Indeed," she said, "how very unpleasant for them!
Au revoir, monsieur; pour vos nouvelles mille
remercîments." And, turning, she adjusted her rose-coloured
parasol, making one cheek pinker than the other,
and holding up her dainty skirt, walked composedly and
gracefully away.
The soldier looked after her and said, "Game, by
gad, game all through."
grown less with her modern development and advancement,
in which New Orleans compares most favourably with other
cities of the Union. The Sophie Newcomb College for the
higher education of women, founded by Mrs. Josephine
Louise Newcomb as a memorial to her daughter, is a
department of the Tulane University. The endowment is
magnificent, making it one of the richest colleges in
America, with a power for development possible in any
direction. Mrs. Sneath, a lady originally from the West, who
is greatly interested in the college, where her daughter
received her education, was my cicerone. The buildings are
beautifully located and there is every comfort and
convenience within their ample space. The long kitchen,
spotlessly clean and complete, with every modern cooking
utensil, and a cordon bleu
to give lectures and practical
demonstrations, sends forth accomplished academic cooks.
It seems to me that, with servants daily becoming more
scarce, cooking is far more necessary for women than a
course in the classics. From kitchen to garden was but a
step. The walks and courts are ample grassy places, shaded
by fine oaks with their long pendants of grey moss, and the
girls when not in their classes lead a free, open-air, athletic
life.
Professor Elsworth Woodward showed us through the art
department, where there were many original specimens of
pottery. A large plaque of shaded Chinese blue with fine
broad-leaved magnolia blossoms was worthy of any cabinet,
and one piece of embroidery would certainly have aroused
the enthusiasm and inspired the gifted pen of Ruskin. It was
a scarf, the groundwork of which was of an old gold natural
silky flax, woven with a round thread in a diamond pattern,
and either end was heavily embroidered in a conventional
design of crêpe myrtle. The deep colour of the pink
and the delicate form of the flower and foliage lend
themselves to a most happy decoration. The lady who
made it planted and grew the flax, gathered and spun the
threads, wove them into linen, watched and waited for the
flower to blossom, and while she breathed its faint perfume
copied it with her needle. It is a most exquisite and original
piece of work. The landscapes, the glorious sunsets, a
perfect feast of colour, the tropical and semi-tropical
foliage of Louisiana, are all inspirations to the artist, and
that department of Newcomb College under the
enthusiastic direction of Professor Woodward will go far in
its development.
Another institution, the Christian Woman's Exchange, is
not endowed, but has nevertheless since 1881 worked itself
into an important success, and has bought its own
buildings. Besides the business of exchange and
embroidery it provides excellent lunches, both for ladies of
fashion and the working women. New Orleans is, with
every reason, proud of having erected the first statue in
America to a woman, a humble Irish heroine who could
neither read nor write, and whose only signature was a
cross. But she made her sign in memory of Him Who said,
"Suffer little children to come unto Me and forbid them not,
for of such is the kingdom of heaven."
Margaret Haughery began life as a chamber-maid. She
saved money, and, having been brought up on a farm,
bought "a dun cow," sold the milk, made a beginning in this
way, saved more money, and invested in a small bakery.
The bread was excellent; she was prompt in her delivery
and prospered, until at last the little bakery developed into
an immense money-making affair worked by steam, which
yielded her a fortune. But
from the moment she began to prosper she began to give.
Her heart was not the heart of a mother whose love is
centred only in her own children; she was one of those gifts
from God, a universal mother to the lonely children in a hard
world. All orphans, those poor and friendless little ones
found in her a tender mother who worked early and late to
provide for their needs and give them homes. She had good
business capacity and succeeded in her various enterprises.
She built St. Vincent's Orphan Asylum facing the Square.
What joy it must have given her big heart to see the
foundations laid! She helped to build St. Elizabeth's Industrial
Home for Girls, and when she died the whole of her fortune
was distributed among different charities for the children
whom she loved so well.
Although Margaret was a good Catholic, her intelligence
was too large for sectarianism. Jews and Protestants were
alike to her - they were little, they were helpless, they were
babies, - she gave from her largesse to them all. Her will,
leaving the whole of her savings to New Orleans
orphanages and homes, was signed with her blessed mark, a
cross, and now, like the beautiful Elizabeth, Austria's
murdered Queen, who sits looking ever toward the towering
mountains she loved so well, Margaret's face is turned
toward the windows of her Orphanage, and the children
stand at twilight look back and say, "There is dear
Margaret. I wish I might have known her." And the very
marble seems to smile. The face is rugged and broad, but
strong and kind and even distinguished, as every face must
be that is illumined by a divine spirit from within. She is
plainly dressed and wears a crochet shawl, her Sunday best,
made by tiny fingers that, but for her, might have perished
by the wayside. Keep guard, dear mother's
heart, over those helpless ones who are taught by the
gentle nuns always to remember you in their innocent
prayers.
Another great work in New Orleans had its beginnings in
the humble endeavour of a woman to help a fellow-creature.
A circus had come to town, and, although the
animals were well trained and there were clever riders and
acrobats, the show had been a dead failure. The last day
came, the circus was disbanded, and the pleasant smell of
sawdust lingered in the air. The manager had said good-bye,
and these strolling players were free to find what
occupations they could. Fate sat smiling and turning over in
her roguish, inventive mind what should result from this sad
little failure. Then she clapped her hands and laughed, as
she saw the largest night school in New Orleans arising
from that soiled heap of tarnished, spangled, torn tarletan
and cast-off finery.
One of the performers, a young athlete of twenty-five, a
fine specimen of manhood, had awakened to the fact that
he wanted to do more than exhibit his muscles to the
multitude. If he only had a little more education, he thought,
he would try for a place in the Civil Service, settle down to
steady occupation, and have a home of his own with
regularity and certainty in his life.
As he wandered about he saw a sign, "Day School for
Girls." Why not here as well as anywhere? He walked up
the path. He rang the bell, and a girl came to the door. She
was delicate and crippled, but the self-sacrificing soul of the
universal mother shone from her tender eyes. He humbly
answered the look, and knew he had found succour. In
short, broken sentences he told his simple little story - how
he had run away from home as a boy, joined a circus, and
had no education.
"Could she, would she help him?" And she said impulsively,
"Certainly I can and will help you."
Then she considered that all her days were occupied, her
time being closely divided between teaching in her own
seminary and the Normal School. The man said, "I have no
money, not a penny; you will even have to give me a spelling-book."
And the girl answered, "I 'll manage that, but I 'm poor too.
I work all day teaching and have only my nights
free. Can you come then?"
Of course he could, and he was only the first of a steady
stream that began to flow, ever broadening, through the
wide-opened heavenly door. Her willing maternal hands
began to lift the thick heavy veil of ignorance from the poor
and needy and to let in, little by little, the light upon their dark
benighted way.
With her hard work all day, her crippled frame and
over-active brain, sometimes the weak body was tired, but she
worked on, undaunted in spirit, widening her scope of
influence, until there was scarcely a corner in New Orleans
where it was not felt, and where the name of Sophie Wright
was not honoured and known. Volunteers came to help in
the noble work, and only two conditions were exacted of the
pupils - they must be unable to attend day schools on
account of being employed during the hours when they were
open, and they must be too poor to pay for lessons.
In the meantime her own school, the Home Institute, had
prospered. Her pupils were well-to-do girls; she did her duty
strictly by them, but her struggling, ignorant men and needy
boys were her real children. They were creatures to whom
she was necessary. She was their helpful, spiritual mother
and teacher. She was giving them the means through
education to earn their bread and to better themselves.
Jews, Gentiles,
Catholics and Protestants, the school was open to all.
Grown men came to learn their A, B, C's, boys to improve
their arithmetic, young men to learn mechanical drawing.
And frail, crippled, with no rich patrons, Sophie Wright
dared Fate. She fearlessly borrowed the money for her
night school at eight per cent. compound interest. She
bought a larger house. Her guardian angel hovered ever
near her. The day school prospered. She put all the money
into books, maps, and articles necessary for the night
school, and even with her constant outlay she reduced her
debt one-half, until the yellow fever swept New Orleans.
Then she turned her schoolhouse into a dispensary to which
food, clothes, old linen and medicines were sent for
distribution, and there she stayed except when on her tours
through the afflicted city.
When the frost came to kill the detestable stegomyia, the
poisonous striped mosquito, and the fever was finally
routed, Sophie Wright was face to face with ruin.
Apparently neither her own school could go on, nor the
night school, which was so dear to her heart. But Heaven
again befriended her. A banker took over her mortgage and
lent her ten thousand dollars, while two men interested in
her school each promised two thousand dollars a year.
Before the yellow fever came she had had three hundred
pupils in her night school; before the end of the following
year she had a thousand. And she not only had room for
them, but clean books, stout desks, good maps, and forty
teachers to assist her. There were European teachers who
understood foreign languages to instruct the raw
immigrants, and now girls were also admitted to certain
departments. The course was enlarged to algebra,
geometry, calculus, shorthand, mechanical drawing,
bookkeeping and history. All
sorts and conditions of students came - clerks, machinists,
typesetters, errand boys, post office boys, newsboys,
bootblacks, and, finally, the "Spasm Band," a group of
nameless waifs who sold papers by day and made night
hideous with horrible noises. Stale Bread, the leader, had
decided that Slowfoot, Pete, Warm-gravy, Zu-Zu, and Rum-Punch
must be educated. They however, proved too wild
even for Miss Sophie's strong will to subdue, and only Stale
Bread remained until he could read, then, sadly enough,
blindness blotted out the newly acquired letters from his
sight. But the night school prospered, although the debt of
ten thousand dollars still remained, until a cheque for the
amount, accompanied by a loving cup - a tribute from New
Orleans to its Best Citizen a woman, - was presented to the
founder of the night school, Sophie Wright.
Sometimes there does seem to be, even on this earth, a
law of compensation. It has come to Sophie Wright, who
was born in 1866 at a time when the South was poorest. At
the age of three, becoming a cripple from a fall, she spent
six years strapped in a chair. It must have been a time of
pure torture for this child to remain inactive, with her eager
questioning mind, desiring to drink thirstily from the fount of
knowledge. Afterwards she completed her education in five
years and opened a little school for girls. If she had been
strong and well, she would in all probability have married,
and whether happier for her or not, it certainly was better
for the world, that she should have entered the arena of
public life and have become the intellectual mother of so
many neglected children. She gave one thousand, five
hundred and eighty-one pupils to the city of New Orleans
when she turned over her night school to its care, and, like
all mothers who send
their children out into the world, she has her lonely
moments. But honours are still showered upon her. The
Girls' High School in New Orleans has just received the
name of "The Sophie Wright School," and to all who know
her she stands for the absolute triumph of Mind over
Matter, the unanswerable evidence of a valiant soul
conquering and surmounting the dragging flesh, and
presenting an argument for the soul's immortality to the
unbelieving.
And though New Orleans can strike a serious note, it is a
gay-hearted city. New York is too hurried even to smile,
London on the sunniest day can only look complacent and
cheerful, but New Orleans can riotously laugh. During the
carnival, Rex, its king, is the merriest, maddest, gayest of all
living monarchs. Mardi Gras makes even the most
melancholy citizen cheerful. The people love the carnival
and never grow tired of it, for it means colour, light, music
and movement. When I saw the wonderful frescoes of
Goya in Madrid, they brought back memories of the rich
Spanish colours - the orange and rose, purple and red,
gold and green - of the New Orleans Carnival.
What an experience it is for the young - a lifting of life's
practical veil, a veritable peep into long-lost fairyland. The
mystery that surrounds this merry function is more alluring
still. Rex and his Broow flower, the blossom of laughter
invented by himself - the very mention of him brings back
merriment forgotten, and that jolly king is, above all, the
most gallant monarch in the world, for, even more than his
kingdom, he loves chivalry and beauty and youth. To-night
he gives the ever dear and always entrancing story of
Cinderella. The Prince, brave in velvet, satin, gold lace,
silken hose and diamond garter, is surrounded by his
gallant gentlemen-in-waiting. The selfish Mamma and Papa
and the Ugly Sisters are arrayed in purple and fine linen.
The Fairy Godmother, with her pointed hat, starched ruff,
and quilted petticoat, leans on her magic staff, and a crowd
of girls, like fluttering white doves, await the Prince and the
slipper:
"Ho, ho! Ho, ho! Ho, ho!
But lowly and high are eager to try
In attic and yard and cellar;
Each maid in the land is longing to stand
In the slippers of Cinderella.
Ho, ho! Heel and toe!
Nay, pretty maid, they are not for you.
Your ankle's neat, and your stockings are sweet,
But you have n't the foot for a fairy shoe."
There is only One for that enchanted slipper, and she, the
youngest of them all, sits dreaming and unconscious of the
high rank that in a moment kind Fate is about to bestow
upon her. Among the ladies-in-waiting a charming, eager,
dainty maiden has a tender hope of the coming honour her
sister may receive. She remembers now that months ago a
gallant knight was extremely solicitous as to the size of her
sister's shoe. Why? What reason had he? Her heart beats to
suffocation. Her sister is from Virginia; it is rare that an
outside girl is chosen as the Queen of Beauty. New Orleans
favours first her own fair daughters. But her sister is so
lovely, so sweet, so exquisite - surely she is "Queen of all
the rosebud garden of girls." She looks lovingly at that fair
proud head; perhaps - ?
The music sounds importantly; the Prince and his precious
trophy, the little glass slipper covered in overlapping,
iridescent spangles, sparkling with the rainbow's
every hue, has started on his quest. Anxiety brings
the Fairy Godmother a little forward; she looks first at one
girl, then at another. No, not this pretty foot, nor this, nor
this. The Ugly Sisters can only balance the fairy slipper
upon one toe and fan their masks in vexation. Their rage
makes the house rock with laughter.
It is easy to laugh to-night. What a pretty ankle! But no,
the little glass slipper goes farther afield. The anxious
Godmother almost points her wand, but it would n't be fair,
and it only trembles in her hand. Look! the Prince has
paused; is it the beautiful face uplifted to his? No! He
kneels to a still more beautiful girl, and lifts an astonished
little foot to his knee; his equerry bends over and delicately
adjusts the folds of silk in modest place. The glass slipper
fits; it is on, Cinderella is found!
"Ho, ho! Blow high, blow low!
Come winter snow or come skies of blue!
You 'll tread upon air as through life you fare,
If only you 're wearing a fairy shoe."
The music gives a splendid blare of triumph. For a moment
the scene for Cinderella is blurred, the lights blend together
in rose, gold, blue and silver. Then her own generous sister
(not one of the plain ones) touches her lovingly on the
shoulder, saying, "Steady, dear Princess, your crown awaits
you." The Prince takes her hand, assists her to rise;
gentlemen-in-waiting reverently bearing the insignia of her
rank advance. In a second all the front of her simple white
gown glitters with jewels, splendid diamonds encircle her
throat and wrists, a crown of rubies and pearls is placed on
her abundant hair, a court train of ermine and velvet
is attached by ropes and tassels of glittering stones to her
shoulders. She is no longer Cinderella, but a veritable
shimmering Princess of Fairyland. The future Consort, this
gallant Cavalier and Prince by her side, has lightly kissed,
with his beautiful pink, wax lips, her hand and gently placed
it on his arm.
The music plays a passionate throbbing waltz. Is she
dancing, she wonders, or merely floating in air? Her cheeks
are aflame, her eyes are glittering blue-steel stars, her lips
are rose-leaves parted over pearls, all her emotional nature
awakened, she is transcendently lovely. Hold high, Queen of
Beauty, the Beaker of Life and drink; drain every drop of its
intoxicating nectar to-night, for it is filled to the brim with
mystery, music, laughter, light, gaiety, youth (you are barely
eighteen), rose-red beauty and awakening love. Perhaps
your future betrothal and wifehood lie just behind that
handsome impenetrable mask, for those gloved hands are
wonderfully tender, guiding you through the mazes of the
dance. And no matter, dear Cinderella, what sorrow the
Fates hold in store for you, this is your supreme hour. You
are Queen of the World, and yours is not the dull Kingdom
of Inheritance, but the unlimited Kingdom of the
Imagination. It is given you with lavish hand, for you are all
the gods love - glad youth, sweet beauty, unconscious
innocence. Dance, dance, until you are breathless, go home
with a happy heart in the saffron dawn. And, without his
mask, to-morrow the Prince will come to woo.
Society in New Orleans is the most agreeable in
America, for the reason that women do not entirely make it.
Men are of it and in it. They belong to it by right of
inheritance; they brought from the gay salons
of Paris two centuries ago an appreciation, an intimacy
with women and an understanding of them, and they
are to-day thoroughly at ease, courtly and happy in the
society of ladies, and at the same time are manly men of affairs.
The women of New Orleans are open-heartedly hospitable and kind.
Mrs. Bruns, who married Dr. Henry Bruns, the son of Dr. J. Dickson Bruns
(who until his death was an extremely popular doctor and more than
an ordinary poet), is a unique woman, pretty, dainty, agreeable, full of enthusiasm,
with both the door of her heart and her house ever on the latch.
Someone said, "Katie Bruns's husband is going to give her
a new carriage." "Why," said a woman who knows her well,
"that won't be the least use to her. What Katie wants is a roomy omnibus
to accommodate all her friends."
Mrs. Logan, Mrs. Bruns's mother, was visiting her
when I was at her house, and, discovering that she had
nursed Judge Brawley during the War when he was
wounded and lost an arm, I said, "This is not according
to romance; you should have married him, dear Mrs. Logan."
She blushed, the blush of seventy which is as delicate as the
beautiful blush of seventeen, and said, "I married his most intimate
friend. The Judge was always talking to me of my husband.
I think I loved General Logan even before I met him."
(Another case of Priscilla and Miles Standish!) "When my husband
first saw me," she continued, "he was pleased to call me the
'pious flirt,' but finally apologised by falling in love with me,
and we were married at the end of the War." How delightful it is to be
charming at seventy!
With no effort or trouble Mrs. Bruns entertains constantly. The moment
I arrived in New Orleans I was bidden to come next morning to an eleven o'clock
breakfast. Ruth McEnery Stuart, that true daughter of the
South and talented delineator of Southern life, was there.
No one, not even Uncle Remus himself, has written more
humorously and tenderly of the negro than she. And as a
woman she is so entirely lovable, free from pettiness, and
generous.
Mrs. Bruns said, handing me a silver filagree basket,
"Let me recommend these cakes to you."
"No, thank you," I said.
"Ruth McEnery Stuart made them especially for you,"
she added.
"Then," I said, "give me the whole basket and I will eat
them all."
It was so reminiscent of the old dear neighbourly South,
to prepare a delicacy for a friend. Ruth Stuart is a
wonderfully proficient cook and has invented a number of
toothsome dishes. She recited her own poems in negro
dialect that afternoon and they were so touching that when
she finished no one was able to speak at first, least of all
myself. Some day she is coming to England to conquer
London and with her energy she will do it. When she invited
me to a six o'clock breakfast party in the old French market
I paused for a moment, before accepting it, but, of course, I
went and the party was a great success. The coffee served
there is unsurpassed in the world. Miss Stuart said an old
Cajan priest declared it to be, "as pure as the angels, as
strong as the devil, and as hot as hell," combining the three
qualities necessary to make coffee perfection. But William
Beer, who with an indelible memory and wide reading,
knows everything, said, "I fear your worthy priest is a
plagiarist; Talleyrand said before him:
'le café doit être
noir comme la mort, doux comme l'amour, chaud
comme l'enfer.' " We drank this superb coffee in thick
cups on a table covered with American cloth, but it was a
better beverage than one can get in Dresden china cups in
New York.
The old market is wonderfully picturesque and a
veritable feast of colour. The heaps of wild flowers,
goldenrod, pitcher plant, coxcomb, purple cyclamen and
wild orchids were still gleaming with the dew of the early
morning. The fish stalls were shimmering mounds of silver,
purple and blue, with strings of red snappers hanging
above, seemingly carved out of pink coral. Grey trout,
speckled with orange and scarlet, were flanked with
enormous lobsters and greenish grey crabs. On the next
stall were pheasants and wild turkeys, with their beautiful
rich bronze, gold and green feathers. Golden plover, tiny
reed birds, wild ducks with soft breasts of blue, grey and
green made a shining mass of colour. And opposite them
stood a table of richly dyed Indian baskets, filled with
smooth, shining, satiny, strong beads, deep red, pale canary,
orange, aqua marine, scarlet, and pearl colour with a sheen,
like silver. "Now these you must have," said Ruth
McEnery Stuart, touching the last, "they just match your
gown." And I wore away a long string of dull silver-gray
beads.
We stopped at the cathedral, where there is a shrine to
Our Lady of Lourdes, and as we walked along through the
French quarter Mr. Beer pointed out the old house built for
Napoleon when the Creoles formed a plan to rescue him
from St. Helena, which, alas, was never carried out. On
Bienville Street in an old pawn shop, my quick eye
discovered the quaintest ornament in the window, a
pendant composed of two little Egyptian figures, doubtless
Cleopatra and Mark Antony, in blue, mauve, and white
enamel. The man held in his hand
an infinitesimally small fan, cooling the air for the Egyptian
queen. And the little figures in profile were surrounded by
old rose diamonds set in heavy silver. I did want that
peculiar jewel badly. We went in and asked the price; the
dealer said it was fourteenth century work, and of course it
was far beyond my purse. It filled with regret the generous
heart of Ruth McEnery Stuart that she could not
immediately present it to me, but later I forgot even Antony
and Cleopatra, when we sat down to a
déjeuner à la
fourchette in a splendid red and gold restaurant and ordered
soft-shell crabs, hot rolls, black coffee and gumbo!
There is continual entertaining of an easy agreeable sort
going on in New Orleans. Mrs. Eustace has a beautiful old
house, with a splendid hall forty feet long and enormous
rooms on either side, which accommodate any number of
people comfortably. Mrs. George Penrose, a charming,
pretty woman, is distinguished for her lunches and her black
butler, who has the manners of a courtier. Mrs. Norvin
Trent Harris, whose husband, a famous shot, can talk more
entertainingly of birds and beasts than any sportsman I have
ever met, keeps open house. And there are people in New
Orleans of divers interests, musicians, poets, journalists,
writers and ardent suffragists, of whom one, Miss Gordon,
has done excellent work for the Cause, and a goodly
sprinkling of delightful, soft-spoken Creoles, bankers, and
cotton kings, - in fact, society is as varied as one would
have it, and both the men and women have easy gracious
manners. I regretted not meeting Grace King, an authority
on the history of Louisiana and a most entertaining author.
Cornelius Donovan, the engineer of the mouth of the
Mississippi, who for years has been studying the vagaries of
that uncertain stream, offered, if I
remained another week, to take me down the river. It is
always changing, that wonderful stream, receding from the
land to-day, and overflowing it to-morrow. The continual
uncertainty of its movements, lends a constant interest to
the vast immensity of water. I wanted to sail away, and
see one of those marvellous Gulf days so poetically
described by Lafcadio Hearn:
It must have been to even such a sky that Xenophon
lifted up his eyes of old when he vowed the Infinite Blue
was God; - it was indeed under such a sky that De Soto
named the vastest and grandest of Southern havens
Espiritu Santo, - the Bay of the Holy Ghost. There is
something unutterable in this bright Gulf air that compels
awe, something vital, something holy, something pantheistic;
and reverentially the mind asks itself if what the eye
beholds is not the Infinite Breath, the Divine Ghost, and the
great Blue Soul of the Unknown. All, all is blue in the
calm, - save the lowland under your feet, which you
almost forget, since it seems only as a tiny green flake
afloat in the liquid eternity of day. Then slowly, caressingly,
irresistibly, the witchery of the Infinite grows upon you; out
of Time and Space you begin to dream with open eyes, - to
drift into delicious oblivion of facts - to forget the past, the
present, the substantial, to comprehend nothing but the
existence of that infinite Blue Ghost as something into
which you would wish to melt utterly away forever. . . ."
ALL my first memories of New Orleans are those of pure
delight. When my father, on our way North to place me in a
boarding-school, stopped a fortnight there, he was very busy
attending to the famous Gaines case, and Mrs. Delgado
offered to take care of the lonely little girl who was staying
at the hotel. This lady belonged to the ancien
régime, and
was a very grande dame indeed. Her complexion was pale,
she had dark hair, clearly cut aquiline features, very
beautiful soft dark Creole eyes, and her hands and feet were
exquisitely shaped and very small. In later years when she
grew stout those tiny feet refused their office and she
ceased to walk, going everywhere in her carriage. She
dressed exquisitely, and her house was no less perfect. As
the walls were very thick, and the floors covered with white
matting, it was quite cool even in very warm weather, and
throughout, the rooms were pervaded with an odour of eau
de cologne, which Mrs. Delgado used with lavish profusion.
It was in New Orleans that I had my first feast of the
theatre, and it was, I am sure even now, an exceedingly
good bill, for Joe Jefferson was starring in The Cricket on
the Hearth. I already knew the story by heart, and
everything in life faded away from me, except the sight of
the people that I loved so well really living,
speaking, and unfolding their romance before my absorbed
and intense vision.
After the theatre I remember my dear father stopped at a
little café on Canal Street and got us each a saucer of
gumbo, a dish for which New Orleans is famous. Okra is a
poetic and historic plant, as it grew in luxuriance along the
banks of the Nile in 50 B.C. Caesar, Mark Antony, and
Cleopatra ate of it, and it is not only a succulent vegetable,
with its tender green pod, but it is worthy of being grown in
the handsomest flower garden, for its lovely bell-shaped
blossom of thick canary-coloured petals, ending where they
join the stem in a deep rich shade of garnet. Gumbo is not,
as many people suppose, a vegetable, but is a very thick
soup made from a combination of young boiled chicken and
okra, flavoured with a soupçon of garlic, and well seasoned
with salt, pepper, and rich, fresh butter - an unforgettable
delicacy. Thackeray found the name so amusing that he
gave it to his negro in The Virginians.
In one greenhouse in England this plant is grown, for
Lord Ashburnham brought the seed back with him from
Egypt, and at a time when I was ill, a little package arrived
from Ashburnham Place, and when I opened it, lo and
behold, to my surprise and grateful joy, there was a box of
okra, the fresh green pods looking exactly as if they had
been grown in Louisiana.
In the French Quarter, which was not far from the house
of Mrs. Delgado, a young negress kept a little stand, where
she sold pecan pralines, and a tiny bouquet of single pinks
went with each package of the nut candy. She had the most
charming animated manners and an insinuating smile, but
she only spoke a sort of patois French which I did not
understand. Her dress was of dark blue cotton, sprinkled
with little white dots,
and she wore a white fichu, a string of red coral beads
round her neck, and on her head a gay plaid handkerchief.
Another interesting personality whom I never forgot was a
tall man with soft brown eyes and brown whiskers. He wore
the Confederate grey, and the little button of the Southern
Cross of the Confederacy on the lapel of his coat. His shirt
was spotlessly clean, with cuffs which he turned back, and
he played a triangle to attract customers. He carried a
fascinating large blue box strapped across his broad
shoulders, and when he lowered it there was a fine
assortment of pretty wafer biscuits of many charming
colours. The topmost of them had an icing of pale green,
pink or mauve, while there were others without any icing at
all, and they were all as crisp and toothsome as it was
possible for wafers to be. But the little musical triangle,
which he played as if a grasshopper sang faint far-away
tunes, was much more seductive to me than the wafers. My
black Mammy played the instrument, and the moment I
heard the slight sweet notes I ran quickly down the stairs
and was out in the street to make a selection from his wares,
for the musician always gave his little customer "lagnieppe" - an
extra wafer. Other children, too, loved the triangle,
and the wafers and the vendor. I made one or two charming
friends through his introduction. One little girl who lived two
streets beyond Mrs. Delgado had long, much admired,
keenly-envied yellow curls, and before we parted she gave
me a lock of her hair.
When I went back to New Orleans I looked for my old
friend. Now the brown whiskers would be white, I knew,
and the erect shoulders carrying the box would be bent; but
he was gone. I did find the negro woman
still selling pecan pralines, her head as white as cotton. She
is of a great age, and has grown peevish and impatient; her
manners are not so good nor her smile so sweet as in years
gone by. And since then she has learned some half-dozen
words of English.
I went to the Hotel De Soto on my arrival, to be near my
life-long friend, the Major. He said, "I want to introduce
you to the manager of the hotel." And, bringing forward an
exceedingly good-looking young man, he presented him as
Mr. Alexander, who asked, "Were n't you Miss Betty
Paschal, of Texas?"
"Yes," I replied, "a good while ago I was Miss Betty
Paschal, of Texas."
He said, " My name is John Alexander, and we come
from the same town of Austin."
"Then," I said, "you are a relation of Dr. Alexander, our
old doctor who was with my mother when I was born."
He said, "I am his grandson."
"Not the little Johnnie Alexander, " I asked, "whom I
remember as a child being shot in the wrist?"
He held out his right hand. The wrist was scarred and
considerably broader than the other, and I had seen that
wound dressed. His father was a chemist in Austin, and this
baby, just learning to walk, was standing on the counter
holding out his arms to his grandfather when a desperado
walking down the street, jerked out his pistol and shot at a
man standing in the back of the shop. The bullet missed the
man but hit the baby. My aunt's house was nearest to the
chemist's, he was brought in to have the wound dressed,
and I remember running to the kitchen to get a jug of warm
water for the doctor. The boy who shot him was not more
than sixteen years old and this was the beginning of a
career
of crime. He subsequently took the lives of a number of
men and at least three women, beginning with a young
vaudeville actress, who fell in love with him, and after he
had left her, tried to see him. He told her if she ever came
near him again he would shoot her. One morning at a hotel
in San Antonio she went to his bedroom door and opened it.
He was lying in bed with a pistol by his side, which he
picked up, aimed deliberately at her, and she fell dead, shot
through the heart.
Johnnie Alexander made my stay at the Hotel De
Soto pleasant and comfortable. And my faith in the old-time
negro was refreshed and revived, for the Major has, what
before the war was called a "body servant." John is quite
black, with very kind, amiable, foxy eyes. He is extremely
neat, has a good figure and, dressed in the Major's well cut
cast-off clothes, he makes quite a fine appearance. He came
to my room the morning after my arrival and said, "De Major
sent me to say dat while you is here, I am to come two or
three times a day to see if dar' s anything I kin do for you."
I said, "I am sure there is, John."
"De Major was talkin' dis mornin' des like he was gwine
ter give me to you, but he can't give me to nobody, he can
only loan me. I told him he can loan me to you des as much
as he likes, but de Major can't get rid ob me," he said with a
chuckle, "not ef he was to try."
"You must take good care of the Major," I replied, "because
he is getting on, you know, in years."
"Don't say dat, for de Major is jes' as full of ambition as
he kin be," he said, "an' he suttenly is got a gallant heart.
Even when he got de gout he puts on dem shiny shoes ob
his (I suttenly does make de Major's shoes shine like a
crow's wing), an' he won't even let me
tie 'em up for him, he is des as ambitious as he kin be, and
not only is he got a gallant heart, but he is got a gallant
young heart."
I said, "That is what I have heard, John."
John chuckled loudly and said, "I tell you what it is, I am
proud ob de Major. When I sends him out in de mornin'
dere ain't no young blade in New Orleans what is any
better turned out, den what de Major is. I don't let no
speck nor spot stay on him, not a minute, I tell you what,
when he is walkin' down de street even right young girls
turns dere heads to look at de Major."
I said, "John, I 'm afraid you are leading the Major
into temptation."
John gave a loud guffaw.
"No 'm," he said, "I ain't don dat but sometimes he 's
right hard to manage."
"John," I said, "I want a laundress, and I have six
pairs of gloves to be cleaned."
"Yassum," he said, "I knows des de best kind of a
cleaner, and I know a laundress what can make your
clothes look des like new."
When John returned with my clothes and gloves, I came
to the conclusion that he himself was my laundress and
also my glove cleaner. The gloves were enormously
stretched, a good deal more soiled than when I sent them,
and the charge for cleaning was forty cents a pair.
"John," I said, "is n't that an awful price for gloves?"
He replied, "Yassum, 'deed it is, and I jes' talked wid dat
woman wid such eloquence dat she 's gone out ob bisniss,
an' I 'spect she 's gone clean away from New Orleens. I
never did give any woman such a dressin'
down an' a trouncin' wid my tongue as I give dis here same
woman."
"Look at my clothes," I said, "they are very badly done. I
heard that laundresses in New Orleans were so good."
"Yassum," he said, "dey is good, but dis woman done los'
her husband. He died des as she was beginning to wash
your close an' de poor creature's in sich grief I could n't
bear to scol' her so I jes' brought 'em along. I 'spect dem
close was sprinkled wid tears."
I paid for the clothes and I paid for the tears, but I made
up my mind that John had better confine his offices to the
Major. I could not, however, get rid of his assiduous
attentions. And one morning he told me, with a great look of
expectation in his eyes, that he was going to be married in
four days. I knew what the look meant quite well - a
wedding present. "Why, John," I said, "I thought you were a
confirmed old bachelor."
"So I is, Miss Betty," he said (he had dropped the Madam
and got to an affectionate "Miss Betty"), "but de Major
don't like my runnin' roun', and you know a man is des
'bleeged to run 'round, lessen he 's married. De Major is one
of dese here moral men, he say men oughter to stay home in
de evenin's, so I 'm gwine to git a home to stay in. I don't
want to git married, I'm des marryin' to please de Major. An'
hits one of dese here sensible kind ob marriages too. De
lady what I am gwine ter marry is 'bout de bes' cook in
New Orleens, she can wash wid any ob dese here French
women, and she 's des as neat as a pin 'bout de house; but I
must be bringing down dat pineapple what I got fur you."
When John brought down the pineapple it was stale and
over-ripe. I don't think he had been to market for
it, but had bought it from a huckster on the street for three
cents."
"John," I said, "is n't this pineapple rather a poor one for a
good marketer to buy?"
He said, "Yassum, Miss Betty, dat 's de Major's fault. I
done tole him to let me go to market an' he done sent me
to one ob dese fruit shops kept by a Italian, an' dere ain't
no 'pendence in de roun' world to be put in dese here
furriners. You can't trust 'em for a single minute. De
pineapple what I said I 'd take was all right, but dis here
man done change it for another, when he put it in de bag. I
thought you was in a hurry, so I did n't take it back, I des
cut it up."
And never once did he supply me with fresh fruit. The
Major confided to me that his only grievance against John
was his extraordinarily bad memory when it came to
accounts, his laxity in putting down on paper any money
that he spent and his never bringing back a receipted bill.
But there was never anything in the world like the
diplomatic excuse which John always had ready. I gave
him two dollars as a wedding present, but the Major has
since written to tell me of the postponement of the
marriage. All the employees in the Major's office had given
him sums of money and by the time he is again to be
married a second contribution will be levied. Never have I
seen anyone who understood the art of flattery better than
John. Every morning he told me I was much younger and
better looking than the day before; that his happiness would
be complete if I should decide to live in New Orleans; that
the climate agreed with me, that everybody in the hotel
loved me, that the Major's spirits and appetite had improved
since I came, in fact every conceivable amiable lie possible
of invention he heaped upon me.
He supplied me with withered flowers and stale fruit. He
kept me waiting for my clean clothes and gloves; he
cheated me out of my change and was hours in doing any
small errand. Nevertheless, I had a sort of easygoing liking
for him; he was so very transparent, so really without guile.
One afternoon I was sitting in the hotel waiting for him to
return from the post-office when I noticed coming down the
corridor a clean-shaven, rather stout, kindly looking man
carrying in one hand a lily and in the other an exquisite rose.
He stopped, saying, "Lady, may I present this flower to
you?" and handed me the rich red rose.
"Perhaps you do not know this variety," he said; "it is a
difficult one to find, for they are going out of fashion. It is
the Napoleon rose and was at one time a great favourite in
New Orleans, where as you know, Napoleon's memory is
still warmly cherished. This is the rose which he asked to
have sent to St. Helena from France, and he planted it there
with his own hands. See what a marvellous flower it is;
observe the tenderness of the stem; look at the perfect
petals, - they seem to be cut out of ruby velvet, - and note
how this single blossom perfumes all the air. It is a pity that
more attention is not given to these roses, because they
grow rarer every year. I present this to you in memory of
Napoleon."
I said, "I accept it from you and from him. You seem to
be fond of flowers."
"Yes," he said, "flowers are my friends. I go to a flower
shop every morning to regale my soul and to provide myself
with a little perfumed friendship for the day. If I had to do
without my cup of coffee or without my rose, I would give
up my coffee."
And he made me a low bow and went away, and
although I saw him almost every day in the hotel and he
looked kind and friendly, we did not have any further
conversation. But I shall not forget him, for what better
introduction can any man have than a Napoleon rose?
How eager I was to explore that fascinating city again.
The very morning after my arrival found me at nine o'clock
in one of the public automobiles, making a hurried tour to
revive my memory of the old French Quarter and see the
many changes in the more modern city. The car was full of
tourists and the guide shouted with a strong voice through a
megaphone. Nothing of his intonation remains in my
memory except his reply to a tourist who asked, as we
entered one of the beautiful cemeteries, what the four
figures kneeling at the corners at the base of a tall marble
shaft represented. He said the monument was erected by
Mr. Moriarity, and that the four figures represented Faith,
Hope, and Charity, and Mrs. Moriarity.
A large proportion of the tourists were Northern people
and we stopped in front of a very large old-fashioned house
with galleries on every side. The house was white, with
heavy green shades such as were used in the old Creole
quarters; there was a grove of orange trees leading to the
gate, groups of oleander and tall magnolias in splendid leaf
and blossom in a pleasant garden surrounding it. An old
gray-haired Mammy, hemming a little white frock, sat with
her foot on the wheel of a perambulator taking care of a
sleeping baby, while five or six children were tumbling and
playing about together. It was a pretty scene of peace and
Southern life.
The guide said: "Ladies and gentlemen, we stop here,
not to see the house, although it is a fine one, but because
four generations live happily in it, - a great-grandmother
who was married when she was fifteen, two grandmothers
and a mother, whose children are playing in the garden. I
have heard," he said, "that some folks don't get along with
their families, but here in the South we are learned to look
after the old people, and we expect to do it as long as we
live, for they are our kin."
Just then a very old lady with perfectly white hair came
down the steps leaning on the arm of a tall, charming
looking octoroon maid. One of the children ran to take her
other hand, saying, "Gran, Gran, let me help you." So I
suppose this was the great-grandmother, and it was the
pleasantest and the most refreshing picture that I saw in
New Orleans.
In the park the old landmarks are the same. The great
live-oaks with their wealth of Spanish moss, under whose
branches duels were fought, remain unchanged, and on
many tombs in the old French cemetery of St. Louis will be
found, "Mort sur le Champ d'Honneur," or "Victime de
l'honneur," in memory of the gay cavaliers who met their
death under these noble trees. The French Quarter has
perhaps grown a little shabbier. The old houses are still
made attractive by the inner court and quaintly shaped
flower beds, with a clipped centrepiece of spitti-sporum, that
delightfully odorous shrub of the South, and borders of
sweet violets, jonquils, lilies, amaryllis, fragrant myrtle and
cape jessamine. These old-fashioned blooms still perfumed
the narrow street with their sweetness. I was looking so
longingly at one of these gardens that a pretty Creole girl
gave me a little nosegay. The old placards, "Chambres
Garnies," dangled from the balconies, half-hidden
by flowering vines, and everywhere the French language
is heard or the English tongue
spoken with the prettiest imaginable French-Creole accent.
Antique shops in Vieux Carré are perilously enticing. Every
memory of my childhood seems to be embodied in these
shabby old shops with their varied contents, carved rosewood
furniture covered with worn French brocade; little work-tables
with flaps letting down on either side and two drawers with
glass knobs that were in every Southern lady's bedroom; little,
low four-legged rosewood footstools, covered with moth-eaten
embroidery; old square pianos, tall heavy candlesticks in sets
of four which were used on every supper-table, and splendid
candelabra of ormolu with their tinkling weight of triangular
crystals. In the porches of the South, tall glass cylinders used
to encircle candles. A pair of these proved irresistible; I bought
them and shipped them to England. Then there were the
old-fashioned French coloured steel engravings - I remember
a set of these called "Le Manteau," in my mother's bedroom.
In the first, a tall slender, exquisite gentleman in a cavalry uniform,
with little side-whiskers, splendid cap and a long full cloak, was
wooing a young lady in a white Swiss muslin hobble skirt, pink
sash, and a bunch of curls on either side of her round,
rather foolish face. In the next picture she is eloping from a white
château in a pink muslin gown, and "Le Manteau" envelops
her form, as well as the soldier's. In the third picture
she is sitting with a curly-headed child resting against her
knee, dressed in widow's weeds, still wearing "Le Manteau"
which was apparently her husband's only legacy. In the last
picture, with a long black veil floating over "Le Manteau" and
holding the chubby infant by the hand, she is walking up the steps
of the château, where I certainly hope she found refuge and
forgiveness. I always thought the story incomplete. The last
one should have had "Le Manteau" hanging up in the hall,
the lady free from it at last, she in her father's arms, and the
grandmother embracing the small boy.
The window of one of those shabby shops in Royal Street
displayed an artfully seductive placard over two cups and
saucers, two plates, and a little jardinière of exquisite and
original design. The china was transparent and very white,
with lines of black, narrower at the base than at the top,
running vertically on all the pieces, and softened on either
side by a lace-like tracery in gold that converged in a little
disc of gold lace in the centre. Underneath was written in a
fine, old-fashioned French hand, "Faïence de Diane de
Poitiers," and in parentheses, ("La Duchesse de
Valentinois"), so the vendor knew something of history. I
went into the shop to ask the price, which I knew
beforehand would be far beyond my purse, and the
distinguished-looking, white-haired little Creole lady said, "It
is dear; but, Madame, it is veritable, it bears the colours of
the Duchesse de Valentinois, who never left off mourning
for her husband, Monsieur de Brèze."
"Yes, Henri II," I said, "wore her colours, black and
white, at the tournament when he was fatally wounded."
She smiled and said, "Then Madame is a student of
French history?"
"No," I said, "but I know something of it from a dear Irish
friend, Mrs. Emily Crawford, who has lived in France forty
years. She gave me a little lecture on famous Frenchwomen
one day when we walked in the garden of the Tuileries. 'It
was through her buoyant
health,' she said, 'that Diane de Poitiers, although nineteen
years older, kept her dominion for so many years over
Henri II. She was a woman far in advance of her times.
She bathed daily in tepid water when other women
scarcely bathed at all; she was an intrepid horsewoman,
she invented athletic exercises, she drank cold water, and
she ate simple food. She was a cheerful philosopher; and
above all things men value cheerfulness - it makes them
comfortable. The infidelities of her royal lover disturbed
her but little. She knew her power, and felt sure of his
return, and although Catherine de' Medici, his queen, bore
him ten children and was an astute statesman, she never
dislodged Diane.' "
"Yes," said the Creole lady, "Diane was a great woman.
And the faïence, Madame?"
I took out a little book and wrote down her name and
address.
"Madame," I said, "if I am ever rich these relics shall
be mine. I cannot afford to buy them just now, but I can
have visions. These addresses are all those of my future
treasures. This is a quaint little shop in the square of St.
Mark's in Venice, where there is a Doge's bottle of gold
and crystal; and here, at The Hague, a small squat clock
of old silver, with a wreath of pink enamelled roses, is
waiting for me. But at the present moment I would forfeit
all of my dreams for the faïence of Diane de Poitiers."
There was a little, old, inexpensive oil portrait of the
Duc de Choiseul in a battered frame which she offered
me as a bargain, for the history of Louisiana does not
make the picture easy of sale. Louis XV saved him, but
not New Orleans.
"You will be damned, Choiseul," said Louis to his Prime
Minister.
"I? Oh, I am different, I am the Anointed of God."
And all France laughed and applauded, for wit is allowed
there; but if one of England's kings said lightly that he was
the Anointed of God, the nation would be shocked, from
the Archbishop of Canterbury to the humblest subject. No
public jokes are allowed in England or in America; the
door of the castle or the cottage in these countries must be
closed on wit.
The amiable little lady bade me a smiling farewell,
saying, "Adieu, Madame, bonne chance, et revenez le plus
tôt possible, avec la bouteille du Doge et la pendule de la
Hollande pour la faïence de Diane."
He that is stricken blind cannot forget
The precious treasure of his eyesight lost.
Show me a mistress that is passing fair,
What doth her beauty serve but as a note
Where I may read, who pass'd that passing fair?
Farewell;
thou canst not teach me to forget. Romeo and Juliet.
THE history of New Orleans is a series of the most
romantic and delightful episodes, connecting this fascinating
city with the great romances of the world. Where can a
more beautiful story be found than that of this latter-day
Romeo and Juliet, who lived in 1712?
The Duke of Brunswick, Wolfenhüttel, was the father of
a daughter called Charlotte. She was beautiful, tall and
slight, with a regal crown of fair hair. She sang charmingly,
was very accomplished, possessed a most tender,
sympathetic nature, perfect health, high spirits, and at the
same time she was docile and obedient. Naturally every
one in the little duchy loved her. Attached to her father's
court was a handsome young Frenchman, the Chevalier
d'Aubant, a man of a passionate yet faithful temperament - oh,
rare combination!
It had not been necessary for these two exquisitely
attuned human beings to speak of love; they felt it, it
surrounded them, it was in the air and in the flowers,
and it bloomed with exotic radiance in their two young
hearts. D'Aubant would have been an acceptable suitor in
her father's eyes, for he was not only a man of family but
he possessed a small fortune, and life was charming, quiet,
dignified, and quite happy in this pretty Lilliputian court. But
unfortunately for these devoted lovers an unexpected
traveller appeared in Brunswick in the person of Alexis, the
eldest son of Peter the Great, the heir apparent to the
crown, who had been a great disappointment to his father.
He was unbelievably stupid, cruel, and wicked. There
was no vice in which he had not steeped himself - the
palace and the hovel were alike to him. His father was in
despair that such a being was to become the future ruler of
the millions of people whom he had made every effort to
enlighten and elevate, and as a last resource he sent Alexis
on a long journey.
While he was the guest of the Duke of Brunswick he fell
in love with the charming, aristocratic young Princess
Charlotte. Alexis wrote home to the Czar, and Peter
received the news with joy. He had heard of the beauty, the
virtue, the charm of Charlotte, and a hope sprang up in his
heart that her noble character and example might have an
influence upon his impossible son. A message was
conveyed at once to the Duke of Brunswick to demand his
daughter's hand in marriage.
Being a tender father, his heart was filled with sorrow for
the future of his sensitive, carefully-reared daughter, but he
did not dare to refuse, knowing that Peter the Great was of
all things an unrelenting despot.
It was only necessary to look into the cowardly eye of
Alexis to know his brutal character, and there were no
rejoicings at the wedding. It was a most pathetic
affair, and Charlotte, who had done her father's bidding
and sacrificed herself that the duchy and the power of the
Duke of Brunswick might remain unimpaired, clung to her
father like a drowning woman, and had to be lifted from
his arms into the carriage.
Six powerful, wild Mazeppa horses were waiting to
speed the bride and bridegroom to Russia to the great
Court of St. Petersburg, and a rough escort of Cossacks
surrounded the travelling coach. There was one who rode
like mad, always ahead of the others, with his thick,
shaggy Tartar cloak pulled down close over his head and
ears. Occasionally he turned and came back to the
carriage door, and whenever he did so Charlotte leaned
forward, as though to touch his friendly cloak. This
Cossack was, of course, d'Aubant, who was following
her into Russia with a broken heart.
After the betrothal of Charlotte was announced, he had
scarcely spoken and never smiled, but he made that
rough journey possible for her, for whenever the horses
were unruly his hand was the first to restrain them, and he
was always rendering the Princess some slight service.
Once she slipped in getting out of the carriage. Blessed
moment! for one brief second he held her lightly in his
arms. When he put her down this hooded Cossack
swayed like a tree in the forest that is swept by a mighty
tornado.
On the entrance of the bridal pair to St. Petersburg the
bells rang out one hundred chimes, the people shouted
until their throats were hoarse, and a dozen military bands
gave forth inspiring music to welcome the beautiful bride
of Alexis to the imperial city. The faithful Cossack rode
ahead and stood by the door with humble mien as the tall,
beautiful woman passed by him. That night her faithful
German maid carried
him a letter; the words were brief, but there was some
comfort in them. She wrote:
D'AUBANT:
Your disguise was not one to me. It could not deceive my
heart. Now that I am the wife of another know for the first
time my long-kept secret - I love you. Such a confession is
a declaration that we must never meet again.
The mercy of God be upon us both.
CHARLOTTE.
This letter contained another paper. It was a passport
signed by the Emperor, and it gave to the Chevalier
d'Aubant the right to leave the empire at his own
convenience. At dawn the following day d'Aubant was far
beyond St. Petersburg, and eventually he arrived in Paris.
But he was always sad and restless, and in 1718 he was
appointed Captain in the colonial troops that were starting
for Louisiana. On his arrival there he was stationed in New
Orleans, and although a favourite with men and officers, for
his manner was exquisitely gentle and polite and his face
expressed resignation, yet there was always a sorrowful
look in his eyes and he evidently preferred solitude to the
gaiest and most brilliant company.
Near New Orleans was a small village of friendly Indians,
and a road called the "Bayou Road" ran through a primeval
forest, connecting the little village with the French
settlement. D'Aubant became a favourite with the Indians,
and they gave him permission to build a rural hut on the
outskirts of their village. It was fashioned of fragrant cedar
logs with a thatched palmetto roof, and was furnished with
rustic chairs and tables. Above the mantelpiece of one room
was a remarkable
picture in a heavy carved gilt frame - a
full-length portrait of a wonderfully beautiful girl. She was
dressed in flowing white and the face was that of an
innocent virgin; a great coil of fair hair crowned her proud
head, and her deep blue eyes, filled with melancholy, gazed
upon a pointed crown which, instead of lying on a cushion,
rested crushingly upon a human heart.
This picture must have been painted from memory by
d'Aubant, who was something of an artist, for the likeness
to the Princess Charlotte was faithful and living, as if a
man had wielded the paint-brush with his soul. Whenever
he could be spared from his military duties, all his time was
spent in adoring this lifelike portrait, which was tended like
a shrine. Great pots of mimosa and magnolia and crêpe
myrtle stood before it, roses and lilies filled rude but
beautifully shaped vases of clay made by the Indians; and
the little room was fragrant with cedar and aromatic with
the odours of the South, while a small lamp burned
perfumed oil below the crown and the heart, and cast a
soft light on the face of d'Aubant's great lady.
Through all the long years he had not communicated
with her except to send her a magnolia leaf with "May
16th" written upon it - a date which neither of them could
forget, because she had danced with him on that day for
the first time at the ball given on her birthday in the far-off
duchy of Brunswick; and there were two names marked
upon the leaf - "D'Aubant" and "New Orleans."
Charlotte's future destiny was settled by that magnolia
leaf. Her finer nature, her exquisite refinement, her virtue,
her religion had only served to exasperate and annoy
Alexis. He could not change her, he could
not lower her pure morality, and finally his irritation
developed into brutality, for the constant injustice of a cruel
man towards a delicate woman inevitably ends in hatred.
Thinking of the most refined insult which he could put
upon her, Alexis conceived the idea of compelling Charlotte
to receive at court a kitchen wench, with whom he had an
open liaison, - a broad-faced, broad-hipped person, who
could neither read nor write, of low intellect and coarse
instincts which matched his own. He knew, of course, that
Charlotte would decline to receive her, as she did with
firmness, spirit, and dignity. As the last words of refusal left
her pure lips he rushed at her with the infuriated cry of a
wild animal, his mouth foaming with rage. He called her all
the names of his loathsome vocabulary. He tore her fair
hair, and doubling up his great fists knocked her down,
beating her until she was senseless. And in all that court
neither nobleman nor gentlewoman dared to interfere, for
Alexis was their despotic and merciless master. It was,
however, the beginning of the end for him. He was losing
control of himself, and not many years afterwards Peter the
Great, justified in his own eyes and acting, as he said, for the
good of Russia, with his own hands put his inhuman son to
death.
During the maniacal attack on Princess Charlotte, the
Countess of Königsmark had made a step towards her
friend as if to rescue her, for she alone had the complete
confidence of the Princess, and served her with loyalty and
a great love. At this time in St. Petersburg there was a
wonderful apothecary, who had developed his talents under
the encouragement of Peter the Great until it was said that
he could almost raise the dead. Certainly, like Friar
Laurence, he could
successfully put the living into a deathlike sleep, and
Charlotte, with the aid of her friend the Countess of
Königsmark, obtained from him a little phial. The Princess
had borne all that she could bear and yet live; if death
came she would welcome it. And she had taken the
desperate resolve when she awoke to join d'Aubant in that
far-away land, kind alike to aristocrat and to numbered
convict.
The Countess of Königsmark brought the draught, and,
with a prayer to God for mercy, the Princess Charlotte
eagerly drank it. Then she felt
A cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse
Shall keep his native progress, but surcease;
No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou liv'st;
The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade
To paly ashes; thy eyes' windows fall,
Like death, when he shuts up the day of life.
Each part, deprived of supple government,
Shall stiff, and stark, and cold appear, like death;
And in this borrowed likeness of shrunk death
Thou shalt continue two and forty hours,
And then awake as from a pleasant sleep.
The funeral of Charlotte was even more magnificent
than the sumptuous fête of welcome to St. Petersburg.
There was a great gilded hearse with waving sable
plumes, a sound of muffled drums, an impressive cathedral
service of barbaric music and clouds of incense, the
intoning of many gorgeously-robed priests, and then the
quiet of the vault. Through it all Charlotte slept her
deathlike sleep, with her hands crossed and cold in their
waxlike rigidity.
The face of the Countess of Königsmark was white
and fixed with anxiety. She had much to do; permission
had been granted her to sit by the side of her beloved
friend, and there in the chill vault she waited for the blue
lips to change to a soft rose, for the stiffened eyelids to
relax to mobility, for the proud eyes to open once more
upon this tragic world.
When Charlotte woke she was weak and needed wine
and food, but Hope warmed her heart to life and a sense of
elation gave her palsied limbs strength. She belonged to
herself now, and to no other. The Princess Charlotte was
dead.
All Europe rang with the news, but a woman, young,
beautiful, nameless and free, lived; a woman carrying
deathless fidelity in her heart, a woman whose soul
whispered to another soul thousands of leagues away of a
winged love and a swift meeting.
Simply attired, with a few jewels and a well-filled purse,
Charlotte issued from the tomb, nameless, unknown, but
warm, living, and happy. In 1721 two hundred immigrants
arrived in New Orleans, among them a beautiful, highbred
woman, with an imperial crown of fair hair. She had never
spoken her name, and, though her manners were gentle and
unassuming, she unconsciously commanded those about her,
and they, as unconsciously recognising her as one above
them, obeyed. Instinctively they felt her to be a creature
singled out by the gods for the fulfilment of an extraordinary
destiny.
On arriving at New Orleans, she said she had a letter to
the Chevalier d'Aubant, and she was told he was in his rural
retreat near the settlement, but that it would not be
necessary for her to go so far, as a dozen willing knights
offered to carry him her message. She, however, declined
their offers, asking only for a humble guide, and a black-eyed,
silent Indian led her to the forest.
It was a tender, tranquil summer evening with the long
rays of a declining sun slanting through the leaves. One ray
penetrated a wide-open door and illumined a picture of
herself. D'Aubant, in a reverential attitude, was gazing
upon it as though it were the image of a saint, when a
shadow darkened the doorway, and he looked up. A
woman stood before him with outstretched hands,
tear-filled eyes, and soft quivering lips, a woman all light and
gladness, with the purified love and longing of many years
of weary waiting in her sweet eyes.
He started towards her and then stopped.
"Oh, God!" he cried, "if you are a vision, stay with
me; if a woman, comfort my starving heart!"
She said in low, tremulous tones, "I am a woman - your
woman, now and for all eternity."
In a moment he held her in a heavenly embrace. Then
came the miraculous explanation of her presence there,
and next day in the golden dawn of early morning, in a
rude little church, they were married, and the bride softly
whispered her one name, "Charlotte."
But there are no secrets in the whole of the universe.
People personally concerned in a secret fondly imagine
they are hiding the dread truth, but even at that moment
the world discusses it.
Many times it is to the interest of all concerned to guard
a secret, but the wind whispers it to the trees, the trees to
the flowers; the flowers are gathered and breathe it to the
house. And it is possible for one mind without words to
communicate with another. Charlotte and the Chevalier
d'Aubant certainly remained silent. Perhaps the Countess
of Königsmark told the secret to her lover, and during a
supper with wine flowing like water, he whispered it to a
friend; or
it might have been revealed in another way. There are
undoubtedly people in the word gifted with second sight.
Perchance some sorceress banished from France gazed on
Charlotte with prescient eye and divined her history. At any
rate, rumours soon began to be whispered in the colony
about this wonderful couple. They were regarded with so
much furtive interest that d'Aubant felt they would be safer
among a multitude, and very quietly they left New Orleans
for Paris. But in the garden of the Tuileries Marshal Saxe
recognized Charlotte. The Chevalier felt there was danger.
By this time he had been promoted and was Major of his
regiment, and at his request he was transferred to the island
of Bourbon. Charlotte accompanied him, and they resided
there for a long period. In 1754, after more than thirty years
of perfect married happiness, d'Aubant died, leaving
Charlotte with one daughter. She survived him nearly
twenty years, and in the end died in great poverty.
There are historians who doubt this story, but it has
always been credited in Louisiana, and Gayarré presents it
most graphically in his delightful history of the land he loved
so well.
The swamp-land all around New Orleans is rapidly being
reclaimed. Pretty, quaint little houses and bungalows,
brilliantly painted, are being built, and the outskirts of the
town offer a gay and exotic appearance. One house with a
roof of orange colour, was painted white, with cobalt blue
shutters and a wide blue gallery. It was a daring
combination, but under the intense sapphire sky and amid
the surrounding growth of tropical green it was not
unpleasing, or, to use the favourite word of smart London, it
was
"amusing." The road to Lake Pontchartrain, where there is
a club and a tea house and boats of divers kinds for hire, is
now lined with motors, and it presents a livelier aspect than
the long stretch of lonely sands where, when Louisiana
belonged to France, Des Grieux and beautiful Manon
Lescaut, the immortal heroine whether of reality or fiction,
journeyed to the death of one and the everlasting grief of
the other.
All the world knows that touching story, the subject of
drama and opera, the inspiration of pictures and statues
innumerable. It convinces by its sincerity, it flames with
amorous love, and is undoubtedly the truthful revelation of
the soul of that passionate reckless lover, soldier, and
priest, the Abbé Prévost, who, like other men of genius,
was born to feel
Time flowing in the middle of the night
And all things moving toward a day of doom.
Manon Lescaut is indeed more than a story; it is, in its
way, a symbol, an illustration of mere passion developing
into love, and love, with its infinite tenderness and sense of
protection, destroying the grossness of passion and finally
ending in tragic suffering and expiation. It is a refreshing
vision of many thirsty souls held in durance vile by weak
and sensual bodies; it is an end devoutly to be wished but
rarely attained.
Romances of the heart, however, are not the only
thrilling episodes connected with the history of New
Orleans. There is a very moving little story of a really
noble redskin who died to save his son. A Colapissa Indian
killed a Choctaw chief and hid himself in New Orleans.
The Choctaws followed him, found him out, and demanded
him from the Governor, the Marquis de Vaudreuil, who at
first refused to give him up. When he
was finally forced to order his arrest, it was found that
the Indian had escaped. His old father then appeared and
offered his life to the Choctaws in place of that of his son.
After a powwow the offer was accepted. The old man at
once stretched himself on the trunk of a forest tree, and a
mighty Choctaw chief with one great blow severed his head
from his body.
I have always thought one of the most splendid
arguments against capital punishment - which, if necessary
for the criminal, who is only one man, is distinctly brutalising
to the jailors, the warders, and the hangman,
- was the tragic action of a noble slave.
When Louisiana was a colony it was without an
executioner, and every white man refused the office with
horror and loathing. Finally it was decided that a negro
blacksmith must be forced to accept it. He was a man of
herculean strength and health, called Jeanot, who belonged
to the Company of the Indies. He was shoeing a horse
when he was sent for and given his freedom. His heart
bounded with joy at the unexpected news, and he was just
about to express his gratitude when he was told that it was
necessary for him to be a free man as he had just been
appointed public executioner. He groaned in agony.
"Oh, God," he said, "I can't be that. Let me be a slave
again; I 'll work my fingers to the bone for you."
When they refused him he went down on his knees and
prayed and wept in anguish, crying out, "I will never cut off
the head of a man who has done me no harm. Never! Do
not ask it! I will die rather than do it." But his masters were
coldly obstinate. So he got up from his knees with a wild
and desperate look and said:
He ran quickly to his cabin, picked up his hatchet, laid
his right hand on a block of wood, and with his left, cut it
off at one blow. Then returning to, the group of waiting
men, he held out the bloody stump silently and grimly
towards them. Quickly the wounded arm was bound up
and his freedom was given him.
There must be something wrong with a system which
places such a stigma as the executioner bears upon a
human being. Who in the world would ever invite a
hangman to tea? Would n't it be a horrible blight upon the
feast? And yet, if he is but the agent for the execution of
strict justice, why is he not honoured?
Because in our hearts we know that only God has the
right to cut short human life. We arrogate too much to
ourselves when we hang the worst criminal. Imprisonment
for life, with no possibility of a pardon, is punishment
enough; wrong, injustice, oppression, cruelty, have more
than once turned the merely weak into the vicious wicked.
Heredity, circumstance, environment make most of us
what we are.
If I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than his might swell
From my lyre within the sky.
How thankful we should be if our lot makes us escape
without breaking the laws openly, to be judged at the last
by God, and not by man.
Oh! hush my heart, and
Take thine ease,
For here is April weather!
The daffodils beneath the trees
Are all a-row together.
REESE.
ON my way to the plantation of The Magnolias to visit my
friend Mary Davis, I stayed over night at Port Gibson, a
delightful little place, all valleys and soft rolling hills, with a
wide, grassy main street shaded by a fine avenue of cotton
trees, clothed in the tender, vivid green of early spring. The
cool umbrella-shaped trees, called the Pride of China, were
just beginning to open their purple and amethyst blossoms,
perfuming the air with their unforgetable pungent odour. In
my childhood a big China tree with its wide-spreading, cool
branches grew just outside my Aunt Elizabeth's window.
How often have I seen her in the early morning, in a fresh
white wrapper, stretch out her pretty, round arm, and gather
a lavender blossom for her belt. So I have double reason for
my love of this beautiful tropical tree, - the dear memory
that it holds for me and the charm of its own beauty.
Port Gibson is more than merely a pretty town; it is the
birthplace of that short-lived, remarkable
Southern genius, Irwin Russell, lawyer (who though a
minor, was admitted to the bar after a brilliant examination,
by special act of the legislature), wanderer, traveller,
author, and above all poet. I tried to find the house where
he was born, but the people I asked knew nothing of it. In
spite of his having modelled his poetic style on Burns and
the English poets, he was able to emancipate his mind from
tradition and was really the first American author who
truthfully described the life and character of the negro.
There has been nothing ever written more full of
movement, more vivid and lifelike than "Fiddling Josie," in
"Christmas Night in the Quarters":
Git yo' pardner, fust kwatillion!
Stomp yo' feet, an' raise 'em high;
Tune is, "Oh: dat watermillion!
Gwine to git it home bime-bye."
S'lute yo' pardners; scrape perlitely -
Don't be bumpin' gin de res' -
Balance all! now step out rightly;
Alluz dance yo' lebbel bes'.
Fo'wa'd foah! - whoop up, niggers!
Back ag'in - don't be so slow! -
Swing cornahs! - mind de figgers!
When I hollers, den yo' go.
Top ladies cross ober!
Hol' on, tell I take a dram -
Gemmen solo - yes I's sober -
Hands around! - hol' up yo' faces,
Don't be lookin' at yo' feet!
Swing yo' pardners to yo' places!
Dat 's de way - dat 's hard to beat.
Sides fo'wa'd - when you 's ready -
Make a bow as low 's you kin!
Swing acrost wid op'site lady!
Now we 'll let yo' swap ag'in.
Ladies change! - shet up dat talkin';
Do yo' talkin' arter while!
Right an' lef'; - don't want no walkin' -
Make yo' steps, and show yo' style.
What character, what understanding, what reality, what
go, is in this inspired jingle. The first appreciative helping
hand extended to him was that of the Scribners, who have
always befriended the South, and they published many of his
poems. He only wrote when impelled by inspiration and
everything he left will live. He died at twenty-six, still a boy,
but tired of life and glad to rest.
While I was waiting at the station for the train, which of
course, in Southern fashion, was quite an hour late, a neat,
well-dressed, pleasant-faced woman spoke to me. She was
expecting her husband, who was, she told me, "a travelling
man." She pointed to a pretty white cottage on the hill and
said she had so little to do, only her housework and the
clothes for herself and two little girls to make, that to occupy
her "idle hours" she had taken to chicken farming. Yet it is
said that Southern women are lazy! Fancy a woman having
"idle hours" with her own housework to do and dressmaking
for three people. "And how," I asked her, "have you
succeeded with your chickens?" "Remarkably well," she
said, "too well. I have more chickens than I want and about
two hundred eggs a day." I advised her to send them to
New Orleans. She said she had not thought of that.
Port Glass, the next station from Port Gibson, was five
miles from the plantation of The Magnolias. Mary had
arranged in case of my arriving unexpectedly that a
neighbour was to drive me over. When I got out at
Port Glass, which is really only a good-sized store, I
heard a loud "Hello!" and a gentleman came flying across
the field and gave me the welcome of an old friend, saying
I was to come to his house for a mid-day dinner, and then
he would drive me to the plantation in his buggy and deposit
me with Mary. "I hope you are going to be with us a long
time," he said. "Miss Mary has only been here a few
weeks; the plantation is too lonesome for her since she lost
her mother." We had arrived by this time at his flower-wreathed
gate and there I saw the sweetest mortal in the
world - a smart little maiden of three, in white frock, red
shoes, and a little white sunbonnet flecked with scarlet
spots. It was a case with us of love at first sight; the little
woman gave me the warmest embrace and nestled close in
my arms. And how proud she was of her gay morocco
shoes! They were of the same colour as those of Madame
Octavia Levert, the celebrated Southern beauty, who was
such a belle in the forties. Mrs. Clay has described her as
creating a veritable sensation at a ball in a lemon-coloured
satin gown, a wreath of coral on her dark braids, and coral
morocco shoes. Imagine a belle of 1913 being garbed in
such simple fashion! Her dress must be embroidered with
diamonds and pearls, with satin slippers and pearl rosettes
to match. Fashionable ladies of the present day would scorn
morocco slippers, even for the bath.
The immediate land about Mary's house is four thousand
acres in extent. It is four miles from the border of the
plantation to her front door. My host made a short cut by
taking the back road, and at last we reached The
Magnolias, a charming white house with many windows,
green blinds, and an ample gallery running across the wide
front. Mary was just
finishing her toilet and her buggy was waiting to go to Port
Glass to meet me. What a welcome she gave me! For, lo,
these many years I had been promising to come, and as they
rolled relentlessly on Mary had at last given up all faith in
my promises, but Scipio, never. Mary is not older than I am,
perhaps she is even younger, but she belongs more to the
past, having lived so much with her mother who had
received the old-fashioned romantic Southern education.
This accomplished lady played the guitar, sang pretty,
old-fashioned ballads to the end of her life, and spoke French
with a delightful Southern accent. She read a great deal of
poetry, knew Marmion and The Lady of the Lake by heart,
had exquisite manners, and was delicately pretty. She even
figured in a Book of Beauty of famous Southern women.
Living in the days when there were hosts of servants to do
everything, she knew nothing about the practical or domestic
part of life until after the death of her husband, when she
began to manage her own plantation.
Scipio, the foreman, was born on The Magnolias and
except for one or two trips to Vicksburg he has never left
the plantation. He can neither read nor write but
nevertheless he is a black gentleman and a very intelligent
man. He loves in theory the great world, and pictures of
London particularly delight him. When I send the Illustrated
London News to Mary, with dukes and duchesses in glad
array standing in the grounds of Buckingham Palace at a
garden party, Scipio's face is wreathed in smiles, he fairly
gloats over them. But he loves a ball better. Mary had a
lovely photograph of Queen Alexandra in a ball gown,
which mysteriously disappeared. She at once suspected that
Scipio had borrowed it, and when she issued an edict
saying that the
photograph must be recovered, it suddenly reappeared one
morning and Scipio looked pensive all that day.
I met Mary in New York on her annual shopping tour.
With her grand manner one might have thought that she
had a portly negro coachman and footman waiting outside
in a barouche for her numerous parcels, instead of having
to use like other strap-hangers a crowded Sixth Avenue
street car. I faithfully promised her then that this time in
America I would visit The Magnolias. But for twenty-five
years this promise had been given and not kept, so
naturally she was somewhat doubtful of my intentions and
she said more than once to Scipio, "I don't believe Miss
Betty's coming." Scipio never failed to answer confidently,
"Yes, she will, Miss Mary." "What makes you think so?"
Mary asked. "Why, Miss Mary," he said (looking at my
photograph), "she has got one of dem unforgittin' faces.
Look at dem eyes and de square set of dat jaw. She 's
gwine to come, and you better be gittin' ready for her, I tell
yo' dat right now."
Even in all the years when Mary ceased expecting me
Scipio kept faith, and when I wrote to her from New
Orleans saying I would be with her in a few days and she
told him, he said, "Well, thank de Lawd, we suttenly will be
gittin' de news from London now. Dat 's what makes me
say what I do say. Take dese people wid de unforgittin'
faces an' sooner or later you can always depen' on 'em."
The day before my arrival he noticed an engraving of
Queen Victoria at the time of her coronation and said to
his mistress, "Miss Mary, I 'm gwine to bring dat picture
of de Queen from de hall upstairs and hang it over de
mantelpiece in Mrs. O'Connor's room; it will make her
feel more at home and she won't be so lonesome
for England." Mary said Scipio regarded me as an
intimate friend of the Queen, and she had never been able
to disillusion him of the idea.
He is getting a little grey now; it troubles him, and he
said, "Miss Mary, I 'm gwine ter have a black silk cap to
wear at de table, 'cause Mrs. O'Connor is sho' not to like
grey hair."
"Why not?" said Mary. "She has grey hair of her own."
But Scipio was firm. He said:
"Nem-mine, she 's sho' not to like grey hair on a ole
nigger."
So at dinner the night I arrived, the big silver candelabra,
brilliantly burnished, holding half-a-dozen candles each,
were lighted in my honour, and Scipio, in spotless white
linen vest and coat, black trousers, and a neat black silk
skull-cap, waited at table with old-fashioned courtesy.
Next day Mary proposed that we should drive to an
adjoining plantation which had recently been bought by
some people from the West. Scipio looked very gloomy
when told to harness up the buggy. He said, "Miss Mary,
you don' want ter know dat 'ar person. She 's common."
Mary said, "Why, I saw the lady in church. She 's quite a
nice looking woman."
"Dat don't make no diffunce," said Scipio; "I tell you,
Miss Mary, she ain't yo' kine."
"How do you know that?" said Mary.
"A woman what don't know de faces of her own flowers
ain't wuth knowin'. An' dis here one don't know de Duchess
of Luxemburg from Marshal Niel. She don't know a
picayune from a Cherokee rose. She don't know love-lies-bleedin'
from heartsease."
Scipio did not notice the interruption, but went on,
"Nor do she know gillyflower from larkspur. No, ma'am,
Miss Mary, you kin be lonesome, but you don't want to
know dem folks. When I goes over dar for a errand she
axes me to introduce her to her own flowers. Now nothin'
kin be commoner dan dat. Why, part of being a lady is to
be kin' to flowers. I done seen yo' ma kiss one ob dem
fresh-faced Caroline Testers more dan once, I is dat."
Mary actually gave up the idea of making the
acquaintance of the lady of the flower garden, and Scipio,
as usual, won the day. Instead of a drive, we took a long
walk over the plantation without hats or gloves, meeting
but one person, a troubled, anxious darkey boy, driving a
fine, refractory black and white cow. She had been sold
by Scipio to a plantation seven miles away, and in a fit of
homesickness had deserted her calf and had come back to
The Magnolias.
Mary said, "It serves me right; I should never sell any
cattle. It breaks my heart to do it, but I thought we had
too many cows, and Scipio said we had better let just this
one go. Now we will have to buy her back again."
We called to Scipio, who came and gave a
Gargantuan laugh.
"Why, Miss Mary, dat 's de cow what you named
Psyche; I tole you no cow what was named dat funny
name could behave like udder cows. It 's a good job de
man ain't paid me for her an' all I got to do is to go over
an' fetch her calf."
The boy then explained that the cow was not the only
truant.
home too, we can't find him nowhere." And, sure enough,
not far away, with a rope dangling from his neck, was the
red steer grazing contentedly and switching his tail. "There
now," said Mary, "I will never sell another animal while I
live."
When we finished our walk I lingered on the balcony, for
the early spring flowers had just begun to bloom. The
honeysuckle and coral honeysuckle and little star jessamine
were making the air sweet with perfume, and in a plant at
the end of the balcony I recognised an old and long-sought-for
friend. "Mary," I said, "is n't this a night-blooming
jessamine?"
Mary answered:
Not think of thee! O friendship's bloom,
Is like the flower that shuns the light
Which only sheds a rich perfume,
When veiled in absence from the light.
"Then it is my long-lost darling," I said.
"I have spoken," replied Mary.
"And," I rejoined sadly, "I do so long to see it bloom
once again."
"Then stay," said Mary, "until it sheds a rich perfume."
"No," I said, "I can't wait now, but some day I will
come back in the month when the jessamine blooms, for
next to carnations I love best the night-blooming jessamine.
When I was a child and went to bed before it opened, my
mother always laid a spray of it on my pillow, and if I
awakened I instantly put my hand out to hold it to my face.
My Rose, when I am in London, often puts a flower beside
my bed, and when wakefulness comes, it is a fragrant
comforter. There are some
lovely things I want unchanged in heaven. I hope the
flowers will all be the same."
"Yes," said Mary; "the same flowers, and the same
birds and the same butterflies, and, oh, my dear, above all,
the same dearly loved and gone-before people."
That night after I had gone to bed, Scipio said, "Miss
Mary, Miss Betty" (he had dropped the Mrs. O'Connor),
"looks right young, don't she?" A peculiarity of his is that,
like children, he always wants the people he likes to be
young. So Mary answered with hesitation, for she knew it
would be a blow to him, "She is n't very old, but you know
she is a grandmother." Scipio winced. "For de Lawd's
sake, Miss Mary, she ought not to tell nobody dat! Why do
she? Anyway she is just as neat as if she was sixteen,
'cause I bin in her room and put some roses on her dressin'
table and I jes' took a look aroun'."
I told Scipio that later I was going to Vicksburg to pay
a visit. He said he hoped I would like it, that he did n't.
"Dey tells me de hotels is good in Vicksburg, but I think
dese here town darkies is mis'rable creatures; dey ain't got
no awes of de white folks. My Mammy brought me up to
have awes of white folks, and I think it 's jes' what a
darkey ought to have. Dem Vicksburg town ones, wid
brown boots an' great big teeth all filled up wid gole, I ain't
got no use for, and I tells dem dat myself when I goes to
Vicksburg. But I got a sister dat lives dere, she 's a mighty
good washerwoman and a mighty good woman. Miss
Mary will tell you dat. Her name is Lucinda Norton, and if
you wants her to wait on you I will get my niece to write a
letter for me."
The night after my arrival Mary and I went to a
negro wedding in the New Town Landing Baptist
Church. It was a very long entertainment, and would have
been much more magnificent, if the boll-weevil had not so
seriously interfered with the income of the various
participants. The church was crowded, with people standing
up even outside the door. Two seats in the first row had
been reserved for Mary and her guest. In a few moments
Mendelssohn's Wedding March was played by ear on a
melodeon. It was not quite Mendelssohn's Wedding March
but strongly reminiscent of it, with little independent twirls
and imaginative flights in between the original harmony.
Then Bacchus Top, the bride's father, and his daughter,
Blanche Evelyn Top, slowly advanced up the aisle, followed
by a bridesmaid and groomsman, the bride's mother, Mrs.
Bacchus Top, and Charlie Top, the brother. Blanche, in
spite of her name, was an indelible ink spot. She looked like
a pillar of soot clothed in diaphanous white swiss muslin, a
long white veil, a colossal wreath of orange blossoms
towering to a point in front like a cathedral, and large white
shoes with immense rosettes. She carried in her hand a
Bible covered in silver paper, evidently having heard that
smart brides now carry prayer-books. She presented a
wonderful figure, and certainly "Solomon in all his glory"
was never arrayed like that.
The bridegroom, a small, bandy-legged, pathetically
self-conscious, black negro, stood at the foot of the altar waiting
for Blanche. Large check trousers of brown and white
adorned his barrel-hoop legs; brown shoes, a black
swallow-tail coat, a white waistcoat, and a blue tie completed his
costume. The black preacher took the marriage license out
of his pocket and read it in a sonorous voice to the
congregation. This was to be a marriage "wid a pair of
licenses an' de book," not
a "takin' up" - I suppose to show that the marriage was
really a legal one. With due gusto and decorum he then
proceeded to unite Blanche Evelyn Top and Billy Brooks
in holy wedlock.
After the preacher had bestowed his blessing, a tall, jet-black
negro advanced, and delivered a short address. He
became very eloquent and some of the guests wept, while
Blanche Evelyn sobbed aloud, and Billy Brooks stood first
on one large brown foot and then on the other and looked
immensely uncomfortable. The orator said, "We gathers
here to witness this secret cirimony." (I turned to Mary
and said, "Why secret with about three hundred people in
the church?" Mary said, "My dear, you have been too
long in England; he means sacred.") "We fetches up a
daughter," he continued, "and we watches ober her day
an' night. She 's a good gal of fine elements, an' den when
she 's young, an' fresh an' tender, an' useful, we is
obleeged to give her up. A stranger comes an' she des
flies into dem arms of his 'n befo' you kin say 'Jack
Roberson.' " (Mary leaned over to me and said, "Billy
Brooks was born in the next cabin and has played with
Blanche Evelyn since they were six months old!") Loud
sobs came from Blanche Evelyn. The father, Bacchus
Top, ejaculated, "Now ain't dat de troof." And the
congregation said, "You spoke a parable."
The speaker continued: "When William S. Brooks fust
axed Bacchus Top fo' de hand ob Blanche Evelyn, he
declined de idea, but love gits ober de roughest places, he
don't keer fur jolts, not in de beginnin', anyway. In de een
Bacchus Top saw dat William Brooks had consumed his
time in a way dat was favourable to savin' a right smart
sum ob money, so he done gib his consent to de marriage,
an' dat 's how it come to take
place." (A few sniffles from the congregation, mothers and
fathers, I presume, of young and tender daughters.) "Yes,
frien's an' neighbours, an' young an' ole, an' rich an pore,
after dis here secret cirimony, de most secret condition in
de whole ob dis here roun' worl', arises for a man and a
woman, dey is jined togedder in holy wedlock as long as dey
live, unless dey git a divo'ce, and dis is somethin' which ain't
only occurred onct on Miss Mary's plantation, and not onct
since de boll-weevil is come, and even dough de boll-weevil,
please God, goes back to whar' he comes from, I hope it
will never happen agin. Well, all ob us knows dis here Billy
Brooks. He is a good man, I tell you, an' a splendid cotton
picker. We all knows Miss Blanche Evelyn as one ob dese
high fliers, but neber min', she 's young, an' dar 's nothin'
like matrimony to make a woman fly low instid ob high. An',
anyhow, she 's bin a good chile to her ma and her pa, and
she 'll be a good wife to Billy Brooks. He ain't like so
many husbands, a stranger from a' adjoinin' plantation; but a
man must always be a stranger to his wife till he 's married
to her; den he shows hissef as hissef, and den she shows
hersef as hersef, an' den sometimes de whole roun' worl' is
full ob trouble. So dough Blanche Evelyn and Billy Brooks
has knowed each other all dey lives, dey 's strangers till
Billy Brooks has showed hissef what he is an' what he 's
goin' to be, and Blanche Evelyn has showed hersef what
she is an' what she 's goin' to be. You all dun heerd ob de
man what got married an' when he tuk his wife home, he
got out a pair ob breeches an' laid dem on de baid. Den he
say to his wife, 'Look at dem, an' tell me who 's gwine to
wear 'em; ef it 's you, I wants to know it right now, 'cause it
will save a mighty heap ob trouble. Ef it 's me, I 'll keep
'em on dis time forward.' Now in dis
weddin' maybe needer Billy Brooks nor Blanche Evelyn
knows who 's agwine to wear dis garment but I does,
dough I ain't agwine to tell nobody; I ain't gwine to say a
word. But nebber min' who 's gwine to wear dem
breeches, I sho' does want dis here man an' dis here
woman in sperrit an' life, as long as dey libs together, dat
dey love each oder, dat dey 'll make a home de one for
de oder, an' pick cotton togedder and have children
togedder, and live to be ole people. 'Cause when married
folks lives togedder dese many years an' gits de habits ob
each oder, in de een dey 'll be one person. Dis is de good
luck an' de good fortune dat I wishes for Mr. and Mrs.
William S. Brooks."
He then unfastened a large gold cross from the neck
of Blanche and held it in his hand. A hymn was sung, the
bride and groom sat down, and two men advanced with
two very large washing baskets, one of them full and the
other empty. Mr. P. C. Hall, he of the "secret" discourse,
stepped down between the two baskets and held up in
front of the congregation the gold cross, with a
suspiciously large diamond in the centre. "Dis here, ladies
an' gentlemen, is from Miss Mary Davis, de owner of dis
plantation, an' mo' den dat, a sho' nuff lady, and the cross
am gole an' de diamond do shine." The cross was then
handed back to Blanche Evelyn, who adjusted it about her
neck. He next held up a small glass lamp and read on the
card, "Mrs. Joseph Langham to Mr. and Mrs. William
Brooks, an' de light shall shine, dat 's what we all hopes
for 'em, an' always nuff oil for it to shine wid."
He then exhibited a pair of heavy, unbleached cotton
sheets from Mrs. Delilah Young. "Dese here sheets is
strong and tough, dear sisters and brederin'; I only hopes
dat de love ob de bride an' groom is goin' to last
as long as what dese sheets is. It 'll take a many a year to
wear 'em out. Maybe some day, an' I hope it 'll be a long
day fo' de sheet an' de man, dey 'll be de windin' sheet ob
Billy Brooks." Billy Brooks shivered. The sheets were then
solemnly placed back in the basket. "An' here," said Mr.
Hall, "is de present ob de bride's ma, Mrs. Bacchus
Top" - a frying-pan, a teakettle, and a large sieve were held
up. "Dese things is fur de kitchen an' to encourage de bride
to stay in it, fur de most ob de time; dat 's where de wife
belongs, wid her fryin'-pans an' her teakittles an' her sieves,
an' when she ain't dar, wid her sewin' an' her mendin', she
ought to be waitin' wid a lovin' smile for her husband to
come home. But on his side he must n't keep her waitin' too
long; no, sir, when de fry is ready, dar 's whar he ought
to be."
The cooking utensils clattered into the waiting basket and
he held up a long pink envelope sealed with two pink flying
cupids. "Dis am de cheque from de bride's pa to her, an' it
don't make no difference what de amount is, de cheque am
here. De rest ob de people on dis plantation ain't got no use
for a bank, an' a bank ain't got no use for dem, but Mr. Top
made hissef into what might be called a citizen wid needs
for a bank, an' you can't get no furder den dis. He is got up
wid, an' befo', de bird an' de worm, he is toiled, he is a
shinin' mark for every big or little coloured man on de place
to follow." Loud applause with, "He is dat, amen!" from the
men, and "Hallelujah!" from the women. The envelope was
then carefully handed to Blanche Evelyn. Then two very
meagre towels were held up, with Mr. and Mrs. Zack
Foster's compliments. Mr. Hall smiled genially: "Now did
anybody eber see de beat ob dat? Brer Zack Foster suttenly
is a clean man,
an' he wants Billy Brooks to wash his hands as often as
he do."
Next came from Mr. Ned Bullen a lace collar with a
flattering remark about the beautiful neck of the bride.
This was followed by a long list of heterogeneous objects,
none of them in the least useful; therefore they gave
particular pleasure to the giver and the receiver and all of
them were held up to the audience and commented upon
as they were transferred from one basket to another.
The baskets were now removed, and Mr. and Mrs.
William S. Brooks turned about to receive the
congratulations of the guests. An enormous pink cake,
profusely covered with white roses, and a tray bearing
wine glasses were passed round with a distinctly heady
brand of wine. I only sipped a little, as it seemed
composed entirely of aromatic alcohol. We then helped
ourselves to a small portion of cake, congratulated the
bride and groom, and drove home in the beautiful spring
moonlight. I was vastly and tenderly amused by the
evening's festivities, which seemed to have transported me
back again to the scenes of my childhood.
My week with Mary was a visit all too short, for the
house was full of memories of the old South, old letters,
old engravings, old books, which I had no time to see
satisfactorily. It is curious how alike the tastes of Southern
people were. Every old library in the South, no matter how
meagre, contains Chambers' Journal, the copies all
bound in glossy yellow covers with a little border of green
leaves round the edge and a branch of green in the centre;
Byron, Moore, Keats, Shelley, Tennyson, Thackeray, a
complete set of Scott and Dickens, and several Books of
Beauty. I came across an adored one of my childhood
- Women of
Beauty and Heroism from Semiramis to Eugenie, with
charming engravings of Penelope, Beatrice, Jeanne d'Arc,
Isabella, Diane de Poitiers, Anne Boleyn, Mary Queen of
Scots, Pocahontas, Nell Gwynne, Lady Mary Wortley
Montagu, Marie Antoinette, Queen Victoria (rose in hair),
Charlotte Brontë, and the "Maid of Saragoza."
Her lover sinks - she sheds no ill-timed tear;
Her chief is slain - she fills his fatal post;
Her fellows flee - she checks their base career;
The foe retires - she heads the rallying host:
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost?
A good verse, with its martial ring, for the Suffragists.
All Southern races are instinctive lovers of poetry and
music. Lisa Lehman's "Persian Garden" from the
immortal Omar Khayyam is known and sung throughout
the South; and when I tell them she is a granddaughter of
Robert Chambers they feel that she is a well-known
friend.
Among a bundle of faded letters written by Mary's
mother to her father soon after they were married was one
dated on a Mississippi steamboat in 1857. She said:
"The journey has been perfectly delightful. The steamer
is large and luxurious, beautifully furnished, and the
staterooms are very comfortable. Several of our mutual
friends from the Delta have been at the landing stages to
say a word of welcome and give me bunches of roses. The
people on board are very interesting. Mr. and Mrs. George
D. Prentiss have a stateroom next mine. He is the most
brilliant talker I ever met, so witty, eloquent, and delightful.
Mrs. Prentiss runs her husband close in wit and they are an
excellent foil for each other and an example to all husbands
and wives inasmuch as they never spoil each
other's stories. You do not hear him say, 'On Tuesday last
I was walking down Fourth Street in Louisville, Kentucky,'
and Mrs. Prentiss interrupt him with, 'No, my dear, it was
Saturday afternoon.' As if it matters to the hearer when a
story is told whether the incident occurred on Saturday
afternoon, Sunday, Monday or Tuesday. After seeing the
Prentisses play into each other's hands with such
distinction and humour, never again will I correct you, my
dear, even if I know your story to be entirely of the
imagination, and if nothing in it happened on any day of
the week.
"There is a beautiful play actress on board, and her
husband is a handsome man with large dark eyes and a
Roman nose. They say his name is Booth and he comes
from England. They have lost their only son, a year old
babe, and they actually seem to be deeply grieved. I
would like, in a Christian spirit, to speak to her, but the
ladies on board would not understand my action, and it
takes courage, for you know none of my friends and
acquaintances have ever in their lives spoken to a play
actress."
Actors in those days were regarded as such pariahs, so
different and apart from the rest of the world, that
evidently this lady was greatly surprised at their suffering
grief like ordinary mortals. Fifty-four years, have,
however, reversed the position of the gentle chatelaine of
the plantation and the play actress of to-day. Now, this
lady's granddaughter would probably be waiting at the
wings to present a bunch of violets and an admiring letter
to a star, who, if capricious, would have no hesitation in
refusing to see her, for play actresses are no longer
pariahs and outcasts, but are veritable queens of the
world.
On the day of my departure, when I looked for the last
time at the pretty, sleepy old house, with its long roomy
verandah in its flowery setting of early spring
blossoms, my heart was full of regret and, absent-mindedly, I
brushed against the freshly painted fence. But Scipio was
quite equal to the occasion. He said, "Des a minute, Miss
Betty, while I des assassinate a flannel cloth in turpentine,
and I 'll take dat paint off your dress in a jiffy." And in the
twinkling of an eye the dress was cleaned and we started on
our journey.
The very thought of this is sweet;
What though the memory be fleet,
The sound, the odour, but a snatch?
It is the clicking of the latch.
REESE.
NEW TOWN LANDING is only a mile from The
Magnolias, and Mary offered to go with me to Natchez,
which would give us a day and a night on the river. The
landings on the Mississippi are not landings in the builders'
or architects' sense of the word, for, if nature and the river
do not make it, there is no landing at all, and at New Town
the bank of the river is so steep that it makes the bridge
almost perpendicular. With the deep brown water flowing
beneath and not even a rope to offer a sense of protection,
my courage failed me for a moment; but the captain and
chief mate ran up the plank, each gave me his arm, and
with my eyes fixed on the blue sky, I found myself quickly
deposited on deck. Mary, even more tremulous than I,
followed me with the same assistance.
There are now comparatively few passengers
travelling on these boats. The bends of the river, Palmyra
Lake, and the many landings where oil, bacon, meal, flour,
corn, ploughs, rakes, spades, and cotton are unloaded,
extend a journey of two hours by rail into one
of a day and a night by water. When I was a little girl and
my father brought me North to place me in a boarding
school, it was not so long after the war but that some of the
splendid steamers still plied their way up and down the
Mississippi. We were a week on board and, child as I was,
that mighty, uncontrolled river even then held a wondrous
charm for me, and I recollect the week of dancing and
singing and laughter and light and the gay people who only
went to bed at rosy dawn.
It was the last week in September, and the autumn
sunshine was of a most luminous gold. At night the river was
a veritable diamond-studded lake, while flaming torches
lighted the splendid dark forests standing in their myriad
hosts on the banks, and soft winds stole northward to us
from the Gulf of Mexico, bringing the sweetest odours of
honeysuckle and orange-groves, and the tonic breath of the
pines. We could almost hear the rustle of the lime trees on
the banks. The "roustabouts," or porters, were up all night, as we
stopped at the various landings, where we deposited barrels
of molasses and flour, cornmeal, sugar, coffee, whisky and
brandy, kegs of salt fish and pickles, and, for the richer
planters, all sorts and kinds of delicious condiments. The
rousters, like the jinriksha men, descend from one generation
to another. Tall, black, muscular, healthy, hearty, abnormally
strong specimens of manhood, they can pick up a barrel
weighing one hundred and ninety-six pounds and sling it on
their shoulders as easily as an ordinary man would handle a
baseball.
As soon as the sun went down, the banjo began to give
out its song as the night jessamine gives out its perfume.
One tall, dandified negro silenced the voices
on the deck above, as he picked up his banjo and sang:
Late in de fall de ribber mos' dry,
Water lie low and de banks lie high,
Bullfrog roll up his pants jes' so,
An' he wade acrost from sho' to sho'.
Oh, you gallernipper,
Down on de Mississipper,
Gallernipper,
Mississipper,
O-hi-O!
Water so shaller dat de eel can't swim
'Dout kickin' up de dus' in de middle o' de stream;
Sun shine hot, an' de catfish say,
'We 'se gettin' right freckle-faced down our way!'
Oh, you gallernipper....
I remember still every detail of our journey and my first
impressions of that wonderful stream of mystery and
charm, the slow-winding Mississippi - that river unique in
all the world, which can boast of a duel fought on account
of a sneering remark made about its greatness.
The authentic story says that about forty years ago the
Chevalier Tomasi, a very learned man, an academician,
who was living in New Orleans, published a statement
about this river. He said that technically he could stop the
river, make it deeper, or restrict it within scientific
boundaries. A fiery Creole remarked to Tomasi that he
was too sanguine about the management of the Mississippi,
as it was a very headstrong stream, as changeable, as
uncertain, and as fascinating as a woman. Apparently, the
Creator of the universe had rules for everything in the
world except that unique
body of water, which was a law unto itself. To this remark
Tomasi gave a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders, and
said with a sneer, "Oh, you Americans know nothing of the
geographical world; there are rivers in Europe so much
larger than the Mississippi that they make it by contrast a
mere creek." The Creole replied, white with rage, "Sir, I will
never, as a Louisianian, permit the great Mississippi to be
insulted in my presence." And he accompanied the remark
with the flirt of a glove in the Chevalier's face.
A challenge was the consequence. Seconds were chosen,
and the party repaired to the famous duelling ground of the
day, where the Creole wounded Professor Tomasi, mortally,
it was thought. Soon afterwards, however, the Chevalier
appeared in the street with a bandage about his jaw. He had
lost a good deal of blood, and was very pale. When asked
about the duel, he stripped off the bandage and it was seen
that the sword of the defender of the Mississippi had passed
across his mouth from one cheek to the other. The
Chevalier said, "I live, as you see, scarred for life, and my
antagonist lives. That is the fault of your miserable
American steel. My sword, when I gave him a deadly
thrust, bent as if it were made of lead." But there was no
one to defend American steel, and the Chevalier did not
fight a second duel.
And, although my time was limited, the allurement of the
mighty river called to me like the voice of a siren. There are
many fine plantations to be seen. The banks can boast of
primeval forests rich in game of every description. One
huntsman on board said he and a party of friends, ten or
twelve men, had killed twenty-nine black bears in one day.
There are numbers of trappers living in the woods who
make a good income
out of skunk and otter, beaver and coon, and the much-desired
grey squirrel.
Nevertheless, the life along the river is as intimate as
that of the Thames. Every planter knows the estate of
every other planter, and the familiar history for generations
of each family. "Davis Bend" is named for the master of
Brierfield, the plantation of Jeff Davis; "Ashfield" belongs
to Lady Ritchie, who married Sir James Ritchie; and
"Limerick" is so-called in honour of an Irish family.
Although it was dusk a tall beacon light announced the
landing of "Hard Times," a misnomer it seems, as the
owner was a millionaire, and travelled up and down the
river to superintend nine plantations. He lived during the
winter at "Winter Quarters."
"Yes," said Mary to the Captain, "there shines the
beacon at 'Hard Times' and all the family are dead. I
remember when I was going there to visit Mrs. Gillespie
she wrote to tell me that her husband would meet me at
the landing. She had gathered seventy varieties of roses
that day, to glorify the house for my coming."
"She loved roses, then," I said.
"Oh," said Mary, "she was the sweetest, daintiest
creature; she loved everything that was beautiful."
"They were about the richest people on the river,"
remarked the Captain.
"And yet," said Mary, "the early years of their married
life were dreadfully overshadowed. Mrs. Gillespie lost her
first three children. When they died Mr. Gillespie would
allow no hand to touch them but his own; he even carried
the little coffins in his arms to the grave. Then came the
last son, Jack, and he lived to grow up and was very
handsome and clever and charming, but he, too, died
young."
"Luckily," said the Captain, "his father and mother
had both gone before him. Mrs. Gillespie died from a
cold she contracted while making peach preserves on
a charcoal fire. It was in the autumn and she wore a
white muslin gown and got chilled, and never recovered
from an attack of pneumonia."
"Yes," said Mary, "she was one of those notable
housewives, who made their own preserves, and
preserved peaches in brandy and cordials, and cherry and
peach and apricot brandies. How delicious they were,
and what pride the old-fashioned Southern housekeeper
took in her still-room!"
My mind wandered back to the good old days when
the splendid opulent plantations were intact, and not
divided up into small holdings and leased as they are
now to the negroes. Nor was the boll-weevil known
then, that tragic insect, which has brought almost as
much distress upon the South as the Civil War, but
from which it is already nobly recovering.
But I was recalled to the present by a Mississippi man
who had been regarding me closely and steadily for at
least five minutes. He was, I learned afterwards, only
two years and six months old, and, like Napoleon, was
small of stature, but he made the most of his inches by
an erect and proud carriage. His face was perfectly
serious, not in the least sullen, but thoughtful. He wore
his hat, however, like a thorough rake. It was the
smallest Panama I have ever seen; it turned up all
round except for a pert peak in front, and he carried it
jauntily dangling on one ear. He was quite alone on
deck, no nurse or mother interfered with his complete
freedom. After his close scrutiny of me, although he
did n't smile I thought I detected an urbane expression
on his little square face, so I said, "How do you do?"
and put out my hand. He was a very long time taking it,
but finally he solemnly shook hands with me and then
retreated. In ten minutes he was back again to make a
second examination, which seemed more satisfactory than
the first. I said to him, "You are slow in making up your
mind, but I have an idea you would make a fast friend."
He said, "Oh, Ouch!" and again he promenaded the deck,
going to the extreme end of the steamer. After a short
meditation there, he returned and standing as straight as a
little soldier before me, he said, "Up!" I gathered him in
my arms, sat him on my knee, smoothed his tow head,
placed his hat at a more serious angle, and thus our
acquaintance began. "I thought," I said, "that rakish hat
meant something." He grinned, showing at the time a
good set of strong little teeth, and pointing to a negro
carrying a barrel said, "Nigger work." Then I gave him my
watch, which has a good loud introductory tick, and it
just fitted his ear. For quite ten minutes that amused him,
and the knife and a red lucky bean in my bunch of charms
found great favour in his eyes. At the end of this
examination a new treasure was discovered, my little
brown leather bag, bought for me by my dear faraway
English Rose in Wiesbaden. It opened and shut with a
loud snap. I opened it, he shut it, and this game we
played for some interesting moments. Finally, he dived
into its contents and found a small pair of scissors in a red
leather case. Oh joy! he could hold them in his small
fingers, they just fitted and yet were safely closed. He
was now conversational, trusting, and happy.
The Captain said, "It looks like war with Mexico."
manage these Dagos. He made things all right with
Cuba."
"Cuba! Ba!" said the Mississippi man, greatly astonished.
Then his father appeared and said, "See here, young
man, I 've been a-lookin' for you. I thought you 'd went
overboard."
"No," said the child.
"I 'm mighty glad you ain't," said the father. "Maw wants
to wash your face. Come now, the lady' s tired, come along,
Albert."
Albert stiffened. "No, I won't go."
His father said, "I ain't never seen sich a child. We ain't
got no neighbours. Albert 's been brought up on a plantation,
he ain't never seen no people till to-day, and he ain't but two
years and six months old, but he ain't afraid of nothin' on
earth, neither bulls, nor cows, nor horses, nor people. He
ain't never seen a boat till to-day but he do just like he
owned the boat, an' now he 's doin' just like he owned you.
He 's slow to make up his mind, but he dun made it up 'bout
you, an' he likes you just the same as he does his maw.
Now, son, stop lissenin' to the watch an' shut up the bag, an'
come an' see brother Robert."
"No," said Albert doggedly, "no Wobbert."
"Listen to him," said his father, "he just loves Robert.
Here," giving him a five-cent piece, "take this nickel to
Robert." Albert took the nickel and with an enchanting
smile presented it to me. "May I keep it?" I said to the
father, "in remembrance of a very brave little gentleman?"
"Yes, ma'am," said the father, "an' shore he is. I 've yet
got to see Albert afraid of any livin' thing. He 's little, but he 's
game all through, an' he 's got a
heap of sense an', more, that chile 's got judgment. Come
on, son, mother 'll be searchin' for us in a minute."
And Albert wept at our parting, not angrily like the
ordinary child, but a few, self-repressed, strong, manly
tears.
Later he came back of his own accord to kiss me
good-bye. He was n't a cuddling, appealing child. He will
not win friends by his charm, but by his straightforward
honesty, his wonderful courage, and supreme confidence.
He is one of Mississippi's smallest sons, and he comes of
the people, but he already does credit to the State. The last
I saw of him he was trotting behind his mother, a tuft of
his tow hair sticking out beyond the peak of the Panama
hat, which had resumed its saucy angle. His father,
carrying the baby, offered him his hand, but he declined it
and walked alone. Perhaps some day Albert will be a
great soldier, or a great statesman, or even President of
the United States.
In the evening Mary and I sat late on deck. It was the
17th of March, and the Captain, who was of Irish descent,
gave me a small brooch containing a figure of St. Patrick
in porcelain surrounded by a little silken wreath of
shamrock, and the flag of Erin was hung in the cabin. I
think there was more real sentiment for St. Patrick along
the banks of the Mississippi than in the East. A young
journalist on The Herald describing to me a St. Patrick's
day parade in New York said, "It is wonderfully
democratic and is carried out in the widest catholic spirit.
First, there will be one Irishman and two Jews, then two
Irish and four Greeks, then four Irishmen and two Turks
and two Armenians, then six Irishmen and ten Italians and
a scattering of Germans; all of them wearing large
bunches of shamrock, and nobody knowing why the
Dickens they have got it on;
but what they do know is there will be "lashins" of drink
towards nightfall, one or two good, stirring fights, and any
number of broken heads. So they all enjoy themselves,
though it is Babel, for they cannot speak each other's
tongue."
Although the boats are no longer splendid on the
Mississippi, the charm of the great river is there. The
splendid flaming sunsets of ruddy gold and deepest rose and
purest violet blaze in the west and turn the water into lakes
of living fire, and the rousters still play and sing on the lower
deck after nightfall begins. A good baritone lifted up his
voice tunefully in:
Adam neber had no mammy
Fur to take him on her knee
And tell him what was right, and show him
Things he 's ought to see.
I know, down in my heart,
He 'd a' let dat apple be;
But Adam neber had no dear old mammy.
Adam neber had no childhood,
Playin' round de cabin do',
He neber had no pickininny life,
He started in a great big grown-up man, and what is mo',
He neber had no right kind of a wife.
Even in this little ballad Eve bears more than her share of
the blame. "He neber had no right kind of a wife." Possibly
not, but Adam was a weak creature. He needed no
temptation, he was just as ready as he could be for that
apple, and even a woman with a strong will who would have
forbidden him to eat it could not have stopped him. If he
had been as contrary as many men, just to show his
independence of character, he would have eaten two apples
instead of one.
My room on the steamer was very comfortable. It was
furnished with a double brass bedstead, a chest of drawers, an
ample washstand, and, notwithstanding the noise at the
landings, I slept well. Next morning we arrived in good time at
Natchez. Mary is a great lover of poetry, and she roused me
quite early saying, "Get up, sleepyhead; here we are in
Natchez-under-the-hill." I was very regretful at being disturbed in my
unusual slumber, and grumbled, "And what of Natchez-under-the-hill?"
"My dear," she said, "don't you remember that
illustrious gentleman, Jim Bludso?'
" 'He were n't no saint; them engineers
Is pretty much alike,
One wife in Natchez-under-the-hill
And another one here in Pike.' "
"Well," I said, "well."
" 'All boats has their day on the Mississippi,
And her day came at last,
The Movastar was a better boat
But the Belle she would n't be passed;
And so she came tearin' along that night,
The oldest craft on the line,
With a nigger squat on her safety-valve,
And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.
The fire bust out as she clar'd the bar,
And brunt a hole in the night,
And quick as a flash she turned and made
For that willer-bank on the right.
There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out
Over all the infernal roar,
"I 'll hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last galoot 's ashore."
Through the hot, black wreath of the burnin' boat,
Jim Bludso's voice was heard,
And they all had trust in his cussedness
And knowed he would keep his word.
And, sure 's you 're born, they all got off
Afore the smokestacks fell,
And Bludso's ghost went up alone
In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.
He were n't no saint but at jedgment
I 'd run my chance with Jim,
'Longside of some pious gentleman
That would n't a-shook hands with him.' "
"Mary," I said, reproachfully, "I think poetry before
breakfast is unbearable."
She said, "It is n't before breakfast; here is a cup of
coffee I 've brought you with my own fair hands. It will put
you in a good humour at once."
"I remember," I said, "that my father was once blown up
in a Mississippi steamboat, just about here at Natchez.
There is a legend in the family that he owed his transparent
colour to the accident. His skin before that was somewhat
dark and sallow, but after he had been scalded and
parboiled, it all peeled off and he came out with a beautiful
pink and white complexion. Not only that, but he was a
hero, having pushed a woman and her little boy into his
place in the lifeboat; therefore he shared the fate of the
captain and the sailors when the boat was blown up. He
said the last recollection he had of anything was of a
Methodist clergyman rushing up and down the deck with his
child in his arms, screaming, 'O God, save me and my little
boy! O God, save me and my little boy!' As to the fate of
the other little boys and the people on the boat he was
supremely
indifferent, if God would only save him and his little boy.
My father was fished up out of the river in an insensible
condition, terribly burned, and carried to shore, where he
was nursed in kindly fashion for weeks by the family of a
planter. Except for one or two scars on his beautiful hands
there was nothing to tell of the disaster."
Natchez was before the war one of the richest places
on the Mississippi, and it is certain in time to recover its
prosperity. There is no place on the river with more
beautiful natural advantages. The high bluffs slope sharply
down to the broad and impressive water and there are any
number of splendid ante-bellum houses that speak of its
former riches and importance. For that reason, probably,
William Edward West settled here as a portrait painter. He
was the artist who afterwards painted Byron in his "sky-blue
bombazine and Camelot frock coat," and the Countess
Guiccioli, with her romantic appearance and hair of deep
auburn colour, flowing over her shoulders in profuse
ringlets. He also painted Rebecca Gratz, the original of
"Ivanhoe," Washington Irving having inspired Sir Walter to
this romance by his praise of the young American Jewish
girl who had parted from her adored Christian lover rather
than give up the faith of her fathers. Another of West's
delightful portraits was one of Mrs. Hemans, and he
painted the genial, kindly Washington Irving, with a slight
cast in his eye, which he undoubtedly had, for West was
true to life. Among the numerous portraits of famous
persons left by him, the chef d'oeuvre is that of Shelley.
This, painted after years of serious study abroad, was in
Richmond, but I scarcely expected to see it.
something of art. They saw the talent of West, but also that
he could not draw, and his portrait of Doctor Brown sent
him to that fount of all inspiration, Italy, where he became
not only a good draughtsman but mastered his art.
An ante-bellum home in Natchez of special note is that of
Mrs. Benneville Rhodes. It was built by her great-grandmother
and the architecture is of the simplest but is
also the most satisfying and best. The hall, probably forty
feet long, and proportionately broad, runs the whole length of
the house. On one side of it is the drawing-room. The walls
are covered with old-fashioned white and gold French
paper. The enormous windows are curtained with dull
yellow brocade, the velvet carpet has a white ground with a
design of amber and old rose, and the furniture is of carved
rosewood, so beloved in the old South. The room, wisely left
to its own dignity, is not overcrowded in the modern fashion
by little fancy objects having no relation to the period of the
furniture, and the result is a sense of peace and repose.
Across the hall is a music-room, the great dining-room, the
library, and, in Southern fashion, an unusually wide gallery
runs from one end of the house to the other. The house
although standing in the town of Natchez is set in a beautiful
park of sixty-five acres, wooded with splendid specimens of
giant live-oaks, softly draped with pennants of moss. The
garden contains a miniature copy of the Maze at Hampton
Court, and is sweet with myriads of roses and all the
old-fashioned flowers.
The family who inhabit this beautiful old place complete
the picture. The eldest daughter, with her satin complexion,
regular features, and fair shining hair worn back from her
white forehead à la pompadour, is
like nothing so much as an exquisite Dresden statuette.
The youngest daughter, with dark hair, well-marked
eyebrows, brilliant dark eyes, dressed in simple white
muslin, blue sash, white stockings, and the tiniest of black
velvet slippers, looked as if a modest heroine of Jane
Austen's had stepped out of one of the old English
portraits hanging in the hospitable hall.
This was not Jim Bludso's Natchez-under-the-hill but a
very aristocratic, fine flavoured, Natchez-over-the-hill. In
our drive about the lovely old town, Mr. Rhodes directed
my attention to the magnificent view beyond the river, the
bluish hills in the extreme distance, and one or two softly
wooded islands, surrounded by the pink haze of a perfect
sunset. He said, "Now and then I throw off the fetters of
civilisation and that is where I go hunting and fishing.
There is an occasional bear to be found, with deer, hares,
ducks, and plenty of birds and wild turkeys. And nothing
so rests my spirit and puts me in such good temper as a
solitary two weeks' hunt, for in every American there is
a trace of the Indian hunter."
A little "toot" reminded us that the train was coming
and we wended our way to the station. "Don't forget,"
said Mr. Rhodes, as I got into the train, "that you promised
to send those English broad beans. I want to see what I
can do with them in the South."
I replied, "I 'll remember. I 'm Old Reliable. But don't
you forget to give them plenty of water, for everything
grown in England is accustomed to humidity."
I have sent the beans, and am some day to know how
they like American soil.
Of friendship one can never lightly speak;
It is the eye of Heaven to the soul;
Without it life were pitiless and bleak,
And wanton self in us lost to control. . . . . . .
O friend, be thou my mirror, and advise
How best my soul may please thy watchful eyes.
LILIAN STREET.
THERE has never been a country in the whole world where
the flower of friendship has blossomed so luxuriantly, or
breathed such a sweet perfume as in the South. The whole
conditions of life have lent themselves to the growth of this
grateful and blessed plant. Before the war, the opulent
hospitality, the many servants, the rigid line drawn between
the upper and the lower classes led to constant
intermarriage between the old families, and to an intimacy so
close as virtually to establish a kinship. Then came those
terrible years of bloodshed that prostrated and impoverished
the entire land, but they brought out the tenderness, loyalty,
inborn pride, and endurance of the Southern character.
Through all the darkened atmosphere burned a clear white
flame, as strong and pure and steady as though lighted by
the hand of a saint on a holy altar - the light of friendship.
There was no
luxurious comfort or material benefit now, only
self-sacrifice, unspoken tenderness, and sympathy silently
expressed - words would have brought tears, and for a
proud heart and soul a covering is necessary. So, poor and
weary and sad and broken, the South was still richer in love
than any other country. War had devastated the land; the
flowers in the garden were dead; but the flower of
friendship, watered by long years of blood and tears,
bloomed brighter than ever, for sentiment is indestructible.
And to-day, nearly half a century since the war, this tender
plant still blooms hardily and tropically in the South. The
thick leaves rustle and move to announce the coming of
this rich blossom of the heart.
When in Vicksburg I met Harris Dickson for the first
time, and the flower of friendship quickly bloomed for us.
Perhaps an aid to our rapid understanding was his relief in
finding that I did not answer to the description given him
by a passenger who had crossed on the steamer with a
namesake of mine. She described me as a "lady who wore
a green satin dress, gave lectures on the Celtic language,
and was surrounded by admirers of the opposite sex."
Harris Dickson found me wearing a reliable English blue
serge, surrounded by solitude, very eager to listen, - to
learn and not to lecture. After some days he asked me
what I thought was a peculiar question.
"Have you a green satin dress?"
"No," I said, "but if you like a green satin dress I
can get one."
"And," he asked, "do you lecture on the Celtic
language?"
"I lecture on nothing," I said, "and the only thing I know
on the subject is that when George Moore was
temporarily an enthusiastic Irishman he issued an edict to
his sister-in-law for his two nephews to learn the Celtic
language under pain of disinheritance."
"Then," said he, "you were not the lady who crossed
the Atlantic in a green satin dress, delivered a lecture on
Celtic lore, and was vastly admired by my sex?"
"No," I said, "I have no lore. I know too much for the
professional charmer, too little for the intellectual man, and
nothing for the politician, so my friends among your exacting
sex are few."
"Then where," he said, "do I come in?"
"You," I said, "are already in, through the open door of
the South."
We talked together for two days, almost without ceasing.
I told him of my temerity in writing a book about the South.
"My only equipment is twenty-five years of
homesickness," I explained.
He looked kind and encouraging. "Well, never mind," he
said. "Your equipment might be worse. Write the book;
have it typed with wide margins; send it here and I will
look it over and give you any suggestions that occur to
me."
"Do you mean to say," I asked, "that you are going
to edit my book?"
He smiled. "That 's what it looks like," he answered. And
the bud of the flower of friendship burst into grateful
blossom. Why should a busy, talented writer offer to take
such infinite trouble? Because he recognised in me a
woman of the old South, the South of appeal, of
helplessness, while he is a man of the young South, the
South of helpfulness, of progress, and still, thank Heaven, of
impulsive generosity.
"Would you like to see the old quarters where I began
my career as a very youthful stenographer of twelve?"
I said, "Certainly I should, and I am sure you were
quite a decent stenographer, even at that age."
"Well, if I hadn't been," he said, "they would have
turned me down."
"How I envy you people versed in stenography," I
said. "It is one of the most useful things in the world for
every writer, every journalist, and every thinker. The mind
receives no better drilling than the study of shorthand. It is
woman's best friend, and it is no less useful to man."
"You speak," he said, "like a sage in a copy-book."
In the meantime we had arrived at the Court-House,
and as the court was not sitting we could wander over it
at our own sweet will. The old janitor was at the door.
Harris Dickson said, "You must stop and speak to him;
he is one of the best-mannered gentlemen in the town."
The Court-House is a fine classical building, and it had
the quiet and restfulness about it of concentrated thought,
and moreover there was the delightful odour of books and
papers that I remember as a little girl, for I drove to court
every morning with my father, who very often took me
into one of the court-rooms for a few moments before he
kissed me good-bye and sent me home with my mammy.
My father had the same passionate tenderness for me
that George III gave to his little daughter, the Princess
Amelia, and like her
Unthinking, idle, wild and young,
I laughed and danced and talked and sang,
And proud of health, of freedom vain,
Concluding in those hours of glee
That all the world was made for me.
Amelia died young, the world was not made for her. Nor
was it made for me, as I was soon to find out, through the
severe and continual discipline of my stepmother, Fate. But
even she cannot rob me of memory, and every trifle
connected with my father is inexpressibly dear to me, and
so I have an affection for all the old court-houses.
"Don't you want," said Harris Dickson, "to see the
pictures on the walls? There is one of Sergeant Prentiss."
"Mr. Prentiss?" I said. "Why, my father knew him
well." And I quickly climbed on a chair to get a better view of
the fine, lean face, with the wonderful, penetrating, spiritual
eyes and the aquiline nose.
"Do you remember," I said, "the description of him by
Henry Wise of Virginia? 'His eyes were set deep in his
head, large, clear, full of animation and hidden fires. When
looked into, they returned the glance, which, like that of
Lara, "dared you to forget." ' "
"Yes," he said, "and even after half a century, in this
dim old portrait those eyes still 'dare you to forget.' "
I remember quite well my father reading me, for he was
himself a man of peace and sweet reason, Prentiss's
"Eulogy on Lafayette," in which he said: "Napoleon was the
bright fiery comet, shooting wildly through realms of space,
scattering terror and pestilence among nations; while
Lafayette was a pure and brilliant planet beneath whose
grateful beams the mariner directs his barque and the
shepherd tends his flocks. Napoleon died, and a few of the
old warriors of Marengo and Austerlitz bewailed their chief;
Lafayette died, and the tears of the whole civilised world
attested the mourning for his loss."
famous address in New Orleans in 1847 on behalf of the
Irish, asking for money for the famine? He said, 'Freely
have your hearts and your purses opened heretofore to the
call of struggling humanity; nobly did you respond to
oppressed Greece and suffering Poland. Within Erin's
borders is an enemy more cruel than the Turk, more
tyrannical than the Russian. Bread is the only weapon that
can conquer that enemy. Send bread, load your ships with
this glorious ammunition, and wage war against this
despot - Famine. Let us, in Christ's name, cast our bread upon the
waters.' "
"He possessed," I replied, "the eloquent oratory of the
South. He was a true Southerner, and never forgot how
Mississippi opened her arms and welcomed him when he
arrived, an unknown young lawyer. His character was so
complex I wonder no one has made him the hero of a novel.
Henry Wise said of him, 'Every trait of his noble mind was
in excess. His very virtues leaned to faults, and his faults
themselves were virtues, so combined was he of all sorts of
contradictions, without one characteristic which did not
contradict and charm. He was naturally a spendthrift, yet of
sound judgment and great discretion. He had the least
charity for any kind of baseness and meanness, and the
greatest charity for the unceasing weakness of human
nature. He was learned in classical lore, and not a pedant.
He was brave to foolhardiness, but would not hurt a flower.'
What a fascinating combination! What a psychological
study!"
"And now," said Harris Dickson, "that we have
exhausted the Court-House, what about a look at the
Military Park?"
We talked of other things on our way there, and I was
unprepared for the splendid commemoration of that
long and bloody siege of three months, when in 1863, in the
very sight and sound of home, the Confederate army fought
every inch of ground with wonderful precision and prowess,
making a heroic and brilliant defence until, undermined by
saps and outlying approaches, they were gradually folded in
the vise-like and deadly embrace of the Federal artillery
until every man had to choose between death and
surrender.
For sixty days and upwards
A storm of shell and shot
Rained round us in a flaming shower,
But still we faltered not.
'If the noble city perish,'
Our brave young leader said,
'Let the only walls the foe shall scale
Be the ramparts of the dead!'
For sixty days and upwards
The eye of Heaven waxed dim;
And e'en throughout God's holy morn
O'er Christian prayer and hymn
Arose a hissing tumult,
As if the fiends in air
Strove to engulf the voice of faith
In the shrieks of their despair.
What an indescribable thrill of emotion this battleground,
once dyed with blood, gave me, in spite of the beauty of its
soft, misty valleys and high green hills overlooking the wide
brown waters of the Yazoo and the Mississippi. If war is
man's inevitable lot, as Homer Lea says it is, then this site,
with its natural redoubts and fortifications, its strategic
location for cannon, its unexpected windings and
safeguarded retreats, was made for war. There are now
one hundred and twenty-seven
guns in the Park, sixty-five of them Union and
sixty-two Confederate guns, a hundred and fourteen field
guns on light carriages and thirteen heavy guns on siege
carriages, the replica of those used during the defence.
There are eight hundred and ninety-six tablets each giving
an account of the siege from one side or the other, with the
number of killed, wounded, and saddest of all, missing.
Many white stones are scattered about, each one marking
the position occupied by one thousand men. There are
splendid monuments, marble shafts, columns, and statues of
the different Confederate and Federal generals. When the
Park is finished each brigade, division, and corps
commander - Confederate or Union officer - will be
placed in the line of his command during the siege and
defence. The siege then will be set in such order that a
child will understand it.
When the twilight fell it was easy to imagine the lines of
grey mist were the Confederate troops, while the long blue
shadows moving steadily against them were the Union
army. There never was more desperate fighting than on this
battlefield. Mississippi lads, young boys of fifteen and
sixteen, would look towards Vicksburg, almost within the
sound of their mothers' voices, and ask, when mortally
wounded, to be carried back to the trenches, where they
could die fighting. One boy of sixteen lost both legs below
the knee by a shell. After the blood was staunched he
begged for a trench and a gun, and fought on, and still he
fought - until a merciful bullet pierced his gallant heart.
Even in the midst of carnage there were some grimly
amusing incidents. General Grant says in his Memoirs:
On the 25th of June at three o'clock, all being ready, the
mine was exploded. A heavy artillery fire all along the line
had been ordered to open with the explosion. The effect
was to blow the top of the hill off and make a crater where
it stood. The breach was not sufficient to enable us to pass a
column of attack through; in fact the enemy, having failed to
reach our mine, had thrown up a line farther back, where
most of the men guarding that point were placed. There
were a few men, however, left at the advance line, and
others working in the countermine, which was still being
pushed to find ours. All that were there were thrown into
the air, some of them coming down on our side still alive. I
remember one coloured man, who had been underground at
work when the explosion took place, who was thrown to our
side. He was not much hurt, but terribly frightened. Some
one asked him how high he had gone up, "Dunno, massa,
but t'ink 'bout three mile," was his reply. General Logan
commanded at this point and took this coloured man to his
quarters, where he did service to the end of the siege.
And while the soldiers fought on land, the sailors
cannonaded from the water. The very air was black with
smoke, shells whistled, rushed, and exploded in the air,
sending pieces of iron like javelins to deal death wherever
they found the mark. The clank of the artillery's ceaseless
slow move, the loud roar of cannon, the scream of the
coehorns from the barges, and the sudden explosion of the
shells, made such a diabolical noise that many men became
temporarily deaf. There are one thousand two hundred and
eighty-eight acres of ground, and almost every foot of these
thirty miles of land has at one time or another been wet
with blood. For it was the fighting line of a three months',
long drawn out, ragged, intermittent, desperate battle. And if
it had not been for the steady, cool, persistent,
dogged courage of General Grant the siege would have
lasted longer even than sixty days. Day and night he
worked his army, digging saps, toiling in the trenches,
marching corps after corps of cavalry, infantry, and
artillery towards that superhumanly invincible, steady grey
line, until they planted their colour staffs on more than one
Confederate redoubt. His kind and noble heart must have
suffered to see the Confederate soldiers who fought, many
of them young boys, but they died like men, with their
faces turned towards Vicksburg. Their battle was fought
at home, there was no need to fire these young hearts with
"I live and die in Dixie." They had lived in it all their lives,
and the most glorious of all deaths was to die for it.
Vicksburg the town suffered horribly, too, with gunboats
at her side, their guns pointing towards her very heart, the
coehorns in the barges screaming until her brain was
paralised, shells bursting everywhere, making holes in the
sides of houses, burning others to the ground. It was,
indeed, a pitiful town on the day of the final surrender.
"Come up here and see this fort," said Harris Dickson;
"there is a legend that it has been a fortified position under
six flags. First, it was an Indian fort. The French took it
from them, and ceded it to the Spaniards; then the
Spaniards ceded it again to France. Later it became a fort
of the British empire, then a fort of the Thirteen Colonies,
as it was the western edge at that time of the colony of
Georgia. The Confederates fortified the place, and after
the surrender of Pemberton the Stars and Stripes once
more floated over it."
"Look," I said, "what lovely anemones are growing
here; they are a purple red."
" 'I sometimes think that never blooms so red
The rose as where some buried Caesar bled.' "
We walked higher up the hill towards the Illinois
memorial, a splendid dome of pure marble with a long flight
of steps at the entrance. The inner wall is lined with tablets
of bronze bearing the names of thirty-five thousand soldiers
from the State of Illinois who took part in the campaign and
siege of Vicksburg. As we stood inside the dome two old
men slowly entered, poor and shabby, evidently failures in
life; but they were once young and heroes on this field, for
slowly and hesitatingly they traced with toil-worn fingers
long columns of names until they found their own. In all else
they had fallen short, but they were on the roll-call of
glory! It saddened us to see them, they so embodied the
relentlessness of Fate.
We got out into the fresh air and walked to the monument
of the State of Wisconsin. It is a tall marble shaft,
surmounted by a splendid war eagle, his wings not
outstretched but folded close against his body. He sits
sternly brooding, with his fierce head in clear profile. The
First Wisconsin regiment carried an eagle all through the
war. He often perched on the colour staff, and was such a
very intrepid and manly bird that they called him after
President Lincoln "Old Abe." But when he returned after the
disbandment of the troops to Wisconsin and was
comfortably housed, fed, and placed in a cage with other
eagles, he promptly laid a restful of eggs and unblushingly
hatched them out like any ordinary mother. The eagle was
only a vivandière after all, but a clever one to deceive a
regiment by her brave daring and masculine courage, and
she is not the only
female who has fought through an entire war without
her sex being discovered.
The first monument erected in the Park by the State
of Massachusetts was conceived and executed by a
woman, Mrs. H. H. Kitson, and is perhaps the most
beautiful of them all. On a large natural boulder a young,
tall, vigorous soldier in undress uniform, peaked cap, and
musket carried carelessly over his shoulder, steps
buoyantly along, with a long free stride, showing the young
sap and splendid joy of life. His open, candid, boyish face
looks like that of a mountaineer, and the tilt of his head is
brave and confident. It is an attractive figure, so full of
movement and vitality that it brings the horror of war and
death tragically before you.
The setting sun had turned the brown water of the
Mississippi River to a wide lake of gold, the green, rolling
hills and beautiful purple valleys were sending out sweet,
thin scents of early spring, as we walked home. Harris
Dickson's house is ideally situated on the edge of this
beautiful Park, and we found Mrs. Dickson, his mother,
waiting for us. She is a remarkable woman, and her son
inherits much of his talent, and certainly his great heart,
from her. She is full of love, the love of the mother - above
all of the mother and of Home; the love of heroes,
of poor folks, of friends and neighbours, and of all the little
womanly things of life.
She said to me, "After the war we were very poor, but I
have never been too poor for flowers, for friends, and for
books." And what a prodigious memory is hers! She is an
encyclopædia of Thackeray, and is familiar with every
character in Dickens.
"If I went to England," she said, "I would n't go first to
Westminster Abbey, but would wander out
alone to see Dickens' London, to commune in spirit with all
the friends he gave me and that I have loved so well. I
would like to see the places where they have lived and
loved and suffered and rejoiced and died. Ah, poor Lady
Dedlock!"
"Bleak House," I said, "I know well and have read a
score of times, for my father fell so in love with Lady
Dedlock's daughter that he begged my mother to call me
Esther Summerson after her. But my mother's beloved
sister, my aunt Elizabeth Beale, had given her only daughter,
Marcia, my mother's name, and instead of Esther I was
named Elizabeth after my aunt."
"Do you know Dickens' London?" asked Mrs. Dickson.
"No," I said, "I am ashamed to say I don't."
"When you return to England," she asked, "will you go
for me into Buckingham Street, where David Copperfield
'settled himself in a suite of rooms including a little half-blind
entry where you could see hardly anything; a little stone-blind
pantry, where you could see nothing at all, a sitting-room,
and a bedroom'? And then go and see the
Marshalsea, where little Dorrit was born."
I said, "I have walked under the beautiful old arches of
the Temple where Tom Pinch worked for a mysterious
employer, and I 've seen 'Fountain Court all dappled in the
spring's sunlight,' where Ruth Pinch used to meet her
brother every day on his way home from work, and where
one day John Westlock was passing too, and I 've often
been in the Paper Building where Mr. Chester had
chambers."
"That," said Mrs. Dickson, "is where Sydney Carton
went after the trial of Darnay. I have just read A Tale of
Two Cities for the twentieth time; it is a terrible and graphic
picture of the Reign of Terror in France,
and a tender and touching story of the self-sacrifice of
Sydney Carton - 'Greater love hath no man than this, that
a man lay down his life for his friends.' But so many of my
friends lived in London - the impecunious Micawber,
poor Barnaby Rudge, Little Nell and her grandfather, Miss
Flite, who went about with her bag of papers and only
lived for the celebrated case of Jarndyce v. Jarndyce.
And you must find for me the site of the Old Maypole inn,
which a century ago was twelve miles from London.
Perhaps the village gossips meet there still and tell tales of
the neighbouring gentry over their tankards of ale."
I always think that it is n't reading so much that matters,
it is remembering. All her life Mrs. Dickson has been
doing both. Living in Vicksburg and scarcely ever out of
it, she has journeyed the world over in books of travel and
is a woman of wide interests and cultivation.
The night was cool, we had a little crackling wood fire,
and Harris Dickson, in his charming voice, and in the
negro dialect I love so well, read me the first of "Old
Reliable's Busy Days," one of his many perfect pictures of
the utterly inconsequent life of the negro evolved by
freedom.
"And is there," I asked, as the reading ended, "an Old
Reliable in the flesh?"
"Yes," said Harris Dickson. "There is. He 's a discovery
of my wife's. Her description of him was so graphic it
gave me the inspiration."
"His experiences," I asked, "what of them?"
"They, of course, are purely imaginary," he said.
"But quite possible," I said, "and indigenous to the
South. Zack Foster is a word portrait of the present-day
negro, lazy, irresponsible, untrustworthy, with no
sense of duty, and yet amusing and forgivable. Where is it
all going to end?"
"Ah, where indeed?" said my kind host; "and that knotty
problem cannot be solved to-night."
I had completely forgotten the hour in my great
enjoyment of the reading. I said good-night, and, while I
slept, dreamt of Old Reliable knocking at my door and
saying, "Colonel Spottiswoode is downstairs to see you. He
say you 's his own blood kin," and I awoke, sorry to find it
only a dream.
I love Old Reliable, and can perfectly understand his day
of unexpected vagaries. Later in the spring when I went to
New York, to make myself keep an important engagement
in Washington, as well as to save an honest penny, I bought
a return ticket. My last day of grace, I lunched with Sally
Nixon and stayed a week. Of course I had a powerful
inducement - Sally, like Little Boy Blue, has only to blow
her horn, and I would follow her to the ends of the earth, for
she is a constant, clear, joyous, bubbling, healing spring of
wit. When I am with her I laugh and eat, and under that
hospitable roof I even sleep. What a mine of wealth she has
been to her husband, the most tactful of wives, the most
inspiring of comrades.
In my experience and observation of hostesses both in
America and in Europe Sally is without a peer. She literally
has every qualification for this rôle. She is joyously pleased
to see people, unlike a certain lady in England whom her
cousin described as not wanting to give a party and not one
of the guests wanting to come to the party. Sally, on the
contrary, enjoys her parties. She is cordial, agreeable,
perfectly at ease, but with eyes that survey at a glance her
entire dinner table, or drawing-room, and no one is ever
neglected or ill at
ease for one moment. A pretentious woman said, "Mrs.
Nixon, I see you introduce your guests; you know it is n't
done now."
"Indeed?" said Sally. "My manners were taught me by
my grandmother, an old-fashioned Southern lady of
excellent taste." The grandmother of the monitor was a
person whom she wished most earnestly to forget.
Her mind is as quick as a flash and she is gifted with the
clear-eyed wisdom of the true humourist. I said to her,
"Lewis is certainly a model husband, Sally."
"Yes," she said, "but then you see I 'm the wife who
has never said 'no.' Think of it, Bessie, I 've never said 'no'
to Lewis since we've been married. I've thought it, and I 've
meant it, but I 've never once said it. There is
something about men that rises up in rebellion at a wife's
'no.' If Lewis said to me tonight 'We will start to-morrow
for Paraguay' (wherever that delectable land may be), I
should instantly say 'yes.' You see, with 'yes,' so many
things can happen. There might not be a boat to Paraguay,
Lewis might be taken ill in the middle of the night with
influenza, the papers might announce in the morning an
insurrection in Paraguay, or an earthquake might have
swallowed the entire country, or, what is quite possible,
Lewis could change his mind. In fact it is always safe to
say 'yes' to a man. I can always say 'yes' in a hundred
different ways - the spontaneous 'yes' when I mean it;
the temporising 'yes,' when I must have time to think
things over; the soothing 'yes' when I mean 'No, indeed,
not if I know it.' Every wise woman when she gets
married should cut the word 'no' out of her vocabulary.
You can say 'no' occasionally to a lover, but never to a
husband."
I said at lunch, "You will forgive my hurrying away, but
at two o'clock I have an appointment."
Sally's kind blue eyes looked intensely amused.
"I have," she said, helping me to broiled lobster, "a little
programme for you." (Sally is a splendid housekeeper. Her
staff expresses in a marvellous manner "the unity of
nations," for she has a negro cook, an Italian kitchen boy, a
Japanese butler and footman, a French lady's maid, an Irish
housemaid, and yet, strange to relate, harmony exists in her
household.)
"The butler," continued Sally, "will telephone and put off
your engagement. The motor will be at the door in five
minutes; we will go to your friends, the Wassermans," (I
was staying at the time with my beautiful friend Renée); "I
will wait at the door while you pack your trunk; the footman
will put it in the motor and we will leave it here on our way
to the railway station, where your return ticket will be
deposited and changed for one of later date. We will then
drive in the Park and take tea at the Plaza, where you will
see all the pretty ladies in their smart clothes. And you will
stay with me for a week, if not longer."
All of which programme I carried out to the letter.
The night before I left New York, John Savage called
me up on the telephone and said, "Are you really going to-morrow
or, like Old Reliable, have you got another job on
hand?"
I did go next day. Sally came to my room to say good-bye,
carrying a rose-flowered bandbox, the kind affected in
musical comedy when the humble but lovely milliner, in an
exquisitely fitting black gown, costing at the least, in its
fetching simplicity, one hundred and fifty dollars, arrives to
try a hat on the haughty beauty. The audience have no
anxiety; they know that the neat
black dress and the song, with the bandbox suspended to
her arm by a ribbon, will win the manly tenor.
Sally said, "I bought a black and white hat yesterday
that looked just like you - take it with my love, and hurry,
for you are late."
The bandbox did not go so far as to give me a tenor, but
it did lead to my acquaintance with a keen-eyed, clever
young surgeon, Dr. Kenneth Kellogg. That, however, is
another story. The hat, light as a feather, pleasant to wear,
was, like Sally, a joy through all the summer, and if Fate
will be as kind to me, her Old Reliable, as Harris Dickson
is to his Old Reliable in happily extricating him, sooner or
later, from his difficulties, then I may expect, after all, a
happy ending to my sad story.
"I THINK it would be a good plan for you," said Harris
Dickson a few days later, "to go to Atlanta and join a
car there which is taking a delegation from the
Agricultural Department through the country. It will be
a splendid opportunity for you to see the fine work they
are doing."
"But," I said, "Atlanta is sixteen hours at least from
Vicksburg. They have n't invited me to go with them; they
don't even know of my existence!"
"Oh," he said airily, "they have asked me, and I will
appoint you as a delegate in my place. They will be
delighted to receive you. The cars stop wherever they are
needed and the farmers bring up sick horses, cows, sheep,
mules, pigs, and even chickens and ducks for a diagnosis.
You will see all the methods of this splendid department of
the Government which is rendering such a practical service
to the farmer, gardener, shepherd, ranchman, the breeder of
race horses, and the seedsman."
I said, "Senator Morgan of Alabama used to tell a story
against himself about seed. He had been for many years
one of the most honoured men in the Senate, helping,
encouraging, uplifting the South, winning back the
confidence and the admiration of the North, working
night and day at the knottiest of political problems,
never sparing himself in the service of his State and his
country. One day he received a brief letter from a farmer
headed:
" 'BLACK JACK FARM near MOBILE.
" 'SENATOR MORGAN, Seedsman:
" 'I live in your State in Alabama. I am a gardener and
will be obliged if you will send me from the Agricultural
Department any and all seeds that will grow in this
country.
" 'Faithfully,
" 'J. CARTER.'
"Senator Morgan said, 'At last, after many years, I
know what I am. I thought I was a statesman; I find I am
only a seedsman.' "
Harris Dickson said, "The Bible says, 'the seed is the
word of God,' and seed can be an important factor in life,
let me tell you. I know a Member of Congress whose sole
claim to office is that he sends out seeds quite regularly.
You had better go to Georgia and join those gifted
seedsmen of the Agricultural Department."
"No," I said, "in spite of the possible hospitality which
might be extended to me, the journey of sixteen hours is
too long. Remember, I am not accustomed to the vast
distances of my country as yet."
"Then," he said, "the next best thing for you is to pay a
visit to Alfred Holt Stone at Dunleith. He is a Southern
man who has written an excellent book on the American
race problem, and he knows as much about the South as
anybody in it."
So he called up on the long-distance telephone and
confident of Southern hospitality informed the gentleman
that he was to expect a visitor. Mr. Stone was equal to
the occasion and said he and Mrs. Stone would be delighted
to receive me.
The next day I started for Dunleith, rather in a state of
anxiety, for a plantation in the South even in these days can
be primitive and uncomfortable, and there is a theory that
literary people are never good managers or housekeepers.
Mr. Stone met me at the station and dispelled all my fears
at once. The buggy, a reminder of my childhood, was in
perfect trim, and Charles (I subsequently learned his name),
a shining, highly curried, well fed, knowledgeable grey
horse, waited while his owner, a young, well-groomed man,
with a resolute, Napoleonic face, gave me a warm hand of
welcome.
"And now," he said, "you are to stay on the plantation
just as long as you like it. Mrs. Stone is delighted at the
prospect of a visitor and Dickson told me over the telephone
that we should have much to say to each other."
When we got into the buggy Charles made good time
in going homewards. How agreeably the plantation
surprised me. There are 3500 acres under cultivation,
planted in cotton and a modicum of alfalfa. There are about
two hundred and fifty or three hundred negroes on the
place, and a small colony of Italians. The little whitewashed
houses range from two to four rooms, the fences are neat
and trim, and there is a look of alert, intelligent, brisk, up-to-date
management and continuous progress over every acre
and every foot of the plantation. I found Mrs. Stone
charming, and not only a model housekeeper but a most
intelligent hostess. The house was originally an old-fashioned
plantation house, but it has been greatly changed
and improved. It has now several bathrooms with hot and
cold water,
acetylene gas, wide galleries surrounding it, and two
libraries, one of them Mr. Stone's own particular
work-room, while the second, containing an excellent
selection of books, is the reading-room of the family. The
walls are panelled in odorous pine and my room was the
most charming one I occupied in America. The light
maple furniture was the colour of the pine walls; there
was an apple-green carpet on the floor, and all the little
appointments of the room were lavender and green, giving
a sense of coolness and freshness. The drawers of my
dressing-table held large sachets of lavender; my bed was
most luxurious, with an eiderdown quilt flowered in lilacs;
the bathroom, with its tiled floor, white porcelain bath-tub
and wash-basin, was, like so many American bathrooms,
a pearl to be remembered. I went to bed early and laid me
down with a thankful heart in a beautiful silence. Oh, that
blissful silence! so deep that it penetrated my restless
heart, wrapped me in a mantle of velvet peace, and gave
me a night of childhood's unmoving sleep.
Mrs. Stone is a great believer in the Agricultural
Department. She has raised three hundred agricultural
chickens who abode not so very far from my window, and
yet they never disturbed me, for they were well organised,
calm, and collected birds. When the hens laid in the
morning they gave a full-throated cackle to announce the
egg; the rooster made a careless comment on it, and there
the matter ended. They were so different from my brother
Sam's next-door neighbour's chickens at Chevy Chase - the
hens whenever they laid an egg went into loud, wild
hysterics, while the rooster, too, seemed to be utterly
unnerved and loudly astonished by the event.
Stone plantation, that all who raise chickens send for
pamphlets from the Agricultural Department and go exactly
according to their directions. Even the roosters on the Stone
plantation exercised judgment in their announcement of the
dawn; at three o'clock in the morning they gave one soft
crow in unison and then settled down to a well-bred
silence; - not, as in other unscientific chicken yards, a faint
crow at a quarter past three from a timid young bantam,
followed five minutes later by the clarion call from a
confident middle-aged rooster, and followed by hesitating
echoes in different keys from other cocks until a quarter
past four - an agonising hour of steady, unmusical,
separated, trying, intermittent cock-a-doodle-doos.
I never ate canned peaches and fruits with such a fine
flavour as those Mrs. Stone prepared herself, also according
to the bulletins of the Agricultural Department. After a
delicious, well-served lunch, when I went to my dainty
green-and-purple bedroom the little black maid had unpacked my
bag and everything was put neatly in place. We had already
had driven around the plantation but Charles was put into
requisition again and we went over to see the Italian
settlement. It is on the edge of a thick, primeval forest. A
strapping, black-eyed girl with broad shoulders, dressed in a
stout linen blouse, a black skirt well pinned up over a heavy
red wool petticoat, was ploughing with a strong, grey mule.
She smiled benignly upon us as we approached and said
"Good-morning." Then she headed her mule in another
direction so we had no conversation with her. Mr. Stone
speaks of the Italians as sober, steady, excellent tenants,
doing twice the work of negroes, but they hoard the money
they make, and it does not circulate again on the
plantation. Presumably
it is sent over to Italy for investment, as it is
generally said that Italians have a strong love of country
and always hope to go home again.
We stopped at the long roomy store, where the negroes
are supplied with all they can possibly want. It was a
reminder of my childhood with the assortment of flowered
muslins, brilliant calicoes, straw hats, gaily coloured quilts
and counterpanes, shoes and slippers, brooms and dusters,
china and glass, beads and fans, and lo and behold, a
dream, a vision realised - a splendid black harness with
bright, scarlet, shining blinkers. Now what in the world
could be more becoming to a black mule, and set off his
individual beauty so well, as sealing-wax red blinkers? I
have always wanted a mule with red and black harness. If
I live in the South again they shall both be mine.
And, indeed, if I were young enough to wait on fortune,
I would cast my lot upon the Mississippi Delta with its
wonderful rich black soil, where whatever is put into it
must grow. It seems marvellous to be almost within hail of
a large city like New Orleans, and to see miles and miles
of really untouched primeval forest. Whenever Mr. Stone
takes in two hundred or five hundred acres, or prepares
the land for lease or sale, the trees are belted, afterwards
burned and the ground is cleared. It is only five years
since bears were a great nuisance on the plantation. I
have always known they were mischievous creatures,
with their little funny, twinkling eyes and their slily smiling
faces which show a keen sense of humour. From some
distant point of vantage they must have watched the
negroes planting long, straight rows of cotton, cunningly
waited for the tender plants to come up, when they
carefully straddled across each row and unerringly
trampled
down every single shooting green leaf, just to show what
can be done by a frolicsome bear with a lack of
conscience.
Now, these beasts have retreated farther back into the
woods leaving their vengeance to that dreadful, tragic pest,
the boll-weevil. But the Agricultural Department is on his
track, too; they know what the boll-weevil thinks, certainly
what he eats, and before long they are sure to produce an
epidemic for him and he will be exterminated. Already they
are cleverly changing the seasons of cotton by planting the
seed earlier and later, and have avoided his most prolific
hour, and sometimes they avoid him altogether. And though
at first seeming to bring bankrupt disaster in his wake the
boll-weevil has not been an unmitigated evil, because he has
proved to the South the possibility of other products beside
cotton. Never have I seen such Jack-and-the-beanstalk
alfalfa as on the Dunleith plantation, and never have I felt so
exultant over the future of my own land, for nothing
convinces like success.
Alfred Stone understands the negro, is the embodiment of
reason in his attitude towards him, and is very hopeful of his
future coupled with that of the white man in the South. He
says: "It is the duty of every man who undertakes to study
the race problem here, first to study the negro, just as we
would the Chinese, the Italian, the Russian, or the Indian, in
both his native and adopted homes, and without the bias,
prejudice, or sentiment which in this country have for three
quarters of a century rendered such attempted studies
almost worthless."
If the study of the negro were undertaken and carefully
carried out by a number of intelligent men in the United
States, and stringent laws passed for his moral
and physical development, what a benefit it would be for
all concerned. At the present time a race of vagabonds,
shiftless, idle, and lazy, are growing up without direction,
without discipline, without purpose; moving aimlessly
from one plantation to another, seeking vainly a method
of avoiding work. Any one interested in the negro can
find much valuable information in Alfred Stone's The
American Race Problem. His mind is naturally
contemplative, just, and judicial. He was born and
brought up in the South; and having for years given
diligent study to the condition of the negro, and
possessing the inestimable advantage of practical
experience, his success has proved the result of his
theories.
Now, even in the North, the negro franchise is
acknowledged as having been a bitter mistake. Many of
the negroes given a vote possess an intelligence scarcely
above that of an observant chimpanzee. There is a story
told of a field hand going to a circus and saying to a very
big, black ape, "Good mawnin', sah." The ape remained
silent. "Why don't you talk to me, mistah?" the darkey
said; "you looks jes' like my poor brer John, who is done
dead." The ape blinked sympathetically, but made no
reply. Then the darkey's face broke into a smile, and he
said, "You sho'ly is wise, sah; 'cause ef you said
anything de white folks would cut off yo' tail, put a hoe in
yo' hand, and set you to work plantin' cotton."
As I was going to Dunleith plantation a negro passed
down the car and he was enough like Mick, a friend of
mine in London, to have been his brother. A good many
years ago I went one afternoon to the Zoo with "the
Bloke with the White Teeth." (This was the name
given to a friend from California who had helped
to wait at a tea-party for some of my little slum friends in
London by a little girl, a big-eyed, silent eater, who had
made but one remark - "Tell the Bloke with the White
Teeth to give me more cake.") A cold, yellow fog obscured
the sun and the air was full of a desperate chill. One of the
keepers who knew me asked if we would like to see a baby
chimpanzee. He said, "He is very ill; I 'm afraid he has
pneumonia and is going to die. He has only been in the Zoo
a month, and is just two years old." We went into a little
room, warmed to a tropical degree of heat, and there, lying
on the bottom of his cage, with a bit of blanket thrown over
him, even covering his head, lay the poor little black ape.
As the door was opened he turned down the blanket and
looked at me with an expression of recognition in his one
exposed eye. The keeper said, "It 's about time he took his
medicine; I 'll give it to him." As he unlocked the door and
opened it, the poor creature gave one bound into my arms,
locked his feet round my waist, laid his poor hot feverish
head and his dribbling unclean nose on my fur collar, and
gave a chuckle of satisfaction. I took out my pocket-handkerchief,
and, while drying his nose, said to the keeper,
"He thinks I am his mother. Whether I look like his mother
or not I don't know, but evidently in his eyes I do."
He took his medicine from my hand, and I nursed him for
quite half-an-hour. "The Bloke with the White Teeth" said
he did n't know how I could do it. Mick got well, and until he
grew to manhood we were the most devoted friends.
I used very often to go to the Zoo to see him. He was
always delighted at my coming, sat in my lap, kissed me,
made a little boutonnière for my coat out of the straw of his
cage, and really tried to talk. He was
always charmingly polite, asking me to stay longer, and
never failed to stretch out his long hands to catch hold of
me as I went away. The keeper said, "You need n't be
ashamed, madam, of Mick's affection; it 's honest. Not all
the bananas nor all the nuts in London could buy one smile
from him. He don't do any pretending, Mick don't." Mick
has now grown into a tall, slender, strong, very athletic
young chimpanzee gentleman of sixteen; he is less
interesting in his adolescence, and is shut off from the
public by a wide plate of glass, so that after all our years of
friendship we are separated. But if ever I saw a close
relation of Mick's it was the negro who walked through
the car the day I was leaving Dunleith.
All the time I was on the plantation my thoughts were
constantly in England, for I knew I was seeing the
possibilities of future homes for young Englishmen with or
without capital, if they care to pitch their tents in the South.
As Harris Dickson said to me, "There is a close sympathy
between the men of the South and Englishmen. While in
the Sudan I found their point of view of the negro and his
management identical with our own." There is nothing that
makes so much for success as contentment, and
friendliness, and our progress has not been so rapid as to
do away with our English kinship.
Then, in our mild climate, only a very small capital is
necessary. Fuel, heavy clothing, stoutly built houses, the
expensive necessities of the North, are not needed in the
South, and with ordinary industry and intelligence a man
can always make his living, and even more. There is no
country so rich in all the world as that wonderful
Mississippi Delta. The air is delightfully quiet and
tranquillising and with the improvements due
to science it is quite possible to live with health the whole
year on a plantation. The screens now universally used to
keep out the flies and mosquitoes have done much towards
establishing a sanitary condition, and bathrooms, quantities
of ice, which is very cheap, fresh vegetables, and fine fruits
all make life not only tolerable but pleasant during the
summer.
A young Englishman who came from Yorkshire to Alfred
Stone's plantation with a letter of introduction has been very
successful, and any industrious man would have the same
chance. Beginning with five hundred pounds capital, he
could rent for one year or a term of years, as he pleased,
forty or fifty acres of land at a rental varying from six to ten
dollars an acre, according to the quality of the land and the
improvements already made on it. If he takes up good land
and pays eight dollars an acre for it, the rent is not due until
the fall of the year, when he gathers his crop, so that he
would not require to use any capital for that. He could easily
handle this land with two good mules, which would cost five
hundred dollars cash. Another hundred would more than
cover the cost of his tools, planting seed, and small
expenses. He would have to hire a "hand," one man, to help
him. This would cost him twenty dollars a month, or say two
hundred and forty dollars for the year. He would want to set
aside ten acres for his corn, garden patch, stable, etc.,
which would leave him thirty acres for his cotton crop. With
anything like a normal season, he should make three
hundred pounds of lint per acre. This would be nine
thousand pounds, or eighteen bales of five hundred pounds
each. If the price were good that fall, he might easily get
fifteen cents a pound for his cotton, or seventy-five dollars a
bale. This would give him thirteen
hundred and fifty dollars for his crop. The seed from his
eighteen bales would be about nine tons, worth, say, fifteen
dollars per ton. This would be one hundred and thirty-five
dollars. This would bring his total crop proceeds to fourteen
hundred and eighty-five dollars. He would have planted
eight acres in corn and should have two hundred and forty
bushels as his crop.
The cash outlay on his crop would vary with prices. He
would, however, begin with no corn for his mules, and their
feed would cost him about one hundred dollars. This would
be more than ample, and indeed it need not be so much. He
might allow himself fifty dollars for extra help at a time
when he and his one labourer could not do all that was
necessary. The cost of hiring labour to pick one bale of
cotton is about eight dollars, but he and his helper could do
enough picking themselves to reduce the amount paid out
to, say, five dollars per bale or ninety dollars. In fact it
would, or should, be considerably less. If he has been able
to go through until fall without a waggon, he will certainly
need one in gathering his corn and hauling his cotton to the
gin. This would cost him fifty dollars, and if he had a wife,
he would want to pay fifty dollars for a good cow, or he
could get one for less. He might also invest fifty dollars in
hogs and chickens as a starter. Ginning his cotton would not
cost him three dollars a bale, but, allowing that, the cost
would be fifty-four dollars.
The above items would total twelve hundred and eighty-four
dollars. His crop has brought fourteen hundred and
eighty-five dollars, which leaves him a balance of two
hundred and one dollars, with his mules, tools, waggon, cow,
hogs, and chickens paid for, and more than enough corn
on hand to do away with the item of
mule feed next year. There has been nothing put down for
household and living expenses, medical attention, and
incidentals. These can be in large measure just what he
makes them. If he and his wife have health, with chickens
and a garden his actual cash outlay may be small. To make
things balance, he might cover it with the two hundred and
one dollars which he had left above.
I see that I have omitted the rent, so to make things plain
it is better to begin at the beginning:
Two mules. . . . . $500.00
Feed for same. . . . . 100.00
Waggon. . . . . 50.00
Tools. . . . . 100.00
Cow. . . . . 50.00
Hogs and chickens. . . . . 50.00
Incidentals. . . . . 100.00
950.00
Regular and extra help. . . . . 290.00
Extra picking in the fall. . . . . 90.00
Ginning cotton. . . . . 54.00
Investment and operating expenses. . . . . $1,384.00
Rent, 40 acres at $8.00 per acre. . . . . 320.00
Total. . . . .$1,704.00
Add for living expenses aside from vegetables
and chickens raised at home. . . . . 296.00
Total.....................$2,000.00
In other words, he could defray the entire cost of
equipping himself, making his crop, living, etc., out of
his capital of $2500.00 and still have $500.00 left plus the
proceeds of his crop, which I have put at
$1485.00.
He could even manage with only one thousand dollars on
the same amount of land, by simply using his capital for
equipment and getting his supplies from an advancing
merchant to be paid for out of his crop at the end of the
season. Of course all such figures are subject to the
variations incident to fluctuations of prices of cotton and
seed, on the one hand, and of what he has to buy on the
other, but this will give a fairly good idea, I hope, of the
general situation and its possibilities.
Much information has been given to me by a man who
started with no capital at all and has made his success on
money borrowed at a rather high rate of interest. Very good
land is to be had at from thirty to seventy dollars an acre.
Newcomers are advised by planters of experience to rent
land rather than to buy until they know the ropes. The
Yazoo-Mississippi Delta is a section of land embracing
some six thousand square miles lying between the Yazoo
and the Mississippi rivers, and extending north from the
confluence of those streams just above Vicksburg - and
although I am a woman, if I had vigorous health I would
pitch my tent on the Yazoo. The virgin soil is as black as
tar; things planted there grow like enchantment - alfalfa
yields six crops a year.
Corn is very successfully grown, and the peanut industry
is bringing the farmers a large revenue. Peanuts are more
dependable than cotton and more remunerative. The yield is
running from twenty to fifty bushels an acre, and in many
instances even higher. The price paid in the neighbourhood
by the mills is from eighty cents to a dollar a bushel. Even
were the
price to go as low as sixty cents a bushel, which
contingency might arise through over-production, it would
still be a good crop.
The peanut is a wonderfully grateful product to raise;
every bit of it can be used; even the residue or cake is
ground into meal which is said to be superior to cottonseed
meal, and is devoured with avidity by hogs without the
injurious effect experienced from cotton-seed meal. For
cooking, dressings, salads, soaps, and compounds, peanut oil
is superior to cotton-seed oil. In fact a chemical analysis
shows very nearly the same properties in peanut oil and
olive oil. The peanut hay has been found to be a valuable
feed for horses, sheep, and cattle. The crop does not draw
heavily on the fertility of the soil, like clover and other
greedy collectors of nitrogen, carbonic acid gas, etc. The
rotted plant may also be used as a fertiliser. The market for
peanuts is a large one, not confined to the mills making oil
and peanut butter, for candy makers, confectioners, and the
humble "corner peanut stand" consume large quantities.
And brokers are kept busy supplying the ever-increasing
demand. After passing through the hands of the peanut
cleaner, the peanut sheller, the peanut-butter manufacturer,
the total paid out for peanuts in various forms amounts to
$35,000,000 annually. A practical plea for the peanut is that
two great financiers and one leading theatrical manager
began life as little boys by selling paper bags of peanuts.
And the Commissioner of Agriculture says the South is
entering upon the greatest era of prosperity it has known
since the Civil War. Now is the time to buy land which for
the moment is depreciated by the boll-weevil, for in another
two years it will have doubled and trebled in value.
Douglas Jerrold said there were three kinds of
liars,
"Liars, damned liars, and statistics." I don't believe much
in statistics - truthful, frank, reliable people have quite
different statistics - but I have seen the South, and I left it
full of wonder and enthusiasm.
O stars that now his brothers are,
O sun, his sire in truth and light,
Go tell the listening worlds afar
Of him who died for truth and right!
For martyr of all martyrs he
Who died to save an enemy.
JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.
MY hero is not Napoleon, nor Nelson, nor Washington, nor
Lee, nor even that great and good man, Stonewall Jackson,
whose beautiful, prophetic words can never be
forgotten - "Order A. P. Hill to prepare for battle. Tell
Major Hawkes to advance the commissary train. Let us
cross the river and rest in the shade." He was only a
private in the Confederate army, who died with steadfast
eyes and a rope round his neck.
Towards the close of the war, in 1863, General Bragg
was in command at Missionary Ridge. Before he could
dispose of his army to advantage in any direction it was
necessary for him to have a plan of the Federal army in
Tennessee. Three scouts were selected who had before
done valuable service, and they were informed by General
Bragg of the extreme danger of the duty, and were asked if
they were willing to undertake it, if need be, to the tragic
end. They replied they
were. He noticed a young, handsome, eager lad, listening
with great attention to his orders. When he had finished
speaking, the boy, Sam Davis, came up to him and said,
"General Bragg, I should very much like to be your fourth
scout."
"Don't you think you are rather young for such a
dangerous mission?" General Bragg asked.
The boy smiled cheerfully and said, "Well, try me."
The next day the four scouts started off together, and
Sam Davis, with almost miraculous quickness, obtained all
the information required. He found out that the Federal
army in middle Tennessee was likely to move from
Nashville to Corinth, and reinforce the army at
Chattanooga. He got an exact account of the number of
regiments and the whole of the artillery in the 16th Corps,
and, what was even more remarkable, he got complete
maps of the fortifications at all the principal points, including
Nashville, and an accurate report of the entire Federal
army in the whole of Tennessee.
Sam Davis was so pleased with his rapid success that he
wanted the praise and sympathy of the person he loved best
in the world, his young sweetheart, to whom he was
engaged to be married; and he recklessly stopped to visit
her. A small company of Federal cavalry saw a grey
uniform enter a little rose-covered house, and they followed
him as he came out. But their horses were jaded by a long
march, while Sam Davis was mounted on a thoroughbred
Kentucky mare, and he rushed past them on the roads he
knew so well, making a detour, and they lost him in the
sheltering darkness.
The Seventh Kansas Cavalry, however, were scattered
over his entire course, and while he was resting the next
day in a scrub thicket at Pulaski, trying to conceal
himself, a squad of soldiers belonging to the Seventh
Cavalry discovered his hiding-place and captured him and
his horse. They proceeded to take him to General Dodge,
who was in command at Pulaski, only a mile and a half
distant. When the frank, handsome, fearless, gay-spirited
lad, in his shabby grey uniform, stood before the General, he
was immediately prepossessed in his favour. At that
moment there was no evidence against him, but when they
unbuckled Davis's saddle a fat budget of papers was
discovered under the seat, and upon examination, General
Dodge found that all the information given, the number of
regiments, the movements of the artillery in the 16th Corps,
the reinforcements from Nashville to Corinth, and to
Chattanooga, the fortifications at Nashville, the fine maps,
and the perfectly accurate report of the whole Federal
army in Tennessee, had been furnished Davis by a member
of his own staff, and that probably the man who stood at his
right hand was a traitor of the deepest dye. A captured map
was a copy of the very one he carried in his pocket.
He said, "Davis, you evidently have a good friend at court?"
Davis made no reply. "I could have sworn to trust my
life to every officer at my table, but the information which
you have, could only have been given you by a friend.
Young man, I must have the name of your informer." Davis
was still silent, with, as General Dodge could see, a
steadfast gleam of danger in his eye. There was no
weakening there. And, at all costs, it was necessary to have
the name of the traitor. "You will," he said, "without any
court-martial have your freedom the moment you speak or
write down the name of the man who has
betrayed me." And he handed Davis a pencil and a sheet
of paper. "Write it," he said, "if you cannot speak it."
Davis gave back a clean sheet of paper and the pencil to
General Dodge, and for the first time spoke, in a quiet,
even voice. "General Dodge," he replied, "when I
undertook this duty from my commanding officer, General
Bragg, I did it with a full knowledge of what the
consequences might be. I cannot give you the information
you want."
The General said, "You are very young. Life must hold
a good deal for you. Think over the situation for five
minutes and speak again. I positively must have the
information I am asking from you."
Davis answered without hesitation, "Honour requires no
thought; it comes from" - he lifted his hand and pointed
upward - "God. I can only repeat that I cannot give the
information."
General Dodge said, "If you persist in this silence you
know, of course, that, as a soldier, I must call a court-martial,
and then the matter passes out of my hands."
"I know that," Davis replied. "I am a soldier myself; I
don't criticise military methods. Call your court-martial."
General Dodge said, "It is with extreme regret that I am
forced to such a measure. I am giving you your chance
now; it won't be repeated later."
"A court-martial will give me a death sentence," said
Davis, "but not even death will make me betray my word.
We are both soldiers doing our duty. When the last moment
of my life comes, I shall have acted fair to God and to
myself."
By this time the young soldier's spotless honour and
unassailable loyalty had deeply moved General Dodge,
and he began to plead with genuine emotion to the boy to be
saved. But Davis, his young face set in noble lines, said,
"General Dodge, I have never lied or broken my word in my
life; I will willingly die now rather than do it. My mind is
firmly made up. A court-martial may condemn me, but do
not expect me to betray my trust. I will never do it, never."
A court-martial was then called. General Dodge was
filled with regret, thinking that the very man who furnished
Davis with the information was probably at that moment
giving him his death sentence. It seemed too horrible. The
execution was delayed while enquiries were made about
Davis and his family. It was found that an old friend of his
mother was living in Pulaski. General Dodge sent for her
and said to her, "Talk to the boy about his home and about
his mother. He looks to me, with all his courage and his
steadfastness, a sort of mother's boy. Surely at twenty he is
not going to sacrifice his life to save a traitor. I don't know
who the man is who gave him the information, but he is n't
worth the death of Sam Davis."
The lady used all her eloquence; she repeated what
General Dodge had said; she spoke of his mother's devotion
to him, of her love, and of the close bond that existed
between them, and she asked if he realised that he was
never to see her again and of the great grief he was to give
her.
"Why," said the young man, crying like a little child, "my
mother is the person who taught me never to lie and to keep
my word. She will grieve, I know, not to see me again, but I
will never betray the man who gave me the information, and
he knows it. It is n't only the other man I am saving. How
could I live through all the years and despise the man I have
to live with,
Myself? How could I wake through the nights and
remember the man I lied to and condemned? No, I will die
with honour; I will never live dishonoured. God knows I
will not."
The lady returned to General Dodge and repeated her
conversation, and they both wrung their hands with
helplessness.
On Friday, Davis was handcuffed, and he walked
steadily and sat down on his coffin with the fresh-faced
look of a boy who has slept well and is the possessor of a
glorious conscience.
General Dodge had passed a sleepless night and was
awake long before the condemned man. He called his staff
together and ordered them to the place of execution, hoping
that even at the last moment Davis would speak, or the
man who had furnished Davis with his information would
be touched by the boy's great valour, and that he might still
be saved.
A rope was placed around his neck by hesitating hands;
the lines of quiet determination in the exalted face
deepened. There stood the martyr of all ages.
"Wait!" The voice of General Dodge rang out like a
pistol shot. "Davis, in the name of God, give me the name
of your informant! Your horse is waiting for you. Look, she
is there in the thicket, and here is your escort to carry you
back to your own lines in safety. One word, and you are a
free man."
Davis turned his young head, and looked longingly at the
horse. "Queenie, old girl," he called; the mare whinnied,
the boy's eyes filled with tears. Then he smiled and with his
handcuffed hands gently touched the rope around his neck
and said: "General Dodge, this is my badge of freedom. I
have only one life, and I give it for honour. Take it."
There he stood, tall, brave, healthy, strong, handsome,
intelligent, unflinching, ready to die rather than betray his
word. Officers and men were by this time quietly and
unashamedly weeping. The only calm and steadfast soul
was his. The boy gave some little keepsakes to the Provost
Marshal for his mother and his sweetheart. Then he turned
his young face squarely towards the sun, looked at it like a
young eagle, and waited.
There was a dead silence. No man could speak.
Presently a quiet, steady voice said, "Do your duty, men."
Davis had himself bravely given the order. And his soul
went home to God.
When John Trotwood Moore wrote his touching version
of the story the end was not known, but years afterwards a
dandified negro spoke, and said he had been a trusted
servant in the camp of General Dodge. He was quick-witted,
alert, and it was easy for him to get all the
information that Davis wanted. They had played together as
boys, and he liked Davis and served him willingly, and he,
who had received many a sound thrashing from his young
playmate, knew that no power on earth would make Davis
betray him.
It is said that he saw Davis for one moment after the
court-martial and asked, "Well, Marse Sam, who 's it gwine
to be?" And Davis gave him his hand and answered, smiling,
"Me, Tom; who did you think it was going to be?" The negro
whimpered and said, "Dat 's what I thought. But you know
you made me do it, Marse Sam, and I gets mighty skeered
sometimes. I don't want to die." Davis said, "Don't you
worry, death won't come to you through me."
So the white man, the white Southern man, the young
Confederate soldier, fighting against the cause of the negro,
gave his life to save him, and yet the politicians
of the country continually make capital out of the problem
of the negro in the South. The problem was solved on the
day Sam Davis, with a soul as pure as a flame, died for a
negro rather than betray him. Carlyle was right when he
said that loyalty is the greatest attribute of the human race.
Loyalty to a cause, to a friend, is fine, but loyalty to a foe is
God-like. There are no people anywhere who have so
much understanding, so much tenderness, and such a
divine patience towards the negro as the Southern people.
I am quite sure that when they come to die and appear at
the gate of heaven they have only to say to St. Peter,
"I come from South Carolina" (or from Mississippi, or
Louisiana, or any of the Southern States), and the doors of
heaven will be thrown wide open, and in they will walk as a
reward for the great trials which the negro has inflicted
upon them and which they have borne with laughing,
Christian, enduring fortitude.
It was the great President Lincoln who said, "I am not
and never have been in favour of bringing about in any
form the social and political equality of the black and white
races. There is a physical difference which prevents them
from living together on terms of social and political equality,
and inasmuch as they cannot so live, while they do remain
together there must be a position of superior and inferior,
and I, as much as any other man, am in favour of having
the superior position assigned to the whites."
What good things President Lincoln said, both grave and
gay! Some one was praising a man to him, and his
comment was, "A good fellow, possibly, but sadly
interruptious."
William Archer, a man of cultivation, with a just and
fair mind, has said in his interesting book, Through
Afro-America: "What I think about the colour question
must be superficial, and may be foolish, but there is a
certain evidential value in what I feel." The subconscious
man in the white man rises up in revolt at a too close
contact with the negro. The white race is undoubtedly
superior to the black race. It is not a question of argument.
It is a matter of instinct in both races.
There are assuredly people in the world, even nations,
who are born to be dominated. God has given to certain
men the qualities of leaders, and because the negro is
inferior to the white man that does not lessen either his
usefulness or his power for inspiring affection in the man
above him. Nor does it lessen the necessity of the Southern
people for the labour of the negro. White men can never
work in rice fields; they cannot labour with impunity in the
cotton fields; they cannot plant and cut sugar-cane. They
have tried white roustabouts on the Mississippi steamboats,
and it has been a failure; they have been obliged to employ
black labour again. When the negro realises his limitations
and accepts them, and the white man develops him as far
as his capacity permits and insists upon all laws for his good
being strictly enforced, and when the politicians find another
shibboleth than the negro in the South; then there will be a
natural and humane solution of the race problem.
When my grandfather was Governor of Florida, the
President, for the purpose of civilising the Indians, sent
down a mandate from Washington that schools should be
built for their education. The chiefs gathered together and
held a solemn conclave. Then Neamathla sent for the
Governor and said, "My good brother, we have a message
to send to the Great Father in Washington. He knows a
great deal, but perhaps he does n't
know this, that Indians and books are far apart; the Great
Spirit never intended one for the other. You see," he went
on to explain, "when the Great Spirit first made man he
was black. He did n't like him at all, and said to himself,
'A very bad bit of work on my part; I must try my hand
again.' He did, and the next venture was a red man. The
Great Spirit liked him a good deal better, but still he said,
'There is nothing like try, try again.' He then made the
white man. He was tall and fair with blue eyes. And the
Great Spirit was at last quite satisfied with his work. The
white man is the youngest of the three brothers, and yet,
he can always govern.
"Then the Great Spirit said, 'Now I am going to find out
what these three men want.' And he made books, and
maps, and charts, and bows and arrows, and tomahawks,
and long knives, and spades and hoes, and he called,
'White man, come here and make your choice.' The white
man looked long and earnestly at the bows and arrows,
for he, too, likes hunting, while the red man, knowing
exactly what he wanted, stood by with his heart fluttering
like a bird. After a while the white man, not even looking
in the direction of the hoes and spades, gathered together
the books and maps and charts and slowly walked away.
Then the Indian, darting down like a hawk on lesser prey,
seized the bows and arrows and rushed off to the woods.
And there was nothing left for the poor black man but the
hoe and the spade. You see, my young white brother, the
Great Spirit knows his work best, and what his people
want." And the Indians, acting on the moral of this fable,
refused absolutely to go to school.
Delve deep enough into any folk-lore, and sound
philosophical truth will be discovered under its
charming fantasies. The white man, the Anglo-Saxon in particular,
is undoubtedly made to govern. He has done it admirably in
all countries, but whether admirably or not, he has done it
and will continue to do it. Whatever land has come under
England's rule has progressed and prospered. Curiously
enough, no people more generously acknowledge this fact
(when not applied to themselves) than the Irish. The soldiers
who fought with the most desperate courage in the Boer
War were Irishmen, shouting with their last breath, "Long
live the Queen!" although only a few weeks before these
very men had sailed from Dublin and thrown their bayonets
into the Liffey with cries of "Long live Kruger!" Something
must be allowed for temperament, but given a new
environment and quick assimilation of the Irish with other
peoples, there are no better rulers in the world. This is
proved by the long roll of distinguished and honoured names
in those dominions where the sun never sets.
Booker Washington, who has done such excellent work
for the negro, tells a story of which even he does not see the
true significance: "A negro preacher was late for a train. He
stopped and said to a white hack driver, 'Will you drive me
to the depot?' 'No,' said the white man, 'I can't afford to be
seen driving a negro through town.' The negro said, 'All
right, can you be seen with a negro driving you through
town? If you can, just you get into the back seat, and I will
drive the hack to the depot and pay you my fare as well.' "
And he did.
Booker Washington adds, "The main thing is that both got
to the depot." That, however, is not the main thing; it is that
even in this little matter the white man took the lead over
the black one, for the white race will always dominate.
CHAPTER XXII
SIR WALTER SCOTT'S RESPONSIBILITY FOR THE CIVIL WAR
Call it not vain; - they do not err
Who say that, when the Poet dies,
Mute Nature mourns her worshipper
And celebrates his obsequies: . . . . .
That mountains weep in crystal rill;
That flowers in tears of balm distil;
Through his loved groves that breezes sigh,
And oaks, in deeper groan, reply:
That rivers teach their rushing wave
To
murmur dirges round his grave. SIR WALTER SCOTT.
A FRIEND in New Orleans asked me, "Betty, what has
pleased you most in America?"
"That," I said, "is a big question. So many things have
pleased me - the faithfulness of my old friends; the
generous hospitality of my new ones; the brilliant blue skies;
the scent of the familiar flowers. And, then, I am not
altogether displeased with myself - when I see how
quickly I have fallen into the patient ways of the South, I
know that my very being is rooted here. For instance, I
engage a negro seamstress to come on Monday for two
days' mending. She turns up on Thursday, having highly
inconvenienced me. I welcome her with a smile and listen
sweetly to her absurd, mendacious excuses. I engage a
woman to wash my
hair on Tuesday. She turns up on Friday. I make no
reproaches, but sit down, thankful to have her arrive at all. I
make my washerwoman swear to bring me a white dress on
Thursday evening. I say, 'You know, Emily, I 'm not like
people living in America, I have n't many washing clothes,
and only one white dress, and I really and truly need it. You
won't disappoint me, will you?' 'No, indeed, Miss Betty, I
won't, I 'll suttenly bring you dat dress Thursday, maybe
Wednesday night; 't ain't much to wash.' The following
Monday comes before she brings my dress - and I am
quite amiable. I only say, 'Emily, how could you have
disappointed me so?' And she says, 'I could n't help it, the
weather 's bin so hot dat I des could n't git here.' And I
have seen so quickly how useless complaint is. You simply
must exercise patience and philosophy. It would be like
getting into a rage with an irresponsible child to quarrel with
a present-day darkey, and yet how terrible it is not to have
the slightest authority over these foolish grown-up black
children! In the cotton South, where negroes can make
enough money picking cotton in the summer to exist in
idleness in the winter, no servant will sleep in the house at
night, and every housekeeper wakes up with an anxious
heart in the morning. If she hears the kitchen fire being
raked out she gives a little sigh of relief, for she knows that,
with the slightest excuse, or no excuse at all, both the cook
and the housemaid will stay at home if they feel disinclined
to work.
Mary Clark's cook in Washington told her she was going
to the hospital for an operation and would be gone for two
or three weeks. Mary was all sympathy and help. What the
woman did was to take a place with one of Mary's friends
to find out whether she liked
the place, but as she did n't she returned in a week, saying
the doctor could n't find her appendix. Every Southern
woman now has to know how to build a fire and cook and
clean a house, and nurse, and sew, and above all she learns
quick resource and cheerful philosophy. A race of Old
Reliables, or Young Reliables, are developing a wonderful
power of endurance, forbearance, and fortitude in the
South. Harris Dickson's "Busy Day" speaks more
eloquently than many political tracts of the trials and
long-suffering of Southerners; and though he has, with gifted
pen, rendered the negroes into humorous photographs, they
are none the less sore trials and ceaseless aggravations.
We all have our limitations, our prejudices, our opinions,
which are occasionally founded upon simple instincts,
regardless of facts; but it is a question whether these
opinions are of sure value. There are also those clever,
twisted, contrary intellects, with a point of view so foreign
to their own country that they seem to belong to another
nationality.
Mark Twain said of himself that he was a "de-Southernised
Southerner." Certainly he had little
sympathy or taste for the South, and nowhere does he
show it more prominently than in his assertion that Sir
Walter Scott was in a great measure responsible for the
Civil War.
Then [he says] comes Sir Walter Scott with his
enchantments, and by his single might checks this wave of
progress and even turns it back; sets the world in love with
dreams and phantoms; with decayed and swinish forms of
religion; with decayed and degraded systems of
government; with the sillinesses and emptinesses, sham
grandeurs, sham gauds, and sham chivalries of a brainless
and worthless long-vanished society. He did measureless
harm; more real and
lasting harm, perhaps, than any other individual that
ever wrote.
Most of the world has now outlived a good part of
these harms, though by no means all of them; but in
our South they flourish pretty forcefully still. Not so
forcefully as half a generation ago, perhaps, but still
forcefully. There, the genuine and wholesome civilisation of
the nineteenth century is curiously confused and
commingled with the Walter Scott Middle Age sham
civilisation, and so you have practical common sense,
progressive ideas, and progressive works mixed up with the
duel, the inflated speech, the jejune romanticism of an
absurd past that is dead, and out of charity ought to be
buried. But for the Sir Walter Scott disease, the character
of the Southerner - or Southron, according to Sir Walter's
starchier way of putting it - would be wholly modern, in
place of modern and mediæval mixed, and the South would
be fully a generation further on than it is.
"It was Sir Walter that made every gentleman in the
South a major, or a general, or a colonel, or a judge before
the war; and it was he also that made these gentlemen
value these bogus decorations. For it was he that created
rank and caste down there, and also reverence for rank and
caste, and pride and pleasure in them. Enough is laid on
slavery, without fathering upon it these creations and
contributions of Sir Walter.
"Sir Walter had so large a hand in making Southern
character as it existed before the war, that he is in great
measure responsible for the war. It seems a little harsh
towards a dead man to say that we never should have had a
war but for Sir Walter; and yet something of a plausible
argument might, perhaps, be made in support of the wild
proposition. The Southerner of the American Revolution
owned slaves, so did the Southerner of the American Civil
War; but the former resembles the latter as an Englishman
resembles a Frenchman. The change of character can be
traced rather more easily to Sir Walter's influence than to
that of any living thing or person."
Unfortunately, in this assertion Mark Twain can be
bolstered up by evidence, for nowhere in the world was Sir
Walter Scott so much loved or so widely read as in the
South. M. Jules d'Avezac, an émigré from San Domingo,
translated Marmion into French and sent it to Sir Walter,
who replied with a letter saying how pleased he was that
the Muse had repeated his verses in another hemisphere.
There are Southern men, - and my dear father was
one, - and there are certainly Southern women, who know
every novel and every scene in the novels of all the twenty-seven
which Sir Walter has written. Mark Twain said he
did measureless harm, more real and lasting harm, than any
other individual who ever wrote. But what did he teach?
Loyalty and self-sacrifice, a sense of obligation to your
kinsfolk, chivalry, tenderness, and protection to women,
honour and truth to your neighbour, courage and valour in
battle, open-handed hospitality, and a sense of responsibility
towards those dependent on you. Is n't that just as good
teaching as "practical common sense, progressive ideas,
and progressive works"?
There is no place where brutality is exhibited with such
pride, or where the manners of the lower classes are so
detestable, or where there is so much friction to a person of
refinement, as New York - our greatest city of
"progressive ideas and progressive works." And there is not
the smallest consolation to an American in the suggestion
that the brutality, vulgarity, and bad manners are imported
with our bonnets and dresses from various ports, for it is
more difficult to endure the insolence of aliens than that of
your own people.
Even Sir Walter Scott, with all his genius, could not
impose one dream or vision upon the stony soul of New
York. And what would life be worth to some of us
without dreams and visions? There are other things besides
progress and "practical common sense." I doubt if
Shakespeare had the latter. There are no traces of it in
Romeo and Juliet or A Midsummer Night's Dream, and
yet he is immortal. Carlyle said, "The problem of politics is,
how out of a multitude of knaves to make an honest people."
New York, in the midst of its splendid progress, can be left
to solve this problem.
Mark Twain complains of the "Sir Walter Scott Middle
Age sham civilisation," yet under that "sham civilisation"
before the war the South created politicians who were
gentlemen of property, distinction, and honour. They did not
put their hands into the pockets of the government and
withdraw them contaminated with "graft," as so many of
the politicians of the North have done since the war. Their
ideas were not progressive enough for the worship of
money; they still believed in honesty, truth,
straightforwardness, and, if it need be, self-sacrifice and
poverty. What statesman was it who said, "The Southern
statesman went for honours and the Northern one for profit"?
The trusts, that have done such infinite harm in America,
did not originate in the South. The high tariff that is impeding
the universal progress of the United States has been
established by Northern men. The enormous fortunes which
are a menace and danger to the country have been amassed
by Northern men. Slavery had its drawbacks, for anything
that gives men unlimited power is wrong; but it had its
advantages in that it established a sense of responsibility in
the masters towards the individuals and that sense of
responsibility extended itself to the State. Southern men had,
and still have, very great civic pride. Like the English,
they have taken root in the soil and love of country is with
them instinctive. As for the "romanticism of an absurd past
that is dead," who have a better right to a romantic past
than we of the South? And Mark Twain is wrong in
imagining that for us it can ever die. It is indeed history's
most thrilling page, and "Once upon a time" would be the fit
prelude for the most commonplace story that could be told
of our beloved South. Its beginnings run like a fairy tale,
whispered in breathless morsels, for the shuddering delight
of children. The quest of glittering El Dorado, the fables of
Florida, the demon-haunted Mississippi with its tangled
brakes and bearded forests, the wondrous Children of the
Sun, the burial of De Soto, the pity of Evangeline are tales
of which the world will never weary.
The sailors of Columbus, returning, filled Europe with
marvellous stories of the Indies, the realms of Prester John,
the fabulous wealth of Cipango. Spain, the credulous,
emerging from her victorious wars with the Moor, turned
eagerly towards the West. Ponce de Leon searched the
wilds of Florida for the Fountain of Eternal Youth. De Soto
led his mail-clad knights through the forests of Alabama,
weaving a story of gold and goblins, more weird than any
adventure that ever passed with the wine around King
Arthur's Table.
Through this country the Chevalier La Salle led the most
quixotic expedition ever conceived by mortal
man - composed as it was of impoverished nobles, released
felons, Castilian peasants, and San Domingo buccaneers
thirsting for the pillage of the Seven Cities of Gold. A tidal
wave hurled him upon the shores of Texas where he built
his melancholy fortress called "The St. Louis of Sorrow." In
an effort to reach Canada on foot he
died by an assassin's hand on the bank of the Neches River.
Iberville, Knight Errant of the Seas; De Tonty of the Iron
Hand; Lafitte, the pirate of Barataria; Murrell, the robber of
the Natchez trail - traditions such as these cast a glamour
of glory and a ray of romance athwart the long lean record
of commercial entries.
Bienville the Builder, brother to the chivalrous Iberville,
was the first of all these pioneers who saw that unlimited
wealth, power, and human happiness lay concealed in the
earth beneath their feet. He it was who foresaw the mighty
destiny of this temperate climate, this fructifying sun, these
fertile lands lying fallow for the conquest of the plough and
reaping-hook. The kings of France and Spain, every
monarch and potentate who sent out a colony, charged them
specially to seek for mines, to sift the sands of the sea, and
filter the waters of the Mississippi which would give up their
rich sediment of gold. The gold for which Pizarro had sinned
and De Soto died, Bienville found in the rich soil. When he
built the ramparts of New Orleans, discouraged the search
for mines, and set his thrifty immigrants to work in the fields,
Bienville wrote the preface to a history of Southern change.
In later explorations and settlement such men as Boone
and Crockett led the way. The axe and the plough followed
the trail of the rifle, and the smoke of the housewife's
kitchen uprose beside the temporary fire of the huntsman's
camp. The dream of the adventurer began its fulfilment,
realised through patient labour and not by the hand of
conquest. The Knight Errant passed away; the farmer
came, and the farmer has changed the spirit of the South.
Throughout the period of exploration the South attracted the
adventure-loving
cavalier; the North drew to itself a steady middle-class
folk who hoped for more enduring success in the
fruits of their toil.
When Napoleon's empire fell, many of the highest
nobles of France sought an asylum in the South. Alabama
granted them lands and named their country "Marengo" in
honour of the Little Corporal's great victory. Dukes and
marshals, in knee-breeches and powdered hair, worked in
the fields, while their grand ladies in silks and satins spread
their remnant of silver plate upon rough-hewn tables in the
humblest of log cabins. Louis Philippe taught in a school in
Mississippi and a runaway daughter of the Emperor
Charles lies buried and forgotten in a cemetery of
Louisiana. There has been so much of romance, both of
fact and fiction, woven into the country's history that it has
tinctured the life of the people and added a distinct touch of
idealism to their character.
With a past like ours, we can never be altogether
practical and commercial, but the day will come, and in
many instances it has already come, when men and women
of the South will do great things inspired by the memory
of that "romantic past" of which Mark Twain so slightingly
speaks. Notwithstanding his disparagement of my country, I
am not ungrateful to this great writer who has added so
much to the gaiety of nations; to no one has he given more
pure delight than myself. How humorous he could be in a
few words! Some one in Germany asked him if he had
heard any of Wagner's operas. "Yes," he said, "last night I
listened to one of his Insurrections." And when a girl asked
him his favourite motto he answered, "Not Guilty!" He was
far more convincing with his humour than with his serious
writing. His little attack on Sir
Walter Scott and the South leaves one cold and
unresponsive; the way in which it is done is unconvincing,
undistinguished, and even acid.
Our bodies do not always match our souls. I know a man
in England, tall, fair, fine of stature, perfect of physique,
classic in feature, yet his soul is a little, dark, mean, petty,
stunted affair. I know another man, small and deformed of
body, with a wizened face, but his soul is tall, handsome,
graceful, beautiful, and statuesque. Mark Twain ought to
have been a Southerner, but he was born with a too
practical soul. His hardness made him understand the North,
and he did it more than justice; his want of romance made
him misunderstand the South, and he did it less than justice.
Sometimes a man is born to another nationality. Sir
Richard Burton was without doubt an Oriental; Byron was
an Italian; Parnell was an American. All these oddities and
mysteries seem to fit in with the theory of reincarnation,
which is to those who have it an infinitely comforting belief.
While sauntering through the crowded street,
Some half-remembered face I meet,
Albeit upon no mortal shore
That face, methinks, hath smiled before.
Lost in a gay and fatal throng,
I tremble at some tender song
Set to an air whose golden bars
I must have heard in other stars.
One sails toward me o'er the bay,
And what he comes to do and say
I can foretell. A prescient lore
Springs from some life outlived of yore.
Sometime, from the far away,
Wing a little thought to me,
In the night, or in the day,
It will give a rest to me.
FATHER THOMAS RYAN.
I THINK no city in the South has a larger number of
agreeable and cultivated women than Louisville, Kentucky.
Without a realisation of it, perhaps, they have always lived
where the standard of literature is high. For Henry
Watterson, editor of the Courier-Journal, is one of the
most brilliant and versatile journalists in America. His
editorials are an education, his style is always scholarly, and
he writes with force, tenderness, and charm. Nothing can
be more poetic than his description of the great hunter
Daniel Boone's discovery of Kentucky:
He came afoot, and was followed by a little troop of
heroes and poets like himself. I say heroes and poets for,
stirred by the fine frenzy of true poetry and the adventurous
daring of true heroism, they set out upon an enterprise
which brought forth an epic. Nature herself seemed
conscious of the coming of an important embassy, and put
on her richest apparel to receive it. The pomp of all the
heraldries in the world could not have furnished out a
splendider fête than that which waited these humble
ministers and envoys in buckskin. It was when the June
skies were softest and the June fruition was at its full; when
the elm and the maple vied with one another which should
show itself the more hospitable and magnificent; when the
welcoming bluebirds' call was clearest and sweetest, that
the mysterious pathway through the forest which had
opened day after day, not like the fabled avenue in the
enchanted garden, but like the track pointed out to Christian
by divine inspiration, brought the little band to an elevation
from which its members beheld, for the first time, the land
they had come so far to see. Moses, stretching his weary
eyes from Pisgah into Canaan, was not gladdened and
refreshed by a lovelier prospect. It was, Boone declares in
his autobiography, "a second paradise."
Mrs. Clay in A Belle of the Fifties, gives a description
of Henry Watterson as a boy:
Though not members of our resident circle, my memories
of dear old Brown's would scarcely be complete without a
mention of little Henry Watterson, with whose parents our
"mess" continually exchanged visits for years. Henry, their
only child, was then an invalid, debarred from the usual
recreations of other boys by weak eyes that made the light
unbearable and reading all but impossible; yet at fifteen the-lad
was a born politician and eager for every item of news
from the Senate or House. "What bills were introduced to-day?
Who spoke? Please tell me what took place to-day?"
were among the questions with which the youth was wont to
greet the ladies of our "mess," when he knew them to be
returning from a few hours spent in the Senate gallery, and,
though none foresaw the later distinction which awaited the
young invalid, no one of us was ever so hurried and
impatient that she could not and did not take time to answer
his earnest enquiries.
Much of Mr. Watterson's work has been lost in the
ephemeral life of the newspaper, but some beautiful essays
have been gathered together and preserved in his book of
Life's Compromises. And under his unconscious guidance
a little group of Louisville women have made world-wide
reputations and fortunes. Alice Hegan Rice is, as her name
betokens, of Irish descent. Both she and her mother have
always worked among the poor, and out of her
philanthropical experiences came her first book, Mrs.
Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch, which is now known
throughout the entire world, both as a story and a play. She
has since married Cale Young Rice, a dramatist and poet.
These little verses of his are full of grace and feeling:
I met a child upon the moor
A-wading down the heather;
She put her hands into my own,
We crossed the fields together.
I led her to her father's door -
A cottage 'mid the clover,
I left her - and the world grew poor
To me, a childless rover.
I met a maid upon the moor,
The morrow was her wedding,
Love lit her eyes with lovelier hues
Than the eve-star was shedding.
She looked a sweet good-bye to me,
And o'er the stile went singing,
Down all the lonely night I heard
But bridal bells a-ringing.
I met a mother on the moor,
By a new grave a-praying,
The happy swallows in the blue
Upon the winds were playing.
"Would I were in his grave," I said,
"And he beside her standing!
There was no heart to break if death
For me had made demanding."
The poet and the authoress have a pretty house filled
with souvenirs of wanderings in many lands. Mrs. Rice is a
delightful woman, generous and inspiring to other writers.
She is, indeed, the fairy-godmother of that popular book,
The Lady of the Decoration. Mrs. McCauley, a cousin of
Mrs. Rice's, went to Japan as a missionary, and while there
wrote such charming letters home that Alice Hegan
thought the public should have a share in their pleasure,
and she carried them to a publisher who said that, with the
addition of a slight love story, he would publish them. So the
little romance was deftly threaded through the chain of
letters and the book made an enormous success. Think of
the delight of waking up in the morning, and finding the post
had brought you a book written by yourself of which you
knew nothing!
Elizabeth Robins is another of the remarkable women
born in Louisville. I have seen her act in many plays, and
she has the same rare and unique intellectual gift as an
actress that has made Mrs. Fiske so famous. It is what she
is keeping back and might say and not what she does say
that is so curiously thrilling! Who will ever forget her in the
Master Builder - an exterior of ice covering a fiery
volcano, with a manner mysteriously compelling and
excitingly evoking curiosity. She was
equally good as Agnes in Brand, and she was quite real
and heartbreaking in a little unacknowledged play of her
own. It was the story of a woman who worshipped health
and strength and physical beauty, and deplored and
abhorred deformity and weakness. The husband of the
woman was a master machinist, a man of physical
perfection. Before the birth of their child he was brought
home maimed and dead. The baby born into the world was
a malformed cripple, and the mother, rather than have him
grow up never to walk or run or jump like a normal boy,
smothers him, although she loved the poor little creature
with great intensity, and is tried for murder. Miss Robins in
this strange story was appealing, intense, and touchingly
convincing, but the critics with one accord slaughtered the
play. Men - even critics - so dislike the painful problem
of a woman's life. Now she is known through her pen. The
Open Question, if not absolutely satisfying, is still a
powerful novel, and, intellectually she has taken her place
among the first writers of her generation.
George Madden Martin, another successful woman, tall
and slim with pretty flower-blue eyes, has an engaging
personality, most agreeable and gentle manner, and is the
author of Emmy Lou, a little book which has deservedly
gone into innumerable editions. Like Margaret Deland, she
is childless, but she needs no children of her own to give
her the humorous, tender understanding of a child's heart,
and the creations of her brain only require flesh and blood
to become human, lovable boys and girls.
And there is dear Maud Cosssar - with her beauty, her
many-sided nature, her varied accomplishments, her quick
sympathy, and her stern discipline by Fate, she is more the
figure for a novel than a real woman. But
who so full of resource, and so practical as she? An
accomplished journalist, she turns out a column of copy daily
for the Herald with infinite ease, and her nimble brain finds
only amusement in those absurd questions propounded by
the curious and the idle to the all-wise editors of
newspapers. Then, she is a deft needle-woman, an excellent
cook, whenever she has the opportunity an open-air woman
with a keen appreciation of nature, a born gardener, and a
true lover of animals. Even Jack London cannot write more
tenderly of dogs than Maud can talk of them. Her tale of
"Stray Baby" a humorously pathetic story of a homeless dog
afterwards adopted by the staff of the Herald, might well
be made into a little book.
And there is Barbour Bruce who might have been a
writer, but is only known as a trenchant wit - "Who," she
asked at a party, "was that nice, well-dressed, refined,
common woman who has just had her cup of tea and gone
away?" This complete description fitted the lady like her
skin. She was an American educated in France and Italy,
had lived much of her life in England, and, given every
advantage of education and society, was quietly refined in
manner, but her soul was common. Only the quickest and
most penetrating eye however would have discovered the
deal beneath the shining veneer.
The night after my arrival in Louisville, Barbour had
asked half a dozen friends to supper, and when she went
into the kitchen of the apartment to give the cook an order,
she found this independent black lady had gone to church.
When my hostess with a vexed and anxious face opened the
door and looked in, Maud, who was in the little flower-decked
drawing-room, dressed in white chiffon, with a
wreath of silver leaves
on her thick burnished hair, immediately went to her.
Presently Barbour returned with a relieved, cheerful
expression, and her serviceable guest, with her delicate
gown covered by a big apron was in the kitchen gaily
cooking supper, which she had been invited to eat. How
good and how hot it was; never, never, have I eaten such
deliciously flavoured macaroni. Its delicacy may have been
enhanced by the chaplet of silver and the white gown, but
certainly that dish was perfection, and Maud's very pink
cheeks were the only evidence of her most beneficent
occupation. Perhaps, after all, the best thing about her is
not her beauty, which is of the noble, classical, durable
kind - a low broad brow, fine eyes, straight nose, a well-cut
mouth, and a correctly modelled contour of face - but her
great heart, and her firm hands constantly busy in service.
She has made just the right marriage, to a fellow-journalist,
young and ambitious, who first appealed to her by his
affectionate attentions to "Stray Baby," - for only a man
who loved children and animals, flowers, trees, a home, and
friends could attract Maud.
Barbour writes to me:
Maud and Aubrey have bought a cottage that I always
loved as a child. I never remember all through the winter
the many-paned windows not being ablaze with beckoning
lamplight and firelight. I longed to go in but never did. Now
at twilight I shall often lift the latch, and what a home
Maud will make Aubrey! But he knows it, and is proudly
grateful.
Pretty, tall, young Letetia MacDonald, another aspirant
for literature, is having the way of the story-writer made
exceedingly easy for her. And there are other clever
women who have not expressed themselves
through the pen. Mary Johnson is one of them; not the great
little Mary Johnston of Richmond, who wrote To Have and
To Hold, but Louisville's Mary Johnson, a well-known
Friend, devoted, unselfish, and uncompromisingly loyal. With
her "The King can do no wrong," and Kentuckians are
proverbially generous. She gets back what she gives. On
one of her late birthdays her friends gave her a dinner, with
a speech and a loving-cup filled to the brim, and running
over with love. There was a long silence before she could
frame her thanks for their unexpected appreciation. Then
came a hearty "Hurrah Friend!" to cover the feeling her
trembling speech brought forth. Her judgment is as good
about books as about men and women. An omnivorous
reader of both foreign and American literature, her opinion
has the value of a professional reviewer's.
Louisville prides itself, and with reason, upon its open-armed
hospitality, and lavishly as those delightful women
entertained me, one unforgotten field-day stands out in my
memory. It began in the early morning with flowers and
friends, then followed a luncheon party, a concert, a tea, a
small dinner, a large opera party, and then a supper at the
Pendennis Club completed the festivities. In spite of the
strenuous day I was quite fresh for a dinner the next night,
and sat at the right hand of Judge Humphrey, a most
entertaining man, who informed me that through the Popes
we were distant cousins. And we are cousins. Far-away
relationships are so convenient; if you like your kins-people
you boldly acknowledge them, if not, like Peter you deny
them.
Having settled our cousinship, we fell to discussing our
families, and when my grandmother's name was mentioned,
Judge Humphrey said, "Then you must be
a relation of Colonel Hynes, who had such a remarkable
experience during the war. He was suspected of being a
Confederate spy, and being hotly pursued by the Union
infantry, he took refuge in the house of a friend whose wife
was ill in bed. He had only been in the house a few minutes
when the measured tread of soldiers marching up the
garden path was heard. 'Quick!' said his host. 'What am I
to say? What are you going to do?' 'Fumble at the lock of
the door,' said Colonel Hynes; 'don't open it any sooner
than you can help. Will you let me hide myself in your
wife's room?' 'Yes,' said his host, 'and for God's sake be
quick about it!'
"Colonel Hynes ran up the stairs, explained the situation
to the startled invalid, slit with his knife the feather mattress
she was lying on, crept into it, and, although the soldiers
knew he was in the house, no trace of him could be found.
But there is something in mental telepathy, for,
notwithstanding that every inch of every room was
searched, the captain of the soldiers insisted on the lady's
bedroom door being left open and stationed two men in the
hall. There they sat for forty-eight hours, the prisoner never
moving and scarcely breathing. At the end of that time the
soldiers left the house and camped in the garden. The host
said, 'Now what am I to do?' 'Give a party,' said Colonel
Hynes. "Get me a suit of evening clothes and I 'll shave
off my beard and walk past the guard, and he 'll never
know me.' And he made his escape just as he said."
Judge Humphrey and his wife and daughters have the
good fortune to live on the River Road. Years ago the old
Fincastle Club, standing in solitary state, was for sale; being
roomy and spacious they bought and transformed it into a
delightful house. Now they
have a number of neighbours, Mrs. Avery Robinson, Mrs.
Thurston Ballard, Mrs. Tom Smith, Mrs. Charles Ballard,
and a large contingent of Louisville people live on the green
hills overlooking the Ohio, which on its way to the
Mississippi runs between green fields on the one side and
lovely undulating hills covered with verdure on the other.
Cedar, cotton, pine, and maple trees give ample shade, and
the views are wide and varied. In the happy days of May, I
stood on a noble crest which had been levelled and
blossomed in the earliest flowers of spring. Beds of pale
lemon, deep purple, and parti-coloured heartsease outlined
lilies of the valley, while pink and yellow tulips lifted their
tender heads, and down the emerald hills, like amber water,
trickled many golden daffodils. On the level of the land ran
the River Road like a golden-brown riband, and the river,
blue from the reflection of the sky above, flowed swiftly
between its green banks to the sea. As the gorgeous
sunset poured its golden glamour over all things near and
far, the summit of the distant hills blazed with colour. Rich
amber, prismatic opal, misty blue, pearl and violet shone
resplendent, until the sinking sun co-mingled them all in
a lake of deepest, purest, transparent rose. Then, regretfully,
the lambent twilight descended, turning the rose into a fiery
purple, and the mantle of night enfolded the River Road in
soft embrace.
Barbour came out on the terrace and said, "We must go
to Frankfort to-morrow to see Mrs. Wilson." "Yes," I said,
"I want to see Hoodie again. We have n't met since we
were both sixteen. Her father, General Ekin, was then
stationed in Texas. She was a charming girl." "She is a
charming woman," Barbour said; "you won't be disappointed
in her."
Next day, Governor Wilson, a frank, cordial man, met
us at the station in Frankfort and we walked to the
Executive Mansion, such a dear old-fashioned,
comfortable Southern house. The floors of the large rooms
were covered with white matting. There were comfortable
chairs, plenty of books, magazines, and newspapers, and a
noble blue-and-white drawing-room. The plans are drawn
for a splendid new house opposite the Capitol, but will
anybody enjoy it as much as the old one, I wonder?
Mrs. Wilson, an agreeable and hospitable woman,
gave me a warm welcome. Through all the years she had
never forgotten me. But after we had talked for a while
she said it was hard to reconcile Betty Paschal, the girl
who danced in Texas, danced in New Orleans, and
danced in Washington, the teetotum in fact, with the
grey-haired lady seeking information about politics, tobacco,
trusts, corn, and cattle. I said: "Solomon, you know,
mentioned that there was 'A time to weep, a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast
away stones, and a time to gather stones.' "
"Well, at any rate," said she, "it is plain to see you are
gathering information. You won't have to dance to-night,
only to talk to a party of twelve at dinner. And it 's time
for you to dress. Don't let my maid bother you with too
much conversation. She means well, poor soul, but her
mother died in a lunatic asylum and I 'm afraid she 's
going the same way." We had a few minutes together
before the guests arrived and Hoodie said the butler had
no footman to assist him, but was so quick and capable that
no matter how many there were to wait upon he was equal
to the occasion. "How lucky you are to get him!" I said.
"Where did he come from?"
"Yes," laughed Mrs. Wilson, "but nothing vulgar, my dear
Betty, like thieving. It was jealousy."
"Do you know," I said, "he 's awfully like Salvini in
Othello. Did he smother her?"
"No," said Mrs. Wilson, "he told her to stay at home and
forbade her to go out and meet her lover. She defied him,
got as far as the door, and he shot her, and nearly died of
grief afterwards. He is only a ticket-of-leave man, but he is
an inestimable treasure as a butler."
And with any number of courses at dinner, we were not
more than an hour and a quarter at table. That tall, fine-looking
Moor - I 'm certain he is a Moor and probably
came from the colony in New Jersey where the negroes are
proud of their Moorish descent - was as quick as lightning.
The glasses of the guests were kept well filled, and he was
quite equal to three ordinary waiters. After the guests had
departed I said to Hoodie: "If it had been possible to loot the
table to-night, I should have taken Mrs. Berry's beautiful hair,
Mrs. Scott's old gorgeously painted Spanish fan, Mary
Mason Scott's bunch of pearl grapes with diamond leaves,
and your husband."
"Oh," said Hoodie, "you would n't take my husband
away from me, Betty?"
I replied: "There 's no danger. You 've got him; he would n't come."
"I don't know," said Hoodie; "I 've brought him up to
adore you," and with this charming compliment I went to
bed.
"Are you," said Barbour, calling from her room adjoining
mine, "enjoying yourself?"
"Well," said Barbour, "you like adventure. It is n't
everybody who is waited on by a lunatic and a murderer!"
The next morning was spent at the New State Capitol
which occupies a beautiful situation on a sloping hill,
overlooking green valleys and the Kentucky River. The
architecture is noble and impressive and the interior simple
and good. Governor Wilson chose the furnishing, and though
he says he knows nothing of art, he has made no mistakes.
Men are so often wise in rejecting too much detail and
over-ornamentation, and there is nothing so completely
satisfactory as a fine simplicity. We went into the
Governor's room. He was full of information and possessed
any amount of local literature.
"Do you know," he said, handing me a leaflet, "this
song in praise of Kentucky?"
"Know'st thou the land where the corn tassels bloom,
Where the mystical cocktail exhales its perfume,
Where the high-balls sparkle with flavour divine,
And the 'Schooners' sail fast 'neath the shade of the vine?
Know'st thou that land, that beautiful land?
"Know'st thou the land where the Julep was born,
Where the mint yields its breast to the spirit of corn,
Where the ice strikes the glass with a musical sound,
And the straw shrieks aloud when the bottom is found?
Know'st thou that land, that beautiful land?
"Hear'st thou the call of the Blue-grass to thee?
Come over the river, come Southward to me,
Where a welcome awaits from Kentucky's old boys,
Oh, come to that South land and taste of her joys!
Oh, come to that land, that beautiful land!
"Know'st not that land? Then thou art unlucky.
'T is gallant, 't is brave, 't is hearty Kentucky,
That calls from the River that flows to the Sea,
Come Southward to meet us, cross over and see.
Oh, come to that land, that beautiful land!"
"I don't believe," I said, "that even Kentucky cocktails
are better than those in Virginia."
"Maybe not," replied the Governor; "Virginia is just
across the river. Here 's something else for you."
And he gave me a little book, Kentucky Arbour and
Bird Day.
I read the "Arbour Day Proclamation" while he and
Barbour talked.
ARBOUR DAY PROCLAMATION
To the People of Kentucky:
It takes a long, long time during the lives of several
people for a tree to grow great. It takes only a little while to
kill it. We have wasted hundreds of millions of trees that it
took more than one hundred years to grow. We are using
millions of trees every year now and putting nothing in their
place. We ought to plant more trees than we are using every
year. We have millions of acres of lands that will not grow
anything else but trees, and we could cover them all with
trees. We have bare places along the roads and in the
streets and in the yards and on the farms everywhere, that
will not be used for buildings or crops or anything else,
where trees could be planted that would make those who
come after us rich, and would make the face of the earth
beautiful for us.
Let us all get together and all plant trees and all ask
everybody else to plant trees, and let us have a special
meeting on the 8th day of April, 1910, in every schoolhouse
and other good places for meetings, to talk over how to have
more trees, how to make every place more beautiful, how
to plant, how to save something for the people fifty years
from now who won't have any wood if we do not do
something about it, how to put some of our prayers for
blessings to come to people, hereafter in living shape, by
starting trees that will answer our own prayers.
Let us plant trees for ourselves and for all whom we
love. Let us plant trees for the future and for this year and
next year and every year. Let us plant trees for profit, for
gladness, for beauty, for conversation, for storage of the
rain water, for houses and furniture, for everything for
which we use wood, for our own sake, for our children's
sake, for our grandchildren's sake, and for humanity's sake.
AUGUSTUS E. WILSON,
Governor of Kentucky.
March 10, 1910.
"What an enchanting idea to make the interest in
birds, trees, and flowers a tangible thing," I said. As I
turned the leaves of the book and dipped into it here and
there, delightful woodland scraps of information met my
eye.
"INTERESTING FACTS ABOUT TREES."
The largest tree in the world is the great chestnut tree at
the foot of Mount Etna which is called "Chestnut Tree of a
Hundred Horses," and is thought to be one of the oldest
trees in existence. Five enormous branches rise from one
great trunk, which is two hundred and twelve feet in
circumference. A part of the trunk has been broken away
and through its interior, which is hollow, two carriages can
be driven abreast.
The costliest tree in the world is the plane tree growing in
Wood Street, London, England, occupying a space which,
but for its being there, would bring in a rental of $1500 a
year, and this, capitalised at thirty years' purchase, gives
value of $45,000.
How often I 've been to Wood Street and have never seen this
plane tree. One of my first journeys will be to make its
acquaintance on my return to dear smoky London.
In Terre Bonne Parish, Louisiana, the largest orange tree in the
South grows. It is fifty feet high and fifteen feet in circumference
at the base, and has often yielded 10,000 oranges per season.
To own one tree like this would mean happiness.
"Summer or winter, day or night,
The woods are ever a new delight;
They give us peace and they make us strong,
Such wonderful balms to them belong;
So, living or dying, I 'll take mine ease
Under the trees, under the trees."
"DEBATE"
"White Oak Group"
White Oak.
Bur Oak.
Chestnut Oak.
Overcup Oak.
Post Oak.
Cow Oak.
Live Oak.
A special talk topic - the commercial value of the oak galls. The
oldest document in America was written with ink made from oak
galls, and is practically indelible.
The oak in literature. Reading: Phocius, Lowell. Selections:
Thoreau, Browning.
"I hear the wind among the trees
Play celestial harmonies."
How wholesome, cheerful, comforting and healthy is the love
of trees and flowers, for -
"Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her. 'T is her privilege
Through all the years of this one life to lead
From joy to joy; for she can so inform
The mind that is within us."
"There is no unbelief.
Who ever plants a seed beneath the sod
And waits to see it push away the clod
Trusts in God."
"We must not hope to be mowers,
And to gather the ripe, golden ears,
Unless we first have been sowers
And watered the flowers with tears.
It is not just as we take it,
This wonderful world of ours,
Life's field will yield as we make it,
A harvest of thorns or of flowers."
And I read for the first time Oliver Herford's charming lines on
the origin of violets:
"I know, blue modest violets,
Gleaming with dew at morn,
I know the place you come from
And the way that you are born.
"When God cut holes in Heaven,
The holes the stars look through,
He let the scraps fall down to earth,
The little scraps are you."
Turning a few pages, I came upon an appreciation of birds,
beginning with those joyous lines:
"His gentle-joyful song I heard,
Now see if you can tell, my dear,
What bird it is that every year,
Sings, 'sweet! sweet! sweet! very merry cheer.' "
And Edgar Fawcett's colourful ode on the Baltimore oriole
with his rainbow tints and his velvet song:
"At some glad moment was it Nature's choice,
To dower a scrap of sunset with a voice?
Or did some orange tulip, flaked with black,
In some forgotten garden ages back,
Yearning toward Heaven until its wish was heard,
Desire unspeakably to be a bird?"
Then came Henry Van Dyke's "Robin's Song":
"This is the carol the robin throws
Over the edge of the valley;
Listen how boldly it flows,
Sally on sally:
Tirra-lirra,
Down the river,
Laughing water
All a-quiver.
Day is near,
Clear, clear,
Fish are breaking,
Time for waking.
Tup, tup, tup!
Do you hear?
All clear -
Wake up!"
Barbour said: "Would you mind discontinuing the reading
of your book and saying good-bye to Governor Wilson?
You can finish it in the train."
My visit to Frankfort was all too short, but I wanted to get
to the Blue Grass Country, and see for myself if the grass
was really blue, and truly it was, for the luscious juice
makes it thick, dark, and heavy enough to cast shadows of
blue over the shimmer of green. No wonder with such
nutritious food the Blue Grass region produces splendid
horses, ponies, cows, and sheep. We visited the fancy farm
of Mr. Haggin and met whole regiments of cows walking at
milking-time into their white marble stalls, where they were
washed, curried, and apparently manicured. And at
Castlewood we saw the splendid farms and stables and
stroked the noses of the soft, silky, bright-eyed colts, which
will probably in the future make celebrated race horses. On
another smaller farm there were dozens of sturdy, shaggy
little Shetland ponies being clipped and beautified for the
market. The day before I left that wonderful rich grass
region, it rained from early morning until misty evening, and
looking out on the drenched garden I remembered Madison
Cawein's "Grey Day."
"Long vollies of wind and of rain
And the rain on the drizzled pane
And the eve falls chill and murk;
But on yesterday's eve, I know
How a horned moon's thorn-like bow
Stabbed rosy thro' gold and thro' glow,
Like a rich barbaric dirk.
"Now thick throats of the snapdragons -
Who hold in their hues cool dawns
Which a healthy yellow paints -
Are filled with a sweet rain fine,
Of a jaunty, jubilant shine,
A faery vat of rare wine,
Which the honey thinly taints.
"Now dabble the poppies shrink,
And the coxcomb and the pink,
While the candytuft's damp crown
Droops dribbled, low-bowed in the wet.
And long spikes o' the mignonette
Like musk-sacks open set,
While the dripping o' dew drags down.
"Stretched taut on the blades of grass,
Like a gossamer-fibred glass
Which the garden spider spun,
The web, where the round rain clings
In its middle sagging, swings;
A hammock for Elfin things
Where the stars succeed the sun.
"Yet I feel that the grey will blow
Aside for an afterglow;
And a breeze on a sudden, toss
Drenched boughs to a pattering show'r
Athwart the red dusk in a glow'r,
Big drops heard hard on each flow'r,
On the grass and the flowering moss.
"And then, for a minute, maybe -
A pearl - hollow-worn - of the sea -
A glimmer of moon will smile;
Cool stars rinsed clean o' the dusk;
A freshness of gathering musk
O'er the showery lawns, as brusk
As spice from an Indian Isle."
And at last when the rain ceased, I wrapped a shawl
round me, and went out to look at the "Cool stars rinsed
clean," to breathe the soft, light, fragrant air, and to gather
a posy of carnations, mignonette, and rosemary in sweet
remembrance, for this was my last night in Kentucky.
They declare that I 'm gracefully pretty,
The very best waltzer that whirls;
They say I am sparkling and witty,
The pearl, the queen-rose-bud of girls,
But, alas, for the popular blindness!
Its judgment, though folly, can hurt;
Since my heart, that runs over with kindness,
It
vows is the heart of a flirt! HAYNE.
MY first day in Richmond was almost as busy and as full
of change as one of "Old Reliable's" days. I got up early
and a friend called to go with me to select a hat. We saw
one in a window and I said, "That 's what I want." We
went in, I tried it on, and bought it. From the moment we
left the hotel until the hat was mine only ten minutes
elapsed. After that we walked down a beautiful street,
where a noted belle once lived, who, in Southern fashion,
was secretly engaged to three men at the same time.
"They all lived in different towns," my friend said, "but
belonged to the same club in Richmond. Fate brought
them together one night, and under the influence of mint
juleps of a particular concoction and strength they became
confidential, and finally found out that each one had the
same sweetheart. They
resolved upon a plan of action, and determined to teach her
a lesson, so next morning they all went together to call upon
her. She entered the parlour looking so beautiful and fresh
in her white muslin dress and little white shoes, that each
man forgave her and hoped he was the fortunate one. The
spokesman hesitated and stuttered, and, looking at her
corn-flower blue eyes and crown of golden hair, he altered the
severity of his speech and said, 'We are all engaged to you,
and we all love you desperately, and we have all come to
ask, with charity to all and malice to none, which one of us
is it to be?'
"She looked very mischievous but at the same time very
tender, and said: 'Well, gentlemen, there is a fourth. I have
been ficklewise, but please forgive me. This time I am in
love.'
" 'May we,' said the spokesman, 'ask who is the happy
fourth?'
" 'Yes,' she said, 'he is John Gates.'
" 'The Dev - I beg your pardon,' said the second lover.
'This is a surprise. Do you think you will make a good
clergyman's wife?'
" 'It'll never do,' said the spokesman. 'You are a
professional beauty, and professional beauties never marry
clergymen. It is n't done.'
" 'I am going to do it,' she said.
" 'And,' said the third lover, who was rich, 'John 's poor.'
"She flushed up and said: 'I 'd marry him if he had n't a
picayune.'
" 'Then,' said the spokesman, 'it 's the real article.'
" 'Yes,' she said softly, 'it 's just - Love.'
"Then they all wished her joy and went away. When
they got outside the spokesman said: 'Well, that 's a blow to
my vanity. I 'm six-foot-two, and
I 've got money. John Gates is a little insignificant
creature, and, by Jove, she 's not only going to marry him,
but she 's gone on him!'
"The second lover said: 'You can't count on women;
they fall in love with queer chaps.'
"The third lover said: 'Have you heard about Nelly
Smith? You know she 's been a belle for years, she must be
thirty-five. The other night Tom Ridgely kissed her, and she
looked at him as innocent as a baby, and said, "Do you
know you are the first man that ever kissed me?" He said:
"And you are the first woman I ever kissed. Will you marry
me?" "No," she said, "I don't want to marry a liar." He said,
"I don't know that I do either." ' "
"And," I asked, "did the beauty ever marry the preacher?"
"Oh yes," said my friend, "she made a model
clergyman's wife and had nine children, four beautiful
daughters and five sons. For many years she kept her looks
and her extraordinary charm. Her husband is a bishop now."
"And what became of Nelly Smith and Tom Ridgely?" I
asked.
"They got tired of being witty and got married too," said
my friend.
We walked a little way down Franklin Street, to see the
old Lee mansion, a fine roomy house now occupied by the
Historical Society. The Jewish tabernacle, with its great
Moorish dome, glistened in the bright sunlight, and the long
avenue of trees were in their earliest freshest dress of
brilliant spring green.
My friend said: "This street reminds me that yesterday
morning I met a negro girl here who had been a former maid of ours
and had left us to get
married. I stopped her and said: 'Howdy, Jemima; is that
your baby?' 'Yes Miss Mary, he 's my chile.' 'And what's
his name?' I asked. 'Hallowed,' she said. 'Hallowed! I
don't think I ever heard it,' I said. 'Why, yes, you is, Miss
Mary, it 's tole us in de Lord's Prayer, "Hallowed be Thy
name." ' Mary added, 'Jemima had no idea of irreverence.' "
I laughed, and then my memory wandered back to poor
little Joe, in Bleak House, who, when dying, faltered,
"Hallowed be - Thy - dead."
"The light is come upon the dark benighted way." May
the light shine upon the dark benighted way of the little
piccaninny called in reverent absurdity, "Hallowed."
My friend left me at the door of the Jefferson hotel,
where I found Rosewell Page, my good friend of many
years, waiting to wander about with me and show me
Richmond of the present. I remembered it well in the past,
for I spent three months there as a little girl with Mrs.
Canby, when some years after the war her husband was in
command of the military post. In the afternoon the General
and I often used to go on long walks together, and he loved to
stand before the beautiful old Capitol, whose noble
architecture gave him extreme pleasure.
"You see here, Betty," he would say, "the result of
knowledge. Jefferson was a good classical scholar, and he
suggested as a model of the Capitol the maison carrée of
Nismes, an old Roman temple, and those old fellows who
first made history there lived themselves up to the tradition
of Roman Senators. At the Constitutional Convention of
1829-30, the two former Presidents of the United States,
James Madison and James Monroe, and one future
President, John Tyler,
with Chief-Justice Marshall, Philip Pendleton Barbour,
Benjamin Watkins Lee, and a number of illustrious men
framed laws for the Constitution of the country. The
illuminating idea of universal suffrage was born and went
forth from behind those Ionic columns."
Another point of interest for us was the equestrian statue
of General Washington surrounded by his famous advisers -
Thomas Jefferson, the author of the Declaration of
Independence; Chief-Justice John Marshall, who, my father
always said, was almost the greatest lawyer that ever lived;
Thomas Nelson, a diplomat by instinct, and a force in
bringing the war of the Revolution to a successful close;
Patrick Henry, the impassioned orator and leader of the
Revolution; George Mason, another great jurist and the
author of the Virginia Bill of Rights; and Andrew Lewis,
whom General Washington considered a military genius.
"I tell you what it is, Betty," General Canby said
regretfully, "this war of brothers has been one of the most
terrible things in history. Politicians made it, soldiers fought
and deplored it, but it is something to have kept the Stars and
Stripes - the flag of Washington and Jefferson - floating
and inviolate over an undivided Union to the last. Virginia
has a better right to it than anybody else, and she will come
back loyally under its proud folds some day. Just now she is
sick and sore, but the grandsons of these brave Confederate
soldiers will even rejoice over her defeat. I sometimes see
an old friend in the street who refuses to speak to me, but I
can't blame him." And the General sighed, for he had a
tender, generous heart, and Mrs. Canby, a Southern woman,
was filled with grief over the desolation of the South.
had no feeling against the Yankees. He was the pet coon
of one of the officers of General Canby's staff, who had
named him Aaraaf, from Poe's fantastic poem of "Al
Aaraaf." He used to say: "I found him
" 'High on a mountain of enamell'd head -
Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
Of giant pasturage, lying at his ease,
Raising his heavy eyelids, starts and sees.' "
He had almost stepped on him while on a hunting
expedition, on the plateau of a Blue Ridge mountain - a
little soft, fluffy ball. He was such an amiable, tame coon, a
fat grey and black beauty. Not having to forage for food,
and always eating of the best - his favourite dish being
oysters - his coat was beautiful, and his bright furtive
eyes, widely surrounded by black circles, gave him quite a
theatrical appearance. The wild animal had apparently been
completely eliminated from Aaraaf, and like a dog he
followed his master all over the barracks. If fortune ever
smiles upon me and my vision is realised of a little home in
Virginia, I, too, will have an Aaraaf.
It was in Richmond that I first met Mrs. Canby's friend,
Mary Crook, the wife of General George Crook, the
famous fighter of the Indians, who stopped on her way East
for a little visit, and before she left our lifelong unbroken
friendship was formed, although I did not see her again for
many years.
"Where," said Rosewell Page, "shall we go first?"
"To the old Capitol," I said. "Let me refresh my eyes with
its unforgotten stately beauty."
"All right," said Rosewell, "then we will spend an hour
inside and take a look at the State Library."
The statue of Washington by Houdon, which occupies
the Rotunda of the State Capitol, is America's most
precious possession. I love the way that Jefferson wrote to
the Virginia Delegation of Congress after he had selected
the sculptor - "He is the finest statuary of his age."
Houdon was four months at Mount Vernon, from October,
1785, until January in 1786, consequently he had ample time
and opportunity to study the face and physique of
Washington, who treated with equal justice and courtesy
both artist and statesman. He wrote in 1785 to a friend:
"In for a penny on for a pound" is an old adage. I am so
hackneyed to the touch of the painter's pencil that I 'm now
altogether at their beck, and sit "like patience on a
monument," whilst they are delineating the lines on my face.
It is a proof among many others of what habit and custom
can accomplish. At first I was as impatient at the request
and as restive under the operation, as a colt is of the saddle.
The next time I submitted very reluctantly but with less
flouncing. Now, no dray horse moves more readily to the
shills than I to the painter's chair.
The figure is life-size, dressed in the Continental uniform;
the hair is worn in a queue, and the face is proud, noble, and
full of benignity and sweet reasonableness. But the mouth
has the same firm grip of a death trap that I have noticed in
the mouth of Parnell, Napoleon, and General Grant, a sort of
tight-shut finality of expression that means "no yielding
here." The figure is beautifully proportioned, but the General
was either slightly inclined to embonpoint, or the waistcoat
was ill-fitting. This was probably the case, as he sent for his
"cloaths" to a London tailor, who evidently had no exact
measurement, as Washington wrote in 1763:
Take measure of a gentleman who wares well-made
cloaths of the following size: to wit, six feet high and
proportionable made - if anything, rather slender than thick
for a person of that height, with pretty long arms and thighs.
You will take care to make the breeches longer than those
you sent me last, and I would have you keep the measure
of the cloaths you now make by you, and if any alteration is
required in my next it shall be pointed out.
My Mammy used to say, Straight legs for a dandy,
bowlegs for a cavalry man, and knock-knees for nothin'.
The General's legs were not only those of a "dandy," but
were exquisitely tapering and rounded. Many a chorus girl
would envy such a perfection, and the breeches fitted his
graceful legs without a wrinkle.
Facing the statue are the busts of two later Virginia
soldiers, General Fitzhugh Lee and General J. E. B. Stuart,
the musical soldier of the Confederate army. He had a
beautiful voice, and Joe Swinney, one of his soldiers, used to
go often to his tent and play on his banjo the
accompaniment of "Way down upon the Suwanee River"
and other popular Southern songs of the day. He loved in
the twilight to sing "Lorena," "Juanita," "Maryland, My
Maryland," and with his soldiers, "Nearer, my God, to
Thee."
Rosewell wanted to show me the warming machine
bought by Lord Bottetourt when Governor of Virginia, as a
present to the House of Representatives. He died before it
was finished, and it was finally sent to America by his son,
the Duke of Beaufort. It was made in England by Buzalo, a
famous stove maker with artistic ideals (for the lines are
good and the stove is of fine proportions), who was
evidently an Italian or of Italian extraction.
"Now," I said, "enough of the past for the
moment.
Let us go and see Mr. Koiner, the Commissioner of
Agriculture."
After our introduction, Mr. Koiner said: "I 've recently
been in your country, Mrs. O'Connor, and found the English
people most hospitable and eager to assist me."
"Is there," I said, "an opening for all classes of settlers in
Virginia, and do you help and advise them?"
"Yes," said Mr. Koiner, "of course we do. Ask Mr. Page
there his experience of us."
"I came one spring morning," said Rosewell, "at my wits'
end to find a gardener, and asked Mr. Koiner if he knew of
one. He said: 'I 've an Englishman who has been in the
building only five minutes, perhaps he will do.' I interviewed
him, and ten minutes later we had boarded a car for Beaver
Dam and the man, a competent gardener and an excellent
servant, has now been with me for four years. According to
my Virginian upbringing I use the 'broad A,' and he said to
me on my way to the country, 'I see you speak Henglish,
sir.' And I think from that moment he approved of me."
"Yes," said Mr. Koiner, "we have plenty of room here in
our land and in our hearts for the English."
"And why not?" said Rosewell. "Our good beginning was
from the English, who settled Jamestown over three
hundred years ago. The language of the whole American
Republic is English, although we are accused by our English
cousins of speaking Americanese. But, after all, the home of
the English and Scotch is in Virginia. The names our heroes
bear are English; a preponderance of our counties have
English names: Portsmouth, Norfolk, Manchester,
Charlottesville, Bristol, Sussex, Surrey, Stafford,
Southampton, New
Kent County, King George County, King and Queen
County, Isle of Wight County, Chesterfield County. This
very city is named after Richmond-on-Thames, while
General Lee's birthplace was Stratford in Westmoreland
County."
"It 's all quite English," I said, "but of course, the
brains, the statesmanship, the soldiery, and the military
genius of the Scotch and English of the Old Dominion and
their lineal descendants have made America the nation she
is to-day."
Mr. Koiner smiled. "Are you a Virginian?" he asked.
"No," I said, "I am a Texan, but I have a claim upon
Virginia, for my great-grandfather and my grandfather
were Virginians. I see that Richmond has graciously
named a street and a place 'Duval' in honour of my great-grandfather.
But you, who have studied the question, tell
me why Virginia offers the best opportunity for the English
settler of to-day?"
"Well," said Mr. Koiner, "for the man who wants a
mild climate and sunshine, Virginia gives the opportunity of
going out every day in comfort, with none of the extremes
of heat or cold that prevail in less favoured localities. Her
geographical position destines her to become one of the
richest states in the Union. Located midway between the
North and the South, she escapes the cold winters of the
North and the hot summers of the extreme South. And
then her soils are so varied; they easily furnish blue grass
and all other pasture grasses for cattle and sheep. We are
now shipping direct from the pasture to England. Piedmont
grows beautiful fruit, and Albemarle County and Patrick
and a dozen other counties are famous for apples.
Tobacco, peanuts, and cotton all grow in Middle Virginia."
"Don't forget, Mr. Koiner," said Rosewell, "the eastern
boundary of the State where last year the truck farms made
about fifteen million dollars. Corn, wheat, and oats grow, of
course, almost anywhere in the State, and the Valley is now
taking prizes in every county fair for its fine apples."
"And," said Mr. Koiner, "one great and inestimable
advantage of Virginia is that the land is so well watered. No
one thinks of fencing in a field without one or two springs.
On the average, there are half a dozen or more springs on
every square mile in Virginia. The Blue Ridge Mountains,
running north and south through the entire State, bubble with
mineral waters which have not even yet been fully
developed."
Rosewell said: "I am something of a farmer and know
that Virginia can grow almost every crop. Stock-raising is
improving, and the breed of cattle and horses is finer every
year. The long growing season and the kindness of the soil
furnish natural grasses for the cattle and that is a great aid
and benefit to the farmer."
I got up to go and Mr. Koiner followed us to the Farmers'
Hall of Exhibits. Beautiful wax apples in glass cases,
reproductions of the originals, were suspended from real
branches. There were splendid pyramids of perfect corn,
golden and wine-coloured. Specimens of giant peanuts.
Monster sweet potatoes, huge wax cantaloupes, and
enormous watermelons weighing from thirty to fifty pounds.
Mr. Koiner said, pointing to some lovely fruit, "Now, is n't
that branch of apples a work of art on the part of
nature?"
I replied: "It is indeed; but give me the name of some
particular Englishman who has succeeded in farming in
Virginia."
"I will," said Mr. Koiner, "give you the names of two - Mr.
James Bellwood, an Englishman in Chesterfield County,
came here from Canada. He is one of the leading farmers
of the State and owns three farms amounting to about two
thousand acres. He keeps from eighty to a hundred head of
dairy fowls, one of the best large herds in the State, and he
is an energetic, wide-awake, public-spirited citizen and an
authority on agriculture. He had a special yield of one
hundred and sixty bushels of corn on one acre last year, and
his entire crop from eighty acres yielded a hundred bushels
per acre. Then there is Mr. O. D. Belding, a Scotchman,
who owns a farm of twenty-five acres on the James River
at Claremont. Five out of the twenty-five acres are waste
land; three are kept in pasture, and the remaining seventeen
are in constant cultivation. When Mr. Belding took this farm
fifteen years ago, he was without means and was forced to
'hire out' a part of his first year to meet current expenses.
What this little farm has produced is best shown by the
buildings which he has erected from his profits. Wait a
moment, and I will go back and get a list from my office."
"Just look," I said to Rosewell, "at that wonderful bird of
the forest the wild turkey, in this case. He stands there with
his head erect like an Indian warrior, and his perfect
plumage is bronze in the high lights and black in the
shadows, and the broad tips of his tail and wings are opaline,
with a satiny sheen of orange, green, purple, and white. Is n't
he a raving beauty?"
"You," said Rosewell, "are as enthusiastic about the wild
turkey as Benjamin Franklin. You know he wanted him for
our national bird instead of the eagle."
"If ever I have a home in Virginia," I said, "Mr. T. A.
Green of Hemlock Hill Farm in Michigan has
promised me half-a-dozen turkeys. He has a famous breed,
and one monarch, weighing seventy pounds, has travelled to
various fairs in different States and taken all sorts of first
prizes."
"This," said Mr. Koiner, returning, "is a list of what
Mr. Belding has built from his profits":
An excellent and convenient house.
A large barn, well arranged for stock, grain, and hay.
Two good silos, one made of cement blocks.
A good potato cellar, with two-storey granary above it.
A good tool shed, automobile house, and a corn crib.
A large wood-house and a large coal-frame.
"He has also purchased the following machinery":
Ensilage cutter, 5 h. p. gasoline engine, small threshing
machine.
Sulky plough, buggy, automobile, and other implements.
"He has made an average crop of six tons per acre in
alfalfa, and his corn crop always averages one hundred
bushels per acre and has gone as high as one hundred and
fifty. This shows what can be done on a small Virginia
farm."
"I should like," I said, "to meet Mr. Belding. Good-bye,
and thank you for all your information."
"Here is a hand-book of Virginia," said Mr. Koiner.
"Don't forget that we will give you a warm welcome if you
settle among us, that the soil is kind, the people kinder, and
that with a good manager you can prosper on a little farm
near a market."
"Now," said Rosewell, "just take a peep in at the State
library, where you will see a Caxton in good condition,
bound in cowhide and horn. And there are
some portraits that will interest you. One is of Governor
Alexander Spottswood, who led an exploring party beyond
the Blue Ridge, mounted on the first horses shod in Virginia.
On his return he dubbed them 'Knights of the golden
horseshoes,' and presented each one with a horseshoe of
gold as a memento of the expedition."
"Yes," I said, "and how charmingly Mary Johnstone uses
that incident in Audrey."
Then we looked at the portraits of the Earl of Dunmore,
Thomas Jefferson, and Rochambeau. I remembered seeing
as a child an old portrait of Pocahontas, and I asked the
custodian where it hung. He led us to it, saying, "Here she
is in her court dress." But the costume, a brilliant jacket of
silk and velvet, with a lace collar and a high hat, is for the
morning. The picture was copied in 1891 by W. L. Shepherd,
the original being in possession of the Reverend Whitwall
Elwin, rector of a Boston parish, and a writer and editor of
repute. He told Mr. Shepherd that no question as to the
authenticity of the portrait had ever been raised. There is
documentary proof of its having been in charge of that
branch of the Rolfe connection since 1730. The
physiological evidence is convincing; the high cheek bones,
the nose with the broad base, the suggestion of the stolidity
of her race, are conclusive proofs of its having been taken
from life. The complexion is considerably lighter than that of
the North American Indian as we know him, and the hands
are much lighter in colour than the face. The picture records
that she was "Ætatis May 27, 1616, Matoaks als Rebekkah,
daughter to the mighty Prince Powhatan, Emperor of
Attanoughkomouk, als Virginia, converted and baptised in
the Christian faith, and wife to the
Hon'll Mr. Thos. Rolfe - from the original of Boston
Rectory, Norfolk, England." The Parish Register of
Gravesend Church, England, has also this entry: "Rebecca
Wrolfe, wyffe of Thos. Wrolfe Gen. a Virginia lady born;
was buried in ye chancel." What a singular thing that the
mistake should have been made, of calling her husband
Thomas instead of John.
But in all the library nothing interested or touched me so
much as a neatly-written, gracious letter of Poe's:
PHILADELPHIA, March 24, 1843.
MY DEAR SIR:
With this letter I mail to your address a number of the
Philadelphia Saturday Museum, containing a Prospectus of
The Stylus, a Magazine which I design to commence on the
first of July next, in connection with Mr. Thomas C. Clark,
of this city.
My object in addressing you is to ascertain if the list of
The South: Lit: Messenger is to be disposed of, and if so, upon
what terms. We are anxious to purchase the list and unite it
with that of The Stylus provided a suitable arrangement can
be made. I shall be happy to hear from you upon the
subject.
I hear of you occasionally, and most sincerely hope that
you are doing well. Mrs. Clemm and Virginia desire to be
remembered to our old acquaintances.
Believe me,
Yours truly,
EDGAR A. POE.
The handwriting is rather small, clear, steady, graceful,
with no slightest indication of nervousness or hesitancy. I
stood looking a long time at it, and Rosewell said, "Are you
a student of Poe?"
"I cannot call myself a student of anything," I said, "but
I love Poe. What a pity that he lived in the
wrong generation! He was one of those restless spirits, too
eager to be born, of whom Maeterlinck gives us a glimpse.
Southerners at that period lived intensely; they loved, they
suffered, they were part of a romantic era, their lives were
lives of self-sacrifice and self-control. A divorce was a rare
thing. Their personal experiences and those of their
neighbours satisfied their longing for romance. And Poe,
with the impassioned pen of a divine genius to inspire his
immortal imagination, came upon us too soon. If he had only
lived now, we would have appreciated and enriched him. I
once saw the old house in Stoke Newington where he went
to school, and I have a beautiful portrait of him. Like his
"gallant knight," I have often searched long and wearily for
the "mountains of the Moon." Do you remember?
"Oh yes," said Rosewell, who remembers everything.
"Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of El Dorado.
"But he grew old -
This knight so bold -
And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell, as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like El Dorado.
"And as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow -
'Shadow,' said he,
'Where can it be -
This land of El Dorado?'
" 'Over the mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,'
The shade replied,
'If you seek for El Dorado.' "
I said, "Over my heart truly there 's a shadow."
"Then," said Rosewell, "come to Beaver Dam and we
will try to lift it."
"I will come," I said, "in September, when the leaves
are turned to gold and scarlet."
"Now," he announced, "we must have some lunch, and
afterwards we will go and see St. John's Church."
We lunched at the Westmoreland Club. I ordered soft
shell crabs, and Rosewell bacon and greens.
"I suppose," I said, "you do it in honour of that delightful
story by Bagby in The Old Virginia Gentleman. What a
fascinating book his sketches have made, and so well set
forth by the appreciative foreword of Tom Page."
St. John's Church, one of the oldest and most picturesque
in Richmond, has the original pews with the high backs
lowered. The irregular hinges wrought by hand, and the nails
on the exterior of the church with brass heads half an inch
broad, are ruggedly decorative. The church was finished in
1741, and later was enlarged. It was in this church, at the
famous Convention of 1775, when war clouds were
gathering for the Revolution, that Patrick Henry made his
great speech ending with, "I know not what course others
may take, but as for me, give me liberty or give me death."
Not relying on my sieve-like memory, I said to
Rosewell, "He was the gentleman who made that
speech, was n't he?"
"He certainly was," said Rosewell, "and George
Washington, Edmund Pendleton, Thomas Jefferson,
Richard Henry Lee, known in history as 'Light Horse
Harry,' and Edward Carrington, fired with patriotic
enthusiasm, wildly applauded his passionate outburst."
"Did you," I said, "ever hear of the schoolmaster who
gave for a subject of composition to his history class the
name of Patrick Henry? One small boy, finishing before the
others, handed in this effort: 'Patrick Henry was tall, with
fair hair, blue eyes and straight legs, he had a loud voice and
got married, then he said "Give me liberty or give me death!" ' "
"I hope," said Rosewell, "the small boy did n't grow up to
prove his premises. But, sorry as I am, no more churches or
sight-seeing for me to-day. A tree surgeon from the
Agricultural Department is waiting for me at Beaver Dam.
I 'll put you in a car for your hotel, and if you stay over to-morrow,
let me know."
On my way to the Jefferson I read the Handbook of
Virginia, with lovely pictures of country homes, fat sheep,
and splendid Clydesdale draught horses, with great fringed
feet, and whiskers on their noses; mounds of Albemarle
pippins and acres of alfalfa (Captain Jack's three-hundred-acre
alfalfa field in King George County sold for eighteen
thousand dollars in 1909). Great fields of wide-leafed
tobacco, and warehouses filled with it. And a farm with
acres of ground covered with plump, snowy white ducks,
from which sixty thousand ducks were sold in one year. I
turned next to the letters, specimens of which I give as they
stand.
The first is from a Scotchman:
In the short time I have been in Virginia, some of the
impressions I have formed are of the great number of farms
empty. The low prices asked for them (low when compared
to Scotland), the railway facilities for market produce, and
the good water on almost all the farms I have been on.
Potatoes, beans, peas, poultry, butter, find ready sale at good
prices; all the crops grown at home can be grown here;
Indian corn, tobacco, sweet potatoes, etc., in addition, and
the residents with good schools and churches are very
orderly and law-abiding.
W. MCKIE.
Box 6, Pemplin City, Va.
A second is from a Dane:
It gives me great pleasure to add my testimonial to the
excellent climate and almost uniformly productiveness of
Virginia soil. Being born and raised on a farm in Denmark, I
determined to locate in America. After going through
Canada, and many States of the Union, especially the
Western and North-Western, I at last located in Virginia,
where I have been domiciled some 38 years, and have, to
this date, not regretted the choice I made. Too much cannot
be said of the excellence of its climate, being neither too
cold nor too warm; the soil being adaptable to almost
anything that grows.
WM. HOLTSTS
Richmond, Va.
A third is appreciative of Virginia:
Two years ago I came to Virginia for the purpose of
finding out whether what I read about Virginia was true or
not, before I moved my family, and I saw and heard enough
to convince me that it was, so I returned to Canada and
made a sale and came the year after, and we all liked it; the
climate is delightful, the season to get one's work done is a
long one, the land is as good as any I have worked or seen
in Canada, if properly handled, and I was from the best
farming and dairying section in Elgin County, Ontario,
and was doing well there; but I wanted a home where I
could live in comfort with a warmer climate and do the
same as I did in Canada, and I find I can do it here.
Yours, etc.,
J. E. MARTIN.
Ashland, Va.
A fourth is more than encouraging:
My farm comprises only twenty-four acres, and from this
modest area must be excluded eight acres of intractable
ravine, of which I make a limited use as pasture, my
farming operations being devoted to the remaining sixteen
acres which are under cultivation. The use of certain
portions of this land for a second crop makes the annual
ploughing area on an average, twenty acres. During the past
year my book shows the following results:
including calves, pigs, and chickens. The farm pays full tribute to
the home table, and only surplus is sold. We have the usual
garden space which supplies us with a variety of vegetables and
fruits for home use, which are not included in the list of money
crops. My expenses I compute at about $250.00 for labour,
fertiliser, wheat, bran for cows, and for interest on original
investment and taxes and insurance.
Farms such as the above can be bought now from $10.00 to
$20.00 per acre in near vicinity to the railroad.
A thousand pounds of honey - how delicious it sounds!
What industrious bees to make it! What acres of sweet flowers
they must have robbed with all their humming industry! I think,
after all, if I were choosing for myself, I should like to have a fruit
farm; the joy would begin with the blossoms and the sunshine and
the bees.
Apples [the Handbook says] may be said to be the principal
fruit crop of the State. They are extensively grown, and there is a
yearly increasing number of trees planted. In one of the Valley
counties, a seventeen-year-old orchard of 1150 trees produced an
apple crop which brought the owner $10,000. Another of fifty
twenty-year-old trees brought $700. Mr. H. E. Vandeman, one of
the best known horticulturists in the country says there is not in
all North America a better place to plant orchards than in Virginia.
"For rich apple soil, good flavour, and keeping qualities of the
fruit, and nearness to the great markets of the East and Europe,
your country is wonderfully favoured."
The trees attain a fine size and live to a good old age, and
produce most abundantly. In Patrick County, there is a tree, nine
feet five inches in circumference,
which has borne 110 bushels of apples at a single crop. And
there are other trees which have borne even more. One
farmer in Albemarle County has received more than $15,000
for a single crop of Albemarle pippins grown on twenty
acres of land. This pippin is considered the most deliciously
flavoured apple in the world. Sixty years ago, the Hon.
Andrew Stevenson of Albemarle, when Ambassador from
this country to England, presented a barrel of Albemarle
pippins to Queen Victoria, and from that day to this it is said
to be the favourite apple in the Royal Household. And land
in Patrick County, where the giant apple tree has produced
110 bushels of apples, is sold from six to eight dollars an
acre. Air, water, land, corn, fruit, home, contentment, all to
be had for a song - and yet people are hungry and starving
in congested cities all over the world. There is
mismanagement somewhere. I should like to be a
Commissioner of Immigration.
The day was not half over when I got back to the
Jefferson Hotel, so I decided to do a little more sight-seeing,
and I asked the porter to direct me to the Confederate
Museum. He said: "Walk down one block, then turn to the
right and walk three blocks, turn to the left, go straight down
Franklin Street, then cross over and walk a block and a half,
turn to the left, and take the car to the museum." And I, with
a hole in my head for locality!
As I stood helplessly and hopelessly on the steps, looking
vaguely down the street, I noticed a gentleman standing in a
very leisurely attitude. He had a charming, rather delicate
face, a composite likeness of John Ridgely Carter, that
clever diplomat, and Edgar Allan Poe. I quickly decided it
was the face of a man who could unravel a tangled skein, so
I said: "I beg your
pardon, but the porter here, who I should say would be
excellent at riddles, has just given me these directions for
the car which will take me to the Confederate Museum. He
said: 'Walk down one block, then turn to the right and walk
three blocks, turn to the left, go straight down Franklin
Street, then cross over and walk a block and a half, and turn
to the left.' Can you tell me whether, if I don't get lost, I
shall eventually find that car?"
He took off his hat, listening with his head uncovered.
Then he said, smiling: "I am going in that direction myself. If
you will permit me I will show you the way."
We both started off, a little shy, although I think my grey
hair gave him confidence in the situation (I know it did me)
and I said: "I 'm disappointed that Rosewell Page is not with
me. He had to go back to the country. The Agricultural
Department is going to be at his place this afternoon, to fill
holes in his trees."
"Oh," said the gentleman, "I know Rosewell Page, so I
think I may introduce myself to you as Mr. Page's friend,
James Dunn. We both went to the University of Virginia,
although my term was later, but still I know him, as
everybody in Virginia knows everybody else."
Then I introduced myself as Rosewell Page's other
friend, and we were quite comfortable and chatty together.
When the car appeared I asked, "Does the car go past the
Museum, or do I get out and zigzag about until I find it?"
He said, "There is a corner, so I had better see you
safely to the entrance."
When we arrived, I said, "This is not my Museum, it is
yours. Is it my place to invite you in?"
And he replied, "If you do, of course I will come in,"
which he did.
This small Confederate Museum is the most intensely
human, touching, and appealing reliquary in all the world;
certainly it is to the people of the South, for there hangs in
the big case General Lee's shabby grey coat, braided in gold,
with three stars on the collar. It has such a look of
friendliness about it, that I wanted to put my hand gently on
the empty sleeve. Beside it hangs the little tin cup he carried
with him all through the war, which surely gave a draught of
comfort to more than one wounded and dying soldier. Many
silver beakers were sent to him from various admirers, but in
preference to them all, he carried the plain cup of the
ordinary everyday private.
I said, "What a truly god-like man he was!"
"Yes," said Mr. Dunn:
" 'Defeat but made him tower grandly high -
Sackcloth about him was transformed to gold
. . . . .
The winds may rage, the frightened clouds be driven,
Like multitudinous banners, torn and tossed,
Retreating from some conflict lost.
But far beyond all shapes and sound of ill
That star - his soul - is shining calmly still,
The steadfast splendour in a stormy heaven.' "
Perhaps, after the relics of General Lee, the most
romantic object in the Museum is a Florida flag, which
floated over a regiment through the whole four years of that
terrible war. It looks as if it might have been used by
Galahad, or Percivale, or Launcelot. King Arthur himself
would not have disdained so beautiful a banner. It is a very
old, heavily embroidered, red crêpe shawl, the red being
somehow of the most ominous hue, as though it had been
dyed in blood. The
staff of the flag is a long ebony golden-headed cane, one of
those used in the time of Marie Antoinette, and the beaten
circles which attach the shawl to it are heavy, hand-made
gold rings, carved by a local jeweller out of melted breast-pins,
rings, and bracelets, given by the women of the Land
of Flowers. Surely there is no flag in modern times like this
ragged, bullet-pierced, blood-stained, embroidered bit of silk.
Another larger flag with the stars of the Confederacy and
the broad red-and-white bars had furled itself in heavy folds
around the staff, and seemed to be the veritable Conquered
Banner of Father Ryan:
Furl that Banner, for 't is weary;
Round its staff 't is drooping dreary;
Furl it, fold it, it is best;
For there 's not a man to wave it,
And there 's not a sword to save it,
And there 's not one left to lave it
In the blood which heroes gave it;
And its foes now scorn and brave it;
Furl it, hide it - let it rest!
Take that Banner down! 't is tattered;
Broken is its staff and shattered;
And the valiant hosts are scattered
Over whom it floated high.
Oh! 't is hard for us to fold it;
Hard to think there 's none to hold it;
Hard that those who once unrolled it
Now must furl it with a sigh.
Furl that Banner! Furl it sadly,
Once ten thousand hailed it gladly,
And ten thousand wildly, madly,
Swore it should for ever wave;
Swore that foeman's sword should never
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever
Till that flag should float for ever
O'er their freedom or their grave!
Furl it! For the hands that grasped it,
And the hearts that fondly clasped it,
Cold and dead are lying low;
And that banner - it is trailing!
While around it sounds the wailing
Of its people in their woe.
For, though conquered, they adore it!
Love the cold dead hands that bore it!
Weep for those who fell before it!
Pardon those who trailed and tore it!
But, oh! wildly they deplore it,
Now who furl and fold it so.
Furl that Banner! True, 't is gory,
Yet 't is wreathed around with glory,
And 't will live in song and story
Though its folds are in the dust;
For its fame on brightest pages
Penned by poets and by sages
Shall go sounding down the ages -
Furl its folds, though now we must.
Furl that Banner, softly, slowly!
Treat it gently - it is holy -
For it droops above the dead.
Touch it not - unfold it never -
Let it droop there, furled for ever,
For its people's hopes are dead!
Now a younger generation have grown up, hopeful, prosperous,
and forgiving, and the "Conquered Banner" is but to them a
cherished poem.
In another case there was a big wax doll, with china blue
eyes, which originally must have been a beauty, but her hair
is very thin now and all the paint on her face has been kissed
away by appreciative adorers. A little tag pinned on her
stiffly starched calico sleeve states that she was sent from
Leamington, England, to a Virginia child in 1863 and that
many children at this time had never seen a doll and they
were brought miles to gaze longingly upon this celebrated
English beauty.
When we left the Museum Mr. Dunn proposed that we
should take tea with his sister-in-law, the wife of Dr. Dunn,
and at the same time I could see West's pictures of Shelley.
Mrs. Dunn, a very charming woman, was luckily at home,
and received me most kindly, and her brother-in-law, the
Virginia gentleman - and a true gentleman can always rely
upon his judgment and instinct - was quite equal to the
occasion. With authority he presented me as "My friend,
Mrs. O'Connor," and though I wanted to laugh at his daring,
from that moment we were friends.
A link between the old world and the new is an authentic
portrait of Shelley which hangs on the drawing-room wall of
a house in Richmond, together with the sketch from life
which in the first place inspired the portrait. The canvas
used is only eight by nine inches in size. The portrait was
painted by Edward West, at that time a young, handsome
artist himself, and was evidently executed in spontaneous
admiration. The full, soft, brown hair is pushed back from a
high, intellectual forehead, the eyebrows are well marked,
and the brilliant blue eyes, expressive of youthful hope and
an ardent temperament, are beautifully set in the head. The
face, a pure, long oval, with a delicate nose, tenderly
moulded mouth, and strong chin, is that of a man in the
very heyday of his youth - happy and probably full of
enjoyment of his new, but ill-fated sailing boat, that "perfect
plaything for the summer," which, like many perfect
playthings, produced a sad tragedy.
The Shelleys and their friends the Williams were living at
Lerice, while Byron was at Montenero, where West was
painting his portrait. Shelley, who probably sailed over from
Lerice, appeared one afternoon, and Byron, all cordiality,
seated him facing West's easel, and the three remained in
interesting conversation for more than an hour. During a
momentary rest from Byron's picture, West was so
impressed by Shelley's radiant personality that he slyly made
an accurate sketch of him. When Byron saw it, he thought it
an excellent likeness, and West then and there determined
to use the sketch for a portrait, which he subsequently did.
The artist said: "Never have I seen a face so expressive of
ineffable goodness; its benignity and intelligence were only
shadowed by a certain sadness as one upon whom life
pressed keenly, at touching variance with the youth
indicated by his contour and movements."
Subsequently, on the first of July, Leigh Hunt, Byron,
Shelley, and West spent some days together at Pisa. Here it
is most probable that the artist began the portrait. The
original pencil sketch is made on a fine quality of
drawing-paper seven inches by eight, and this is the inscription:
"Sketch of Percy B. Shelley by William West, taken at Villa
Rossa, near Leghorn, in 1822, and thought by Byron to be a
good likeness."
West was a quiet, modest man, a lover of poetry and a
true artist. Shelley's joyous youth and wonderful personality
had made an indelible impression upon him. He never tried
to dispose of the portrait, and at his death it was left to a
member of his family, and is
now, with his fine picture of Judith, owned by Dr. Dunn.
When we left the house and resumed our pleasant walk,
my new friend said to me:
"Of course it was n't only to show you West's picture
that I carried you off to my brother's house. I wanted you to
see the sponsors for my respectability."
"And what," I said, "of my sponsors? They are all far
away."
He replied gallantly, "You are a lady. You need none."
Could Lord Chesterfield have done better than this
modern young Virginia gentleman?
It is strange how such a thing happened to me, being
generally impervious to chills, but I developed a severe cold
in Richmond, which cut short my visit and sent me to
Washington to Bee. In the midst of my eloquent description
of Mr. Dunn she asked, "You did n't just speak to him on
the hotel steps?"
"Yes," I said, "I did. You see, if you are a grandmother,
and the man 's a gentleman, it 's perfectly permissible. No
woman knows true joy and independence until she 's a
grandmother! I wish I had been the mother of many children
and grandchildren. But, after all, adopted daughters are quite
satisfactory. I have hurried from Richmond just to have you
take care of me."
Bee, with the beautiful look in her eyes, said, "You know
I 'll do that, Swizzlegigs."
"I knew her well. She had the face of a primrose, the heart of a child,
the love of a woman, and the loyalty of a man."
ALTHOUGH Becky Sharp plays her part so entrancingly
in Vanity Fair that she overshadows every
other character in the book, except, perhaps, poor Rawdon
Crawley, the scene between Mrs. O'Dowd and the Major
the night before the battle of Waterloo is not easily
forgotten.
"I 'd like ye to wake me about half-an-hour before the
assembly beats," the major said to his lady. "Call me at half-past
one, Peggy dear, and see me things is ready. Maybe I 'll
not come back to breakfast, Mrs. O'D." With which
words, which signified his opinion that the regiment would
march the next morning, the Major ceased talking and fell
asleep.
Mrs. O'Dowd, the good housewife, arrayed in curl papers
and a camisole, felt that her duty was to act and not to sleep
at this juncture. "Time enough for that," she said, "when
Mick's gone." And so she packed his travelling valise ready
for the march, brushed his cloak, his hat, and other warlike
habiliments, set them out in order for him, and stowed
away in the coat pockets a light
package of portable refreshments, and a wicker covered
flask or pocket pistol, containing near a pint of a remarkably
sound Cognac brandy of which she and the Major approved
very much; and as soon as the hands of "the repayther"
pointed to half-past one, and its interior arrangements (it had
a tone quite equal to a cathaydral, its fair owner considered)
knelled forth that fatal hour, Mrs. O'Dowd woke up her
Major, and had as comfortable a cup of coffee prepared for
him as any maid that morning in Brussels. . . . The
consequence was, that the Major appeared on parade quite
trim, fresh, and alert, his well-shaved rosy countenance, as he
sat on horseback, giving cheerfulness and confidence to the
whole corps. All the officers saluted her when the regiment
marched by the balcony on which this brave woman stood
and waved them a cheer as they passed; and I daresay it
was not from want of courage, but from a sense of female
delicacy and propriety, that she refrained from leading the
gallant --th personally into action,
History repeats itself. The mould is altered but never
broken. Mrs. Crook, like Mrs. O'Dowd, was a brave soldier,
and she, too, could have led the --th into action. To the
bravery and powers of endurance of a man, she united the
generosity, the quick tenderness, and the self-abnegating
love of the woman. She married General Crook at
seventeen. After an ideal honeymoon, he was sent to San
Francisco and was stationed in California in the Indian
country, where it was quite impossible for his young wife to
accompany him. But for these six months of enforced
separation, Mrs. Crook spent her whole life in the army at
her husband's side. She literally buckled on his sword every
morning and unbuckled it every night. If they were stationed
in the barren plains of Arizona or New
Mexico, with only canned food to eat for the entire summer
and boiled water to drink, Mrs. Crook never thought of
going East. What General Crook could endure she endured
cheerfully, uncomplainingly, and bravely until death parted
them. And next to her husband she loved the army, having
the good name, the courage, and the honour of the regiment
quite as much, if not more, at heart than he had. There was
no pretty, flighty, or imprudent young woman who ever
went to Mrs. Crook for protection or help without getting it,
and it was given with a generosity that even few men
possess. She kept husbands and wives together by her
devoted example in never leaving her own husband, and the
camp, wherever it might be, was her home, the regiment
her child.
When they were stationed in Chicago an order came
from the War Department ordering General Crook to
transfer all the Indians from the reservations in Illinois to the
Indian territory, now the State of Oklahoma. The order was
unnecessary, for they were industrious, prosperous,
inoffensive, law-abiding, quiet citizens. Notwithstanding the
fact that he was a celebrated Indian fighter, General Crook,
curiously enough, liked the Indian, understood him, and was,
above all, just to him. He said to Mrs. Crook: "Mary, the
latest order from the War Department is going to take me
out of the army."
Her heart stood still with fear, but she said, "Why,
George, you can't leave the army, you don't know anything
else. You are a good soldier, but you could n't make a dollar
a day at any other profession to save your life."
General Crook said: "Nevertheless I am going to resign. I
can fight the Indian, but I can't take
advantage of him. I have never done a cowardly thing that I
can remember, or one directly against my conscience. If I
do this, I should be lowered in my own estimation, so I am
going to send in my resignation."
She said: "Why can't you write to the War Department
and protest?"
"No," he said, "I can't do that. I am a soldier and the War
Department issues orders for its soldiers to obey. That is the
first thing in a soldier's code - obedience. I could n't
possibly write to the War Department. The only manly thing
for me to do is to resign."
She rejoined, "The only mad thing for you to do is to
resign. George, think of our leaving the regiment! It is not to
be contemplated for a moment."
"That is just what is going to happen," he said.
"Can't anything be done?" she asked.
"Well," he said, "what about that God of yours that you
are always telling me is so just and merciful? Where are
your prayers?"
Mrs. Crook looked at him for a moment and said, "Do
you realise, my dear, that you have been my god for so
many years that I don't know whether I have a right to pray
to the other one whom I loved and trusted as a child? And,
now, you are going to do something to break my heart."
He said, "You should be more familiar with your Bible.
Don't you know it says, 'Put not your faith in Princes,' and
adds - to cover the whole ground - 'nor in any man'?"
She said, "I have always remembered about the Princes."
"Well," said General Crook, "I am the other fellow, and
I am going to resign."
"No," she said, "I will make one last effort. Have
the carriage ready, and I will go to every clergyman in
Chicago and beg of him to preach a sermon on the injustice
of the Indians being removed to the Indian territory."
The next day was Sunday, and Mrs. Crook, with her
eloquence, her great heart, and her emotional appeal, had so
wrought upon the feelings of the clergy that they thundered
forth from the pulpit heartfelt condemnations against the
contemplated injustice of the government. The order from
the War Department was rescinded and Mrs. Crook saved
a gallant soldier to the army.
She had the misfortune to outlive her husband, and her
widowhood was one of the saddest things on earth. If she
could have remained Colonel of the regiment it would not
have been so empty, but to be bereft of George and the
regiment too, that was indeed supreme loneliness. She
wandered about America, and even got as far as Europe,
trying to forget, but only learned to endure.
One afternoon Mrs. Labouchere was giving a party at
Old Palace Yard. There was a distinguished concert first,
with Patti as a "bright particular star," and afterwards
strawberries and cream. It was early in June, before the
London frocks had time to lose their pristine freshness.
Everybody looked their best, and it was a very gay and
charming scene. Mrs. Harter particularly attracted Mrs.
Crook. Her hair, exquisitely dressed, was surmounted by a
tricorne hat with a bunch of white feathers; she wore a thin,
gauzy gown bespangled with soft pink roses, a pink sash,
and beautiful old ornaments of pearls and diamonds. She
was a charming figure as she stood there, neat, trim,
dainty, fashionable, and complete.
When we got out into the street and walked slowly up to
St. James's Park and sat down on a bench, Mrs. Crook
gave a long sigh and said, "Oh, Betty, I am longing 'for the
touch of a vanished hand and the sound of a voice that is
still.' To-day I do so badly want to see my dear old George.
You know, all this civilisation is extremely interesting and
artificially charming, but it is only the slight veneer of reality.
What do these women, with their silver tissues, flower-wreathed
hats, wrinkled gloves, high-heeled shoes, and
pretty little artificial manners, know of the big things of life
or of the heart? They have had nothing to waken it, and the
years have gone so smoothly with them that not a line has
been written upon their faces. I don't know why in that
white and rose drawing-room among those gaily dressed
people, memory should have taken me back more than thirty
years to a tragic experience. Perhaps it was the law of
contrast."
"Tell me, dear Mrs. Crook," I said, "what happened?"
"When George and I were married," she said, "it was with
the understanding that I should stay in Baltimore with my
family until he could send for me, that is, until he was
stationed at a post where a woman could live in safety. I
don't say comfortably, because in those days there was
precious little comfort in the army. Well, I waited for six
months, and there was no prospect of such a post, so,
without letting him know I travelled to San Francisco alone,
and wrote to him to say I was there and ready to join the
army. Of course, a girl of eighteen could not be left in that
gay city by herself, and he really did not want to send me
home again, so there was nothing to be done but come for
me. He asked for an escort, and they gave him a very small
one, and we had to travel right through the heart of the
Indian country to get to the post. The old sergeant took stock
of me and said, 'Mrs. Crook, you look as if you were going
to be a permanent recruit, now if you want to be real
comfortable you had better put on a blue flannel shirt, boy's
trousers, a soft hat, and ride astraddle.' So I did, and George
thought I was the sweetest boy on earth. The third day out, I
think it was, a terrible look came over the face of the
sergeant. We were just behind a grove of scrub oaks, for we
tried to get out of the danger of the open whenever we
could. By peering through the foliage, away to the left, we
saw about two hundred Indians, and from the dim outline of
the upstanding feathers on the heads of the braves, evidently
they were on the war-path. My husband called a sudden
halt, and quickly pulled my horse close against his, with a
face like the face of the dead. He put his arm round me,
opened the collar of my flannel shirt, placed the muzzle of
his pistol against my heart, and said, 'If we are discovered,
dear, it must be. Better this than an Indian!' We stood so for
ten mortal minutes, with the cold steel chilling my warm
flesh. Once, when an Indian chief lifted his head, sniffed the
air, and looked round, it seemed as if even the horses
understood and became as rigid as stone. With the
disappearance of the last Indian, my husband dropped in a
dead faint. The sergeant was just in time to catch his
pistol. When George came round and opened his eyes, he
said, 'My God, I am ten years older, Mary!' These are the
moments, Betty, that weld a man and a woman together and
give them one soul. Half of me is dead. Tell me how to
make the other half live until I find George." And, strong
and well and vigorous as she was, it was not long before
their meeting came.
Buffalo Bill had his show in London that spring. He had
been a scout for General Crook, and he wanted to do
honour to his wife, so he placed a box at her disposal and
gave a large luncheon to a party of army people and other
distinguished men and women then in town. Mrs. Crook
asked me to sit in her box, and we found it draped with the
American flag, and bunches of roses, tied with the national
colours, were waiting for us. Colonel Cody had asked us
particularly to be in time for the entrance of the
procession. We did n't know that an unexpected honour had
been prepared for Mrs. Crook. The colour-bearer and the
company of American soldiers, the Indians following behind,
the cowboys, and all the rest of the procession, galloped
straight up to the box and made the military salute to the
distinguished lady sitting within it.
Mrs. Crook divined what was going to happen, and seized
my hand, saying, "Oh, Betty, a reminder of the past! God
bless the army!"
I added, "And our flag!"
"Your flag and my flag, and how it flies to-day
In your land and my land, and half a world away,
Rose-red and blood-red, its stripes for ever gleam,
Snow-white and soul-white, the good forefathers' dream,
Sky-blue and true-blue, with stars that shine aright,
The gloried guidon of the day and refuge through the
night."
I wonder if there is anything in all the world that stirs the
blood so much as the sight of Old Glory in another land. It is
not seen as often as it should be, for we no longer send
down ships to the sea, and I have often felt lonely in a
foreign port for the sight of that banner spangled with stars.
Mrs. Crook said, as Colonel Cody rode out, "Look at
Bill. Is n't he a gallant figure? I never see him without
remembering that furious, single hand-to-hand duel of his in
the Black Hills country after Custer's tragic battle, which
did not leave one man alive. When Colonel Merritt marched
against eight hundred Sioux Buffalo Bill and a number of
picked men were sent in advance on scout service. They
met two couriers hotly pursued by Indians, and in protecting
them a fight began, in the midst of it the Indians suddenly
fell back in serried ranks, while a great chief wearing a war
crown of black and white feathers, his face painted in a
hideous mask of black and scarlet, hate and vengeance
flashing from his eyes, rode forward, crying hoarsely to
Buffalo Bill, 'Death to you, Pa-has-ka, or death to me!' And
the armies waited, while at a distance of fifty yards those
two brave men fought. The Indian's horse fell wounded. At
the same moment Buffalo Bill's mare stumbled and threw
him, but in a second they were both on their feet and, at a
distance of twenty yards, fired again. Bill's hat tilted to one
side - a bullet had gone through it; but the Indian fell
forward, shot through the heart. The duel over, Colonel
Merritt ordered the army to charge. Bill, with the Indian's
top-knot held aloft, rode ahead, his eyes blazing with victory,
shouting 'The first scalp for Custer!' "
I said, "He ought to make that a feature of the show."
At the luncheon I asked Mrs. Crook what had become of
M--- of the --th Cavalry. She said, "He 's all right. He was
your first suitor, was n't he?"
"Yes," I replied, "the very first, and I have never
forgotten him."
She said, "You might have done worse than marry
M--- He 's a good fellow, although once he would
have got into a lot of trouble if it had n't been for me."
"How was that?" I asked.
"Well," she said, "a pretty, flirty, foolish, harmless,
reckless young married woman was seen, or was said to
have been seen, coming out of his quarters. (He is a
bachelor yet, by the way.) I saw that we were going to
have a big army scandal, with two officers fighting a duel
and a woman's reputation ruined, and I just could n't have it,
so at any cost I had to prove an alibi for this indiscreet
young woman."
"Did you do it?" I asked.
Mrs. Crook's eyes twinkled. "Of course I did," she said.
"By the strangest good-luck the lady was in my quarters,
and I could answer for her. Naturally, the word of the wife
of the Colonel of the regiment had to be accepted."
I said, "If you said she was with you she was."
"Well," said Mrs. Crook, "if she was n't she ought to have
been."
I held up my glass. "Mrs. Crook, I have always said you
were a soldier, an officer, and a gentleman."
Buffalo Bill stood up. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said,
"that is a good toast. I ask you to drink to Mrs. Crook, a
gallant soldier, an officer, a gentleman, and a true and loyal
woman!"
And we drank that toast, wishing there were more of her
generous kind in the world.
Mrs. Crook continued, "I said to General Crook, 'George,
I suppose you know I 've been obliged to tell a very white
lie. What would you have done?' He said, 'I don't know; I
never told a lie in my life.' I said, 'You never told a lie in
your life?' He said, 'No, I don't remember ever to have told
a lie. Sometimes I
have remained silent, sometimes I have evaded a question,
but I don't remember ever to have directly lied.' Then I said
to him, 'George Crook, wouldn't you lie for a woman?' He
said, 'I don't know, I have never had to do it.' Still I
persevered, 'Would n't you if you had to?' He said, 'Mary, I
would n't like to do it.' 'Then,' I said, 'if you are not
prepared to lie, don't ever fall in love with any woman but
me.' And he never did."
I think in all her life Mrs. Crook never had but one
rival, a little baby cousin of mine. While they were stationed
in Arizona and the weather was at its very worst, Colonel
Cyrus Roberts's wife became the mother of twin girls. One
of them died, and the other who lived was an extremely
delicate little child. When she was a woman of three she
developed a wild adoration of General Crook. If Mrs. Crook
patted him on the shoulder or smoothed his hair, she would
fly at her like a jealous fairy virago, and her devotion to him
never ceased until they left the post.
Her elder brother, Charlie Roberts, a boy of five, had
seen the nurse coming to the house the day the babies were
born with a large basket, and he dated their arrival from that
basket. The poor little things were so cross, cried so
continually, and required so much attention, that his poor
little nose was completely out of joint. One day when the
remaining baby was about four months old, the nurse
appeared carrying the same basket. Charlie, without a word,
rushed over to Mrs. Crook's quarters, saying, "I 'm going to
live here. I 'm never going back any more to my mother and
father, 'cause we 've got twins again. The nurse brought 'em
in her basket. I did n't see 'em, but I know they 're there,
and I won't live in a house with any
more twins." And it was only when he was assured of
the emptiness of the basket that he could be prevailed
upon to go home.
After Mrs. Crook returned to America she wrote to
me from time to time, long, affectionate letters, and
sent me several cookery books, for she was an excellent
housekeeper, could make a tasty dish out of nothing,
and was anxious for me to follow in her footsteps,
believing, as they say in England, that you should
"feed the brute," and do it artfully and well.
But in spite of her seemingly practical interest in the
world, her heart was broken, and without any particular
illness she died. It was a very poignant regret to me
that she could not witness her own funeral, for she had a
love of pomp and circumstance and a very keen sense
of gratitude for manifest affection. The day she was
buried was golden with sunshine, a large gathering of
people followed the brave soldier to her last rest, and
there was an opulent luxuriance of flowers which would
have gladdened her appreciative spirit. Her coffin was
hidden in them, and carriage after carriage followed the
hearse heaped with wreaths and crosses and hearts and
pillows, and then quite small bunches of flowers from
humbler friends, who had loved her and had received
her sympathy and optimistic help. When the coffin was
lowered into the grave, it rested on the hearts of
thousands of beautiful roses, and each flower contained
love and regret for one who had given so much love and
loyalty to the world.
So let the way wind up the hill or down,
O'er rough or smooth, the journey will be joy:
Still seeking what I sought when but a boy,
New friendships, high adventures and a crown.
My heart will keep the courage of the quest
And hope the road's last turn will be the best.
HENRY VAN DYKE.
MY Utopian idea was to spend the summer in Washington,
and yet I had a warning of what the weather was to
be when the Thomas Nelson Pages gave a dinner to
Chief Justice and Mrs. Lamar. The thermometer
stood at, - well anything. The asphalt streets, having
absorbed the heat, gave it out in large purgatorial
waves, but with the windows all open, the dinner-table
a long bed of cool, white and pink sweetpeas, a
few blocks of ice and electric fans, to forget the
weather was within the range of possibility. But we - the
Pages, that boyish, popular woman, Belle
Hagner, Rosewell, and I - wondered how, if the heat
continued, we would survive Alfred Thom's party
arranged to start the next evening for Gettysburg.
The sun next morning rose like a brazen copper shield.
The heat never abated during the day, but neither did our
courage. Mrs. Page provided us with a dozen palm-leaf
fans, guidebooks, and literature appropriate
to the occasion, and after dinner we drove to the station
and entered a special car for Baltimore.
I had never been in one before and found it surprisingly
comfortable. There were real bedrooms, with brass beds
and proper furniture; a long observation room furnished in
green, with luxurious chairs; and a fine dining-room with a
kitchen adjoining, where a negro chef prepared frequent and
tempting meals. Alfred Thom is a Virginian, a successful
and brilliant lawyer, and the sort of man socially whom his
hostess places at a dinner party next the woman she wants
to be happy. We had not long finished dining, but like the
little boy who when asked if he was hungry replied, "No,
but, thank God, I 'm greedy," we did justice to the supper of
planked shad, soft-shell crabs, hot rolls, salad, and coffee
which was served about nine o'clock.
I, like the streets of Washington, was so thoroughly baked
that when we got out of the car at Baltimore there seemed
no abatement in the temperature to me. But Florence Page
has quick susceptibilities. She sniffed the air with her little
nose, and said, "A change in the weather; it 's cooler." And
so it proved to be. The next morning was sunless, the sky a
pearl grey, and the day an ideal one for our expedition.
Charles Scribner and David Peyton had joined us at
Baltimore, and a quick run brought us to Gettysburg, a pretty
little clean village, which has its memories of the war. But
we were too impatient to tarry there. A large char-à-banc,
with a couple of strong horses, conveyed us to the great
battle-field, and we got out at any point which specially
interested us.
Tom Page, with field-glasses, was keenly observant. The
battle-field contained vital interest to him, as he was at
the moment finishing his life of General Lee. The
guide had a stentorian voice, a steady flow of words, and
such a rhythmical way of speaking that, although discoursing
of battle and sudden death, he had rather a stultifying effect.
I, at least, only heard from time to time the beginning or the
end of lengthy descriptions.
He said: "The men who fought on the field of
Gettysburg were among the bravest that ever faced the
cannon's mouth. Not even Napoleon's Old Guard was more
courageous than Longstreet's column as they marched
across the fatal field to be shot and mangled by the
murderous fire of the Union batteries. And Lee's men stood
as firmly on the crest of Cemetery Ridge, as Wellington's
battalions at the battle of Waterloo. Fifty years have passed
since the Sixteenth Battle of the world was fought, but the
daring deeds and desperate courage of the brave soldiers
who lost and won that mighty contest will go sounding down
through all the ages. In the spring of 1863, General Lee,
emboldened by his many successes, determined to move his
army into the North. The capital of Pennsylvania, used for
organising and equipping troops, was the first objective point.
Washington, the capital of the nation, was the second. And
Gettysburg was felt to be the decisive battle of the war, for
across the sea foreign powers waited to aid the South if they
saw success ahead of her." (Success can always get help,
failure never, no matter how righteous the cause.)
"Freedom and Independence were visible to the eyes of
the Confederate soldiers, when those inspiring words were
blotted out by rivers of blood. Lee moved the main part of
his army to Gettysburg by the Cumberland Valley - " the
guide droned on. And then my imagination took flight and a
battle appeared before
me full of action and horror. I seemed to hear General
Howard issuing an order to Colonel Biddle.
"Extend the line to the south!"
"Keep the enemy from flanking on the left!"
The Colonel gallops on his beautiful sorrel, well in front
of his guns, his aide keeping close to his side. A shell
whistles between them and swerves to the left. God!
how steadily a headless man can ride! The aide drops from
his mare, she gives a whinnying scream, staggers, and falls.
A second shell has ploughed its way deep into her side.
The Colonel scarcely pauses in his gallop, but hoarsely
calls to his men:
"Move forward! - For - ward!"
"Guns to the front! Guns to the front!"
Look, the peak of his cap hangs down, his face is blue
and bruised. He has been struck - no, it is only powder,
from an empty shell.
"Battery gallop!" he orders.
The Federal troops behind him are being mowed down
like corn; sharpshooters are in their rear; the Bucktail
brigade, Biddle remembers, is new, and this is work for
the soldier of experience. Eight guns are now galloping
over the rough ground. A slow, vicious, chilling hiss, and a
big shell flies along, explodes not a foot away from his
horse, a piece of iron darts up in the air in front of him; his
eyelashes are singed, he rides now in a cap without a
visor. A long grey line to the left pours a steady,
murderous fire. His men are confused; they are being
killed, not singly, but in sixes and tens, making little
mounds of piteous, bleeding humanity.
"Fire! Fire!" The guns roar, but when the smoke clears
away only one gunner is left. A broad sheet of red flame
comes unceasingly from the line of grey.
Colonel Roy Stone shouts above the wild conflicting
roar:
"Charge Bucktails!"
And the Bucktails charge after their Colonel, stand the
fire, and are mowed down, leaving big gaps, made by
Pegram's batteries. Smoke, shot, shells, wounded and dying
are clogging the way, but on they go with a rush, Roy
Stone always ahead, his loud voice cheering and
encouraging:
"Bravo Bucktails!"
Suddenly he gives a long, dull, smothered scream; his
teeth clench tightly together. Blood gushes like a fountain
from his limp body, and from a great hole in the shoulder
of his wounded horse, dyeing the grass a vivid scarlet. He
will lead the diminishing number of Bucktails no more.
Brave Wister takes his place, shouting hoarsely:
"Don't lose courage, boys! On to the cannon, capture the
cannon!"
His next order no one can hear, for Hell has set up her
orchestra of horrid sounds to madden men and turn them
into bloodthirsty tigers. They are getting closer to the enemy,
the long grey line, and losing, losing every minute. Wister
looks to the right and yells:
"Hold your ground! For God's sake, no surrender!"
The wavering line of blue steadies; the heaving guns are
drawn forward, crunching over bodies still warm, and fire - fire - until
smoke comes forth from without as well as
within the cannon.
"The sponge! The sponge!"
The gunner uses it, drops it, and fires with blistered
hands. Men are running now everywhere. The heat of the
day, the constant firing, the hot earth ploughed
up by shells, makes them pant like dogs. They move
brokenly backwards and forwards.
Colonel Wister, his cap gone, his hair stiffened by
powder, his eyes blazing, opens his mouth to shout an order.
God in Heaven! He has no tongue to give it with. A bullet
has cut through his mouth like a sabre and ploughed its way
down his throat. He is stifled with blood and falls heavily
across his horse, which a moment later crashes down with
its front legs broken and bleeding. The men falter, wheel, and
turn. At last the order has been given, "Fall back! Fall
back!"
But one man, a colour sergeant, young, passionate,
defiant, stands as if turned to stone, while the battalions
double-quick by him. He is left alone, holding high the flag
with one hand, the other clenched towards the enemy; but
he falls quickly, shot through the heart, with his face buried
in the stars, and his life blood turning the white stripes to
crimson.
Colonel Fremantle, a British officer on the staff of Lee,
said, "My God, what a pity to kill such a brave Yankee!"
Then I found myself looking over a green field more
than a mile long, with nothing, not even a tree, to break the
fire that mowed down Pickett's division. Yet Fate had one
moment of mercy on that day, as, on his black war horse, a
shining mark for bullets, followed by the men who, imbued
with his iron nerve, marched to certain death, General
Pickett, through all that murderous battle, was spared.
But, gallant soldier as he was - and George Pickett is
one of my heroes, - I like best to remember him on the
day when he first met his beautiful wife.
loved him, and from the first time I ever spoke to him until
the end, I always called him, 'Soldier, - my soldier.' I was a
wee bit of a girl at that first meeting. I had been visiting my
grandmother, when whooping-cough broke out in the
neighbourhood, and she took me off to Old Point Comfort to
visit her friend, Mrs. Boykin, the sister of John Y. Mason. I
could dance and sing and play games, and was made much
of by the other children and their parents there, till I
suddenly developed the cough. Then, I was shunned and
isolated.
"I could not understand the change. I would press my
face against the ball-room window-panes, and watch them
merry-making inside, until my little heart would almost
break. One morning, while playing alone on the beach, I
saw an officer lying on the sand under an umbrella, reading.
I had noticed him several times, always apart from the
others. I could imagine but one reason for his desolation,
and in pity for him and desire to comfort him, I crept under
his umbrella to ask if he, too, had whooping-cough. He
smiled, and answered, 'No.' But as I still persisted, he drew
me to him, telling me that he had lost his wife and little girl
and was very lonely. I asked their names. They had both
been called Sally.
" 'You can call me Sally,' I suggested, 'I'll be your wife
and little girl.'
" 'That 's a promise,' he replied, 'you shall be named Sally
and shall be my wife.'
"My soldier took a little ring from his watch-guard and put
it on my finger and gave me a tiny heart-shape locket with
'Sally' engraved on one side, and I crept from under the
umbrella pledged to Lieutenant George E. Pickett of the
United States Army for life and death.
He claimed my promise later, and I still hold most sacred
the little locket and the ring."
The guide's dull monotone reached my ears: "Pickett's
brave Virginians emerged from the wood with their guns to
the right shoulder shift, marching shoulder to shoulder, not a
man out of step but as steadily as though on dress parade.
When they were half-way across the field, all the guns
drawn up along the Union lines concentrated their fire on
the unwavering grey column, mowing great gaps in their
ranks. But on they came, keeping steady step, time after
time closing up the gaps, not firing a shot, but unflinchingly
pressing on and on across the field of death, with undaunted
faces turned towards that rain of shot and shell, as if they
had been facing a summer shower. . . .
"General Armistead had reached the stone wall. He
replied to Cushing by saying to his men, 'Boys, give them
cold steel!' With his cap on the point of his sword, he leaped
the stone wall, followed by hundreds of his men, and had
reached thirty odd paces within the Union lines when he fell
wounded, near the body of Cushing. Then came the hand-to-hand
conflict which had lasted only a few minutes when
they were obliged to throw down their arms and surrender.
Pickett's division had been almost annihilated. Those who
fought along the stone wall at the Bloody Angle surviving
to-day can testify that they could walk from the stone wall to
beyond the Emmettsburg Road, a great distance, over the
dead bodies of Pickett's men."
They made the noblest carpet of grey and red that Fate
ever laid upon this green earth. In a little village between the
Emmettsburg Road and beyond the stone wall, over six
hundred of Pickett's men were afterwards buried, and out
of the fifteen field officers of his division,
only a single one escaped unhurt. Pickett's men did all that
mortal men could do; they could do no more. And oh, the
pity of it all! The heart-break of it all! Men who saw it say,
"I never saw, and I never expect to see, so superhumanly
grand a sight as Pickett's fearless men when they crossed
the field of death."
How I ached as we drove back to our car! My heart, my
head, my very soul ached with the memories of that great
and terrible battle. I stayed by Rosewell Page, who is that
rare combination, a witty man and a Christian gentleman
(for piety is too often serious; I once saw an advertisement
in an English paper - "Wanted, a lady companion, a
Christian; cheerful if possible"), and I begged him to give me
comfort, for I do not believe in war and am enrolled among
that honoured body who fight for the universal peace of the
world.
In spite of the overpowering heat I remained in
Washington until the 18th of July, a regretable stay when my
time might have been spent at the Warm Springs, where the
atmosphere of the old romantic South - of my long
vanished childhood - still lingers. Invalids came as early as
1800 to the Warm Springs, and it is quite possible that even
Queen Elizabeth may have heard of their existence, for all
these healing waters in Virginia were known and used by
the Indians before America was discovered.
As early as 1814 there was evidently a sort of Inn and
general Exchange. The old account books of that date are
filled with well-known English and Scotch
names - Cameron, McClintock, Campbell, McGuffin, Page,
Byrd, Wallace, Berkley, Sitlington, Hamilton, Warwick, and
Brockenbrough.
The accounts of William Hunter Cavendish, a brother of
the Duke of Devonshire, show that the
gentleman lived well and had a large establishment, as
he bought a hundred and seventy-six pounds of beef at
- lucky man! - threepence a pound:
The Honourable Wm. Cavendish, Esq.:
Buy 56 Venison @3d. 14.
Buy 2 Pigs @6/- 12.
Buy 176 Beef @3d. 44.
Buy 1 Bear Skin @10/- 10.
£4.
George Washington, who was not only a devoted
husband, but a model son-in-law and step-father, brought his
family over the mountain in 1796 for the benefit of the health
of little Patsy Custis, and camped at Warm Springs, hoping
that the healing waters would cure Patsy. Probably there
was a large party, as he had invited his brother-in-law,
Colonel Bassett, and his whole family, which meant wife,
children, servants, and horses, to join him and wrote, "You
will have occasion to provide nothing if I can be advised of
your intentions so that I may provide accordingly."
Doubtless then, as now, there was a pool, and this kind,
warm, sulphur water flowed at the present rate of twelve
hundred gallons a minute. The open-air life must have been
exhilarating and health giving, as the visitors lived in strong
tents pitched underneath the trees of the primeval forest.
Certainly George Washington enjoyed his stay. He wrote
to a friend:
I think, with you, that the life of a husbandman is the most
delectable. It is honourable, it is amusing, and, with judicious
management, it is profitable. To see plants rise from the
earth and flourish by the superior skill and bounty
of the labourer fills a contemplative mind with ideas which
are more easy to be conceived than expressed.
And the Washingtons in 1911 I are still faithful to the Warm
Springs. Maria Washington Tucker, an unpretentious,
simple, friendly lady, the daughter of George Washington's
nephew, Augustine, and wife of Bishop Beverly Tucker of
Virginia, the happy mother of thirteen children, has been
with her husband and some members of her family at the
Warm Springs this summer.
By 1820, the Warm Springs had become a fashionable
resort. The arrivals and departures of half the well-known
families of the South are recorded in the mottled-backed,
musty, brown-leaved old registers. On August 7, 1818, ten
years after he had been President, Thomas Jefferson
arrived there with one servant and two horses. He always
maintained republican simplicity of life, although his house,
"Monticello," near Charlottesville, was modelled after an
Italian palace. I don't understand how the Clerk of the
Registers confined himself to merely writing, "Thomas
Jefferson, two horses and one servant." He should have
added: "This great man, a former President of the United
States, the author of the Declaration of Independence, the
father of the Virginia University, an intelligent lover of
architecture who made the design for the Capitol of
Richmond, the University, and his own beautiful house,
looked well, and was modest and simple in his demeanour.
He spoke to his friends among the guests with gracious
dignity. After the long journey, his body servant unpacked
his carpet-bag and made him comfortable. He likes the
baths and will remain some days or a week." Jefferson
must have been an
abstemious man, for there is neither whiskey, brandy, nor
gin charged to his account.
Alexander Hamilton arrived at the Springs on March 10,
1800, with one horse and no servant. He must have loved
the Warm Springs, or perhaps Mrs. Hamilton and the
children were spending the summer there, and he could
never remain long away from his beloved eldest daughter,
who, young, gifted, and beautiful, lost her reason and
never recovered it at the time of his tragic death. For he
visited the Springs again in May, June, and July and made
frequent visits in the following summer also.
In July, 1820, Austin Brockenborough arrived with his
"ladye," his daughter, three servants, and two horses.
Probably the place, then as now, was already celebrated
for "mint juleps," for Mr. Brockenborough had several
charged to his account each day. On July 5, 1820, Craven
Peyton, "ladye," daughter, two servants, and two horses
arrived. They were cousins of the Duvals, my mother's
family, and lived in Richmond. On August 1st came James
Chesnut from South Carolina with his "ladye," six children,
five servants, and eight horses. He drank ale, port, and
brandy and in a few days his bill amounted to four hundred
and twenty dollars. The Chesnuts were rich and evidently
lived well. John L. Barnwell arrived from Charleston on
September 16, 1820, with "daughter and son, three servants,
and seven horses." The Barnwells were apparently a clean
family, for they favoured the laundress in their week's stay
with seventy-one pieces of clothing, "to be washed and
clear starched." Also, the father and son drank a good
deal of porter (what a strange fancy for a summer drink!)
and Madeira, and smoked many cigars.
Charles L. Francisco evidently ordered many things
through the Warm Springs Company, for his accounts are
long, complicated, and extensive. He built and lived at the
beautiful place a mile from the hotel called "The Oaks"
which is rather a misnomer, as the house looks like an
Italian villa.
The present hotel, built not later than 1820, is in the English
style of architecture with the addition of a noble pillared
balcony. It stands in extensive wooded grounds with grass
as green as that of Windsor Park. Already the beautiful
maples are turning scarlet and gold, for this sweet valley is
three thousand feet and more above the sea, and the nights,
cool throughout the summer, are almost frosty in October.
Mrs. Eubank, a tall, dignified, handsome lady, came here
from South Carolina to spend the summer many years ago.
She met Colonel Eubank, a fine, dashing widower, and he
followed her back to her mother's plantations and there she
married him. Mr. McGuire, president of the Corcoran Art
Gallery, who, with his wife, has spent thirty summers here,
told me that Colonel Eubank was the very soul of open-hearted
hospitality. He heard him enquire of a Professor
who was leaving the next day, "Why are you going away
so soon?" The Professor hesitated a moment, and said,
"The fact is, I cannot afford to stay any longer." And
Colonel Eubank answered, "It will give me the greatest
pleasure to have you remain another fortnight as my guest."
The spirit pervading the house was that of kindliness,
obligation, and protection to the people under his roof, and to
his employees, and it remains so still.
After his death Mrs. Eubank assumed the
responsibility of the hotel, her lifelong friends and
servants
making it comparatively easy for her. The headwaiter, a
courtly black gentleman, with flowing, Dundreary side-whiskers,
has been here twenty-nine years. One of the
cooks who lately died of old age had been here forty years.
The old watchman, who walked about the place all through
the night, swinging his old-fashioned lantern, and who often
stopped by my wakeful window to give me a word of
sympathy and ask, "When in de name of sense is you gwine
to sleep?" had been here forty-five years. He, too, died in
September. The negroes know they have not only an
understanding mistress but a friend in Mrs. Eubank, and
they return again and again, imbued with the feeling of
coming home.
The fine white ballroom has been the scene of more than
one jollification for them this summer. There was a splendid
cake-walk, the darkies all in fanciful and gay attire, with
several big frosted white cakes as awards for the best
dancers at the end of it. John Carter, the chief cook, a really
talented comedian, was Master of Ceremonies. Later there
was a midsummer wedding with my maid Constance as the
bride, wearing a white silk dress and a tulle veil so
voluminous that it looked like a Norwegian waterfall near
Christiania called "Bride of the Mist." The clergyman stood
in an arch of white flowers with a bell suspended from the
centre. The groom and the bride, kneeling on hassocks in
front of him, were married according to the ritual of the
Episcopal Church and every detail was quite comme il faut.
Afterwards they danced in the lower room of a house with
a ballroom and a piano which is used entirely for the
entertainment of the servants.
But the concert of the waiters and chambermaids was by
far the most interesting of their entertainments.
They gave a number of characteristic part-songs in wonderful
rhythm, with hands and feet and body in swaying movement and
expressive gestures, keeping perfect time. The songs were all
negro words and melodies. Some of them were even
improvisations. They received many encores and John Carter, at
my request, gave "Poor Mourner You Shall be Free." William, who
brings my breakfast in the morning, wrote the music.
"I
got a gal, she 's just the card,
She
works over in the white folks' yard,
She
cooks de chicken, she saves me de wing,
She
thinks I 'm workin' when I don't do a thing.
1st Chorus:
Swing
easy, you shall be free,
On pork chops greasy, you shall be free,
Ain't I teasin', you shall be free,
When de good Lord calls you home.
Every night at half pas' eight,
I go marchin' to de white folks' gate,
When I get there I take a stand,
Get my meals out de white folks' pan.
2d Chorus:
Ain't
I foolin', you shall be free,
Ain't I foolin', you shall be free,
Ain't I foolin,' you shall be free,
When de good Lord calls you home.
My old mistus, she promised me
Befo' she died, she was gwine to set me free,
She lived so long, till her head got bald,
I thought the poor old lady would n't die at all.
3d Chorus:
Poor
mourner, you shall be free,
Poor mourner, you shall be free,
Poor mourner, you shall be free,
When de good Lord calls you home.
See dat nigger layin' behind dat log,
Hand on a trigger and his eye on a hog,
De gun went bang, the hog fell blip!
De nigger jumped on him with all his grip.
4th Chorus:
He
loves his pork chop, you shall be free,
He loves his middlin's, you shall be free,
He loves his chitlin's, you shall be free,
When de good Lord calls you home.
Bake dem biscuit, bake 'em brown,
Turn dem flapjacks roun' and roun',
Shake dat feather bed and shake it light,
'Cause Ole Marse Johnson's gwine to spen' de
night.
5th Chorus:
In
his slumber, you shall be free,
A sleepin' easy, you shall be free,
A sleepin' easy, you shall be free,
When de good Lord calls you home.
The negroes here are
usually from Charlottesville and are very
often employed in the University of Virginia, or in the houses of
the Professors there. They are thoroughly respectable servants
with excellent manners and untemptable honesty, for, living in a
little cottage, I have left money, jewellery, and clothes in unlocked
drawers, and have lost nothing all the summer, which is
more than I can say for the white servants in New York
hotels who never fail to appropriate a few of my belongings
(alas, my tiger's whisker!) whenever I visit that rapacious
and ruthless city. Faithfulness is indeed the fashion of the
Warm Springs; it is in the very atmosphere of the place.
"Have you been at Warm Springs before?" "No," you say,
"have you?" "Oh yes," the lady answers sweetly, but with a
superior and patronising air; "we have spent twenty
summers here." Another says, "This is our twenty-fifth
summer." Some one else meekly remarks, "We have only
been here thirteen summers." No one would have the
hardihood to mention four or six summers. Why announce
yourself as a vulgar newcomer? When you see a girl dive
like a blue or a pink arrow, according to the colour of her
brief bathing-dress, and swim fifty feet under water across
the pool, you may be sure her first experience was as a
baby when her black nurse held her in her arms and let her
see all the pretty ladies swim, her young mother among
them. Now her mamma, not quite so young, sits and
crotchets on the balcony, while the daughter swims.
Louise Gibson, a strawberry and cream goddess, is
eighteen, and she has spent just eighteen summers here. Her
grandmother probably came at about the same age. She still
comes with her son, George Gibson, the father of Louise, an
accomplished musician and a man of many parts. His tall,
graceful wife, in her gardening gloves and wide hat, always
suggests to me "Elizabeth and her German Garden." She is
a picturesque conversationalist, and without any effort is a
vivid maker of word pictures. How I have begged her to
write a book and call it "The Worship of Ancestors," for
she
began her married life as a young bride with a household
consisting of her mother-in-law, an elderly cousin of her
mother-in-law (now eighty-eight), a nurse of her husband's
(now ninety-two), and Charlotte, an old negro cook, who
belonged originally to her husband's grandmother. Old
Charlotte's young mistress once said politely and appealingly
to her, "Don't roast the beef so much, Charlotte; we like it
rare." Charlotte looked very determined and said, "Dead
Mrs. Gibson liked her meat well done." And well done it
was always served, until Charlotte, very unwillingly, died.
Mrs. George Gibson is still young and handsome, but she
says the elderly cousin has now entirely forgotten the
difference between their ages. "Do you remember," she
asks her, "when the Indians were camped just outside
Baltimore?" And one day she complained of the want of
gallantry among men; "no one ever comes to serenade
Sara."
"Fancy," said Mrs. George, "on our broad street, a
constant thoroughfare for traffic, a young man standing
under Sara's window on a moonlight night, tuning up a guitar
and beginning,
'From the desert I come to thee
On a stallion shod with fire - '
Honk! Honk! from a motor -
'And the winds are left behind
With the speed of my desire - '
Ping! Ping! from a street car, Ping! r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r - ur
as it curves round the corner -
'I love thee, I love but thee
With a love that cannot - '
'die.
Till the sun grows cold,
And the stars are old - '
Ping! Ping! 'Hurry up,' from the car conductor, 'Gee!
but you 're slow.' Ping!
'And the leaves
Of the Judgment Book unfold.'
Honk! Honk! 'Cheer up. Come along' (from the
conductor of the car).
"No," said Mrs. George, "the horn of the motor has
killed the twang of the guitar, but Eighty-eight happily lives
in the past of serenades and does n't even realise the
present of electricity."
In the South, Duty is a thing still in observance and the
impossible is made possible through the power of that almost
obsolete word. This summer a young Judge used to sit on
the balcony with his two mothers-in-law, two sets of children,
and one wife. After the death of his first wife, his mother-in-law
came to live with him and take care of his children. He
married again, an only daughter, and her mother could n't
live alone, so she too joined the family circle. Then came
more babies and there they all were, quite united and happy
together.
This is, indeed, a dear old-fashioned place. The people,
the habits, the customs are all of the antebellum South.
"Aunt Fanny," a sprightly black lady of seventy-five years'
slim alertness, with great dignity and self-respect, and
reserved manners, has had charge of the bath for thirty-five
years. A party of Northern people, gay young men and
women from the Hot
Springs, drove over to see the place, and going into ecstasies
over the great pool they said, "How delightful it would be to
have a swimming party here. Could we," they asked Aunt
Fanny, "arrange something of the kind?" Aunt Fanny was
shocked, looked severe, and said, "Ef you-all is all kin folks
maybe you might go in togedder." Her modesty created
great mirth in the party, to whom, nevertheless, she could
have given lessons in dignity and reticence.
I slip out of Hollyhock Row, where I live, at twilight, and
run down in my kimono to the bath after closing hours, but
Aunt Fanny extends her clemency to a working woman, and
I swim oftentimes for an hour round and round in the soft,
warm, velvety water, in that magic pool, sometimes floating
on my back and looking up through the open dome at the big
brilliant stars with the beautiful constellation of Lyra in the
centre. Once a little owl flew in, circled round and round,
looked at me with his big eyes, and flew out again. At half-past
seven exactly a familiar, delicious perfume floats in, the
smoke of Virginia tobacco from a corn-cob pipe. My
Mammy, oh, so long ago, smoked a corn-cob pipe every
evening in her cabin, and I say softly to myself, "I am in my
Beloved South, in Virginia." The water is very warm, the
stars are very near. I shall have hot rolls, fresh butter,
quince jelly, and "crumbs of comfort" for my supper.
Edmonia Francisco, not the fancy name but the real one
of a beautiful girl, with blue eyes and eyebrows of so
entrancing a shape that they must, in an idle moment, have
been drawn by Cupid, is typewriting my book. She has
borrowed a buggy for to-morrow and is going to drive me
through Dunn's Gap and afterwards I am to sup with her
and eat generous ears
of "Country Gentleman," a brand of corn which I can
highly recommend. As I come up from my bath, surely I
must be a child again, for a very sweet, little young voice
is singing to the accompaniment of a guitar:
"The years creep slowly by, Lorena;
The snow is on the grass again;
The sun 's low down the sky, Lorena,
The frost gleams where the flowers have been,
But the heart throbs on as warmly now
As when the summer days were nigh.
Oh, the sun can never dip so low
As down affection's cloudless sky.
"A hundred months have passed, Lorena,
Since last I held that hand in mine,
And felt the pulse beat high, Lorena,
Though mine beat faster far than thine.
A hundred months, 't was flowery May,
When up the hilly slope we climbed
To watch the dying of the day
And hear the distant church bells chime.
"We loved each other then, Lorena,
More than we ever dared to tell;
And what we might have been, Lorena,
Had but our loving prospered well.
But then, 't is past, the years have gone,
I 'll not call up their shadowy forms,
I 'll say to them, 'Lost years, sleep on,
Sleep on, nor heed life's perilous storms.'
"It matters little now, Lorena,
The past is the eternal past;
Our hearts will soon lie low, Lorena,
Life's tide is ebbing out so fast;
There is a future, oh, thank God!
Of life this is so small a part -
'T is dust to dust beneath the sod,
But there, up there, 't is heart to heart."
"Lorena," "Juanita," and "Kathleen O'Moore," are the
first songs I remember. They belonged to the repertoire of
my mother and my aunt, Florida Howard.
As George Gibson left the supper room he stopped for a
moment at my table. Looking at a dove-coloured bit of
brocade fastened with crystal buttons, I said, "What a smart
waistcoat!"
"My grandfather wore it at the coronation of Queen
Victoria," he said, "when he was visiting his cousin, Lord
Macaulay."
"Good gracious! And you speak of it," I said, "as if you
had bought it at Wanamaker's! I think you should put it in a
glass case. Where are the rest of the clothes your
grandfather wore?"
"My grandfather, to his credit," he said, "was more
impressed with the beautiful voice of the young Queen than
by his own attire."
"Maybe," I said, "Fanny Kemble was seated by your
grandfather. She was a splendid elocutionist herself, and
wrote:
"The Queen's voice was exquisite; nor have I ever heard
any spoken words more musical in their gentle distinctness
than the 'My Lords and Gentlemen,' which broke the
breathless silence of the illustrious assembly, whose gaze
was riveted upon that fair flower of royalty. The
enunciation was as perfect as the intonation was melodious,
and I think it is impossible to hear a more excellent
utterance than that of the Queen's English by the English
Queen."
After my long swim I had a good night's sleep which was
lucky, for next morning Thomas Underwood Dudley woke
me rather early. He is familiarly known by his initials as
"Tud" and is an unusually silent, fascinating, haughty black
spaniel. He lives in the picturesque cottage opposite mine,
where his popular mistress, Mrs. Woodward, dispenses true
Kentucky hospitality.
If any one is depressed or down, one of her mint juleps
changes the entire complexion of the world to couleur de
rose. "Tud," finding some delightful mysterious thing in the
grass, had put aside his usual aristocratic indifference for
excited sniffles and barks. I was glad to get up and was
fresh for work in the morning and my drive with Edmonia in
the afternoon.
In spite of her occasional fancy flights in typing, I can say
to this charming girl:
Thou wouldst be loved? Then let thy heart
From its present pathway 'part not!
Being everything which now thou art,
Being nothing which thou art not.
So with the world thy gentle ways,
Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
Shall be an endless theme of praise,
And love - a simple duty.
What an entrancing drive we had in the goldenest of
afternoons, through the close greenery of Dunn's Gap,
with brown waterfalls tumbling over great banks of ferns,
and everywhere bushes of rhododendron and laurel.
Bluebirds darted across the road and the voice of the thrush
was heard far away in the woods, and as he sang his song,
the meadowlark answered him with sweet neighbourliness in
clear flute-like notes. The goldfinch, who is afraid of nothing,
cocked his head on one side and made an impudent remark
as we passed by. Where the sun penetrated through the
dense foliage and induced the goldenrod to blossom, it
seemed weighed down with drifting autumn leaves, but
presently the leaves rose, opened, and butterflies flew away,
disclosing beneath the pale brown an undersurface in rich
mottlings of grey and orange. In wonderful contrast there
were black velvet butterflies, very large and languidly lazy,
which, when disturbed as they hovered over some flower,
obligingly rose slowly above our heads, that we might see
the glittering blue and silver lining of their wings.
Sometimes we met cows being driven home by a negro
woman who would call to them, "Soo-kee, So-o-o-kee, Soo-cow,"
and once a young cow came along looking archly
astonished as if to say, "I did n't know you wanted me,"
then stopped again to snatch mouthfuls of grass before
entering the cow-shed to be milked. One solitary redbird in a
little tree of silver poplar called, "What-cheer! What-cheer!"
as we drove along, and we saw a few late groups of that
charming windflower, the anemone, white and pink and
purple. Back in the woods a little patch of harebells grew,
and lower down, in a protected hollow, were bleeding-hearts
and adder's-tongue, closely guarded by the clasp of their
furry silvery leaves. Farther along, near a maple tree, the top
scarlet, the centre green, with golden under
branches, bloomed belated Dutchman's-breeches, and the
sweet purple daisy, "farewell-summer," for summer going
all too quick, had already begun to crowd and push and
jostle the other flowers.
When we left the Gap and followed the open road, the
wonderful waves of towering mountains as far as the eye
could reach were bathing themselves in blue, violet, and
purple shadows, and where a delicate mist had floated over
a hill it was the soft colour of palest lavender. The sunset
was splendidly gorgeous, as mountain sunsets so often are.
The sky, a deep transparent sapphire blue, was smeared
with masses of torn, flame-coloured clouds like long fiery
streamers, stretching across it to the east. And in the west, a
translucent lake of ruddiest gold was flecked with thick,
rugged little clouds of deepest purple. Below this line flowed
a river of clear, vivid aquamarine, and long waterfalls of
purest gold descended from the high dome centre, flanked
by great clouds which, like saffron ships, scudded away to
the north. A splendid, glowing, flaming riot of colour, full of
richness and soul-satisfying beauty, thrilled the world.
Let the world roll blindly on!
Give me shadow, give me sun,
And a perfumed eve as this is,
Let me lie,
Dreamfully,
When the last quick sunbeams shiver,
Spears of light athwart the river,
And a breeze, which seems the sigh
Of a fairy floating by,
Coyly kisses
Tender leaf and feather grasses,
Yet, so soft its breathing passes,
These tall ferns, just glimmering o'er me,
Bending goldenly before me,
Hardly quiver.
I have done with worldly scheming,
Mocking show and hollow seeming!
Let me lie
Idly here,
Lapped in lulling waves of air,
Facing full the shadowy sky.
Fame! - the very sound is dreary!
Shut, O soul! thine eyelids weary,
For all Nature's voices say,
' 'T is the close - the close of day.'
Thought and grief have had their sway;
Now sleep bares her balmy breast,
Whispering low
(Low as moonset tides that flow
Up still beaches far away;
While, from out the lucid West,
Flutelike winds of murmurous breath
Sink to tender-panting death),
'On my bosom take thy rest
(Care and grief have had their day!);
'T is the hour for dreaming,
Fragrant rest, elysian dreaming!'
At nine o'clock as I enter the hotel grounds and walk towards
the little white cottage which in the last three months has grown
like home to me, I look to the right and see the friendly lights of a
larger grey cottage, nestling against the side of a hill almost in the
arms of three protecting trees. On the balcony is a big stone jar
filled with great branches of scarlet autumn leaves, and inside is
the familiar sound of a typewriter. It is
gifted Mary Johnston giving little taps and bringing forth big
ideas, for she is busily at work on her second great battle
book, Cease Firing. I have had what I hoped for, the four
blessed seasons of the year in my beloved South; the soft
and friendly winter, the early spring, when all nature breaks
into bud and blossom. What joy it has been to go once more
into the woods and to hunt for the faint pink shy arbutus, and
to see May's starry crown. First the little, soft, many-leaved
dandelion, the orange disk that Henry Ward Beecher said
was the most democratic flower in the world, for it blossoms
in every land; and the pale early primroses, and golden
crocuses and fragrant narcissus, the tender jonquil, the
marigold and daffodil - they have all bloomed in their sweet
time, for spring loves to pattern her green carpet with these
delicate shades of yellow.
And I have had the summer which has brought back the
sight of many sweet and longed-for friends - the early
oleander, the crêpe-myrtle, the jessamine, the silver bells, the
pink mimosa - and I 've listened for the whisper of the
snow-white fringe-tree and the rustle of the leaves of the
aspen. I have seen the flash of the redbird and heard his
sweet song, and have waited in the dusk of the evening for
the myriads of fireflies to dart upward like fairy lighthouses,
and the glowworm to make his path of fire through the
warm, scented grass. I have heard the frogs sing their
mellow midsummer chorus, and the mockingbird his
full-throated, passionate, midnight love-song. And I 've listened
for the big horned owl, far away in the deep cool wood, to
give his long hoot and awaken the whippoorwill to his
plaintive note, and I have looked up once again into the
penetrable sky of a Southern night and found regal Corona,
splendid Sagittarius, proud Scorpio, and the beautiful
clear-eyed Virgo shining with friendly nearness, and in the
depths of the heavens that mysterious luminous radiance, as
if battalions of unseen stars were approaching with silver
footsteps to make themselves visible.
I have waited for the Indian summer, and seen the
crimson sun slowly, softly, regretfully dying into the west, the
deep purple twilight shadows giving warm-hued foliage
ruddier tints, and the mildness of the season inducing a little
delicate grain to peer out from the rich ground. The far-away
mountain tops are brilliant with a reticent rose light,
and the shadows are tenderer, softer, bluer than in the first
days of spring. The tall poplars, the linden trees, the drooping
willow, the birch, the lowly pine, the maple, and the laurel
are all turned to gold, scarlet, and a deeper toned green. The
grape vine, the sassafras, the Virginia creeper mingle green
and crimson together, the beautiful bunches of coral berries
of the bittersweet are daily growing a mellower red, and
deep in the woods the exquisite fairy-like Indian-pipe is
heavy with great bunches of shining pearls mounted on
waxlike stems. The ash and the sumach blaze, and the wind
has a different voice from the spring. It is sadder but
tenderer, yet wild and melancholy. The days are still full of
an amber radiance; the Indian summer is but a glorification
of autumn - the sun's jubilee before the winter begins. The
nights are flooded with moonlight, and when the moon sinks
to rest the heavens are like a sapphire chalice set in silver
stars. The still evenings hold a late breath of summer, and
the South - my South - has brought healing to my spirit.
Hope speaks to me again. I can laugh. The sudden glory is
mine that temporarily blots out all
sad memories. And in my journeyings to and fro in the
world it shall never again be a long farewell to my beloved
land but only:
Ra-doo, Radoo, kind friends, Radoo, Radoo, Radoo, And
if I nev-er more see you, you, you, I'll
hang my harp on a weep-ing wil-low tree, And
may this world go well with you, you, you.
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