Dedicated to My Children and Grand Children Whose Kindness and Affection Serve in Great Measure to Make My Declining Years Peaceful and Contented.

“When I began this unpretentious narrative, I was almost sightless. I had just recovered from a severe attack of illness, during which for a time I became totally blind, and after I was better my eyes seemed hopelessly affected. This I endeavored to conceal as I had to earn my bread, but so frequently did I pass my most intimate friends on the street without the slightest show of recognition that I was forced to admit I was almost blind. I was then urged to consult an eminent physician of the town who gave special attention to ailments of the eye, and after a complete examination, he informed me that my eyes were in such condition that glasses would do me no good, and with a show of sincere sympathy said, “I am sorry for you, but within six months you will be totally blind.”

“Approaching blindness is always appalling, especially to one who is dependent on his labor for a living. ‘What shall I do when my sight is gone?’ This question forced itself upon me night and day. I was then past middle life, and the prospects of a blind and helpless old age stood out before me. My life had not been wholly uneventful; I had been of an observant turn of mind from my youth. What if I could set down the events that had come under my observation in some connected form? Might I not thereby be able to earn something toward my support when I could no longer see!

“I was compelled to give up some of my work on account of failing sight, but I was still employed by day. I began to write at night often tinder poor light, being scarcely able to see the words as I traced them. Thus my MS. was finished. Untoward conditions prevented publication and it has lain hidden away all these years. The motive that first prompted me to undertake the task no longer exists, my sight has been providentially restored, and at the age of seventy-two I find myself in good health and able to earn my living. There are other considerations, however, which actuate me, even at this late day, to present to the reader this crude story.

“It is a remarkable fact that very many of the immediate descendants of those who passed through the trying ordeal of American slavery know nothing of the hardships through which their fathers came. Some reason for this may be found in the fact that those fathers hated to harrow the minds of their children by the recital of their cruel experiences of those dark days. There is, however, a deeper reason. It is found in the religious nature of the Negro and the readiness with which he fell under the influence of Christianity, and the zeal with which he strove to follow the teaching and example of the lowly Nazarene.

“If the Negro had emerged from slavery in a sullen and vindictive frame of mind, he would unquestionably have shared the fate of the American Indian, and we would not now be witnessing the marvelous progress he is making, nor his surprising increase in numbers.

“While it is sweet to forgive and forget, there are somethings that should never be forgotten. If this humble narrative will serve to cause the youth of my people to take a glance backward, the object of the writer will have been attained. As Frederick Douglass has said, “How can we tell the distance we have come except we note the point from which we started?”

I WAS born in Charleston, South Carolina in the year, 1852. The place of my birth and the conditions under which I was born are matters over which, of course, I had no control. If I had, I should have altered the conditions, but I should not have changed the place; for it is a grand old city, and I have always felt proud of my citizenship. My father and my grandfather were born there, and there they died—my grandfather at the age of seventy-two, my father at seventy-six. My great grandfather came, or rather was brought, from Africa. It is said he bore the distinguishing marks of royalty on his person and was a fine looking man—fine looking for a Negro I believe is the usual qualification—at least that is what an old lady once told my own father who had inherited the good looks of his grandsire.

I do not know the name my great grandfather bore in Africa, but when he arrived in this country he was given the name, Clement, and when he found he needed a surname— something he was not accustomed to in his native land—he borrowed that of the man who bought him. It is a very good name, and as we have held the same for more than a hundred and fifty years, without change or alteration, I think, therefore, we are legally entitled to it. His descendants up to the close of the Civil War, seemed with rare good fortune under the Providence of God, to have escaped many of the more cruel hardships incident to American slavery.

I may be permitted to add that on the arrival of my progenitor in this country he was not allowed to enter into negotiation with the Indians, and thereby acquire a large tract of land. Instead, an axe was placed in his hands and he therefore became in some sort, a pioneer of American civilization.

Though fifty years of time and more than a thousand miles of space separate me from the home of my birth and early childhood, the old home seems more plain before me now than places I visited but yesterday. It was a grand old house, built of grey brick. There were three spacious piazzas running along the west and south sides of the house. The wide yard was paved with brick. To the west of the paved yard was a large garden in which rarest flowers bloomed; but dearer than all to our youthful hearts were the “Four-o'clocks”, that grew there in great profusion and various colors. We made festoons of them, hung them over our heads while we “played house” and made mud pies beneath. We wove garlands and twined them about the neck of dear old “Watch.” He was our great Newfoundland. Was there ever such a faithful dog as he? Noble animal, rough and tumble with the boys, gentle with the girls, but kind to all. The bulldog and the pug have taken his place now, but surely there never was a safer or kinder friend to children than he. Our “Watch” had never read “The Rights of the Child,” but he put his foot, or rather his paw (no small one), down on any of us being punished in his presence. Whenever our parents deemed it encumbent on them to give forcible and painful evidence that they were not amendable to the charge of “sparing the rod and spoiling the child,” it was necessary to lock Watch up in the woodshed, and if in their haste this precaution was neglected he would rush in, seize the slipper or strap (they used both in those days), between his teeth and hang on like grim death. After we had escaped to the yard he would run out, lick our faces and seem to say, “I told you I would not allow it. Come, let us have a romp.”

There were fruit trees in our garden; peaches, apricots, pomegranate and figs. We loved the figs most, of which there were several varieties. Our especial pride was the large black fig tree. There were six of us, three girls and three boys. Four of us were white and two were Negroes. Did we quarrel and fight? No indeed! Our little misunderstandings were settled long before we came to blows. There was more of the spirit as well as the letter of the little lines: “Let dogs delightTo bark and bite,” than seems generally the case now. Would there was more of that spirit abroad in the land today then would we hear less of Negro problems, deportations, and the like.

Every morning in season would find us at our favorite fig tree. The, boys would climb into its branches while the girls stood below with extended aprons to catch the fruit as we dropped them. Some times there came a voice from above in complaining tones—“Now Jennie! I see you eating.” “Oh,” would be the reply, “That one was all mashed up.” “All right, now don't eat till we come down.”

MY mother and her children fell to the lot of Edward Dane, brother of Thomas. This young gentleman was of a gay disposition; fond of horses and the sports of the day. Like his brother he was kind and generous. He taught me to ride, and when I could sit my horse well “bare-back” he had a saddle made for me at the then famous “McKinzie's” saddlery, sign of the “White Horse at the corner of Church and Chalmers street. (Gentlemen had their saddles made to order in those days). I would often accompany him “up the road” on horseback to the Clubhouse, there to exhibit my youthful feats of horsemanship, for the divertissement of Mr. Dane and his friends. My horse, Agile and myself were the best of friends. He never hesitated at a hurdle and we never had a mishap. Possibly Mr. Dane had “views”, concerning me for he owned several fast horses, but before I was old enough to be of practical service, “Sherman came marching through Georgia.”

Here I shall have to admit that I was a “Sherman Cutloose” (this was a term applied in derision by Some of the Negroes who were free before the war,— To those who were freed by the war). I am Persuaded however that all the Negroes in the slave belt, And some of the white men too, were “Cutloose” by General Sherman. But let bygones be bygones. “We are brothers all, at least we would be if it were not for the demagogues and the Apostles of hate.

Mr. Edward Dane was an ardent supporter of the “Code.” He was an authority on such matters and could arrange a meeting with all the nice attention to details that characterized gentlemen of the “Old School” in South Carolina. His deliberation in such Matters would have been a keen disappointment to “Mr. Winkle” as there was never was any danger of the police or anyone else interfering when he had matters in hand. The police, however, never interfered with gentlemen of the “old school” in the “Palmetto” state. The following story is told of a well-known gentleman of a past generation:—He was a man of splendid physique and dignified carriage. One morning he entered the Old Charleston Market with a lit cigar between his lips. Soon he was accosted by a policeman, a new recruit from the Emerald Isle. “It be aginst the law to be afther schmokin in the Market, Sor,” he said. “The law,” said Mr.——. “I am the law. When you see me you see the law. The law was made for poor white men and Negroes.” And he strode on leaving that son of Erin a wiser, if not a better man.

The Danes were society people. In their well-appointed home they kept many servants, Mrs. Dane and her daughter Mrs. Turner were both kind ladies. The old lady had a way of personally looking into matters about the establishment that secured for her a pet name from the servants. Whenever she started on her tour of inspection word would be passed along, “de old Jay comin'. This would send every one to their post of duty. Of course the servants were ignorant of the fact that Mrs. Dane knew anything about the re-christening she had secured at their hands. Judge of their surprise therefore, then that lady presented herself before them and announced, “Yes, here comes the ‘Old Jay!’”

They were all assembled in the kitchen for a little chat, and their attitudes and the expressions of bewilderment on their faces would have delighted the heart of an artist. The cook was just about to emphasize a remark he had made by bringing a large spoon which he held above his head down on the dresser, when the sudden appearance of the lady and her words, seemed to arrest the descent. There he stood in open-mouthed amazement. Mrs. Dane surveyed the scene for a moment, then quietly withdrew, a smile of amusement on her face. This incident was long remembered by those present, but any reference to it in his presence was promptly frowned down by the Cook, who felt keenly the ludicrousness of the figure he cut with the uplifted spoon. It was a much as their dinner was worth for any one of them even to raise a spoon above their heads.

PINE TOP, Mr. Ward's country seat, was a beautiful plantation about eighteen or twenty miles from Charleston. The house, an old colonial mansion, stood on elevated ground, well back from the main road, and commanded a fine view of the surrounding country. From the main road the house was reached through a wide avenue, lined on either side by giant live oaks, while immediately in front of the house was a large lawn circled by a wide driveway.

From the front door of the house the barns, stables, gin-house, corn mill and Negro quarters, presented the appearance of a thriving little village. The quarters were regularly laid out in streets, and the cabins were all whitewashed. I once read in a newspaper, a letter from a Northern man who visited the South immediately after the war. He took a rather unfavorable view of the prospects of the Negro, for he said, “There was a lamentable absence of flowers about their cabins.” I suppose this “Oscar Wilde” thought the conditions under which the people lived were well calculated to foster love of the beautiful. The poor fellow could not have visited Pine Top however, and many other places I could name, or he would have been delighted to see the well-kept little flower beds near many of the cabins. And no doubt, he would have said they were just “too, too” for words. He might even have been tempted to enter some of those cabins by their neat and tidy appearances which could be seen through the open doors.

Mr. Ward was what was called a “good master.” His people were well-fed, well-housed and not over-worked. There were certain inflexible rules however, governing his plantation of which he allowed not the slightest infraction, for he had his place for the Negro. Of course the Negro could not stand erect in it, but, the Negro had no right to stand erect. His place for the Negro was in subjection and servitude to the white man. That is, to Mr. Ward and his class, for while he maintained that the supremacy of all white men over the Negro was indisputable, and must be recognized, still there was a class of white men that he would have prevented from ever becoming slaveholders.

While I repudiate Mr. Ward's views I am bound to believe that there is something in blood. In those parts of the South where aristocratic influence is dominant, opposition to the advancement and progress of the Negro is less than where the contrary is true. Eliminating the Negro altogether, in some of the southern states the “bottom rail” has gotten on top with a vengeance, and where such is the case, it is very bad for the “enclosure.”

One evening Mr. Ward sat in his library before a blazing wood fire. He was the picture of contentment; and why should he be otherwise? He had a beautiful wife, two fine boys, hundreds of acres of land and numerous slaves to work them. Furthermore, he had just dined on wild duck. Now I would not tax the credulity of the reader by an exact statement as to how long those ducks had been allowed to hang up after being shot before they were considered “ripe,” but, they had reached a stage that would hardly have been appreciated by a man of less “refined” taste than his, for Mr. Ward was a lover of “high game.” The aroma that arose from those “birds” during their preparation for the table would not have tempted the appetite of an ordinary man, even if he were very hungry.

Mrs. Ward had joined her husband for a little chat when Jake, the waiting boy, entered.—(Jake was the assistant and understudy of Uncle Sempie, the veteran butler. Uncle Sempie always retired after dinner, leaving Jake to attend to the later wants of his master). “Mingo, fum Mr. Hudson place wan ter see yo, sah,” he said.

“All right, let him in,” said Mr. Ward.

Presently Jake returned ushering in a very young Negro who appeared to be laboring under some embarrassment. As he entered he said, “Ebenin sah, ebenin ma'am.”

“Good evening,” replied the lady and gentleman.

GAY hunting parties composed of friends from the city and ladies and gentlemen from the surrounding plantations often assembled at Pine Top. Many amusing tales were told there of the “Stag Fright” and blunders of amateur sportsmen on their first deer hunt. There was a Mr. Brabham, a carpenter, who being placed at a “stand” for the first time, and told not to let the deer pass him, waited in breathless anxiety. Soon a magnificent buck came bounding towards him almost within arms' reach. Throwing up his arms wildly, his gun held aloft, he exclaimed, “I wish I had my hatchet!” while the terrified animal sped on to be brought down by a more collected hunter on the next stand.

This year however, the festivities were cut short for Mr. Ward was often called to the city as indeed were many of the other gentlemen who were accustomed to join the gay throng at Pine Top. It was soon known that they were attending Mass Meetings and Conventions. Sometimes Mr. Ward would be absent several days. There were strange whisperings among the Negroes. “Dat ting comin,” they said mysteriously to each other, “Pray my brudder, pray my sister.” I listened with wonderment, but was taught to say nothing.

Uncle August was Mrs. Ward's right hand man. He was equally at home in the fields or in the house, and could always be depended on in an emergency. He was full of humor, a born mimic, and could set those about him in gales of laughter, without seeming to try. Mrs. Ward frequently conversed with him when he was engaged in some task under her directions about the house, or grounds. One day while he was moving some pieces of furniture from one room to another the lady said, “Daddy August, do you know there is going to be war?”

“War! ma'am, Wey, ma'am,” Anyone who saw and heard the old man would have been ready to affirm most positively that this was the very first intimation he had had of the impending conflict.

His mistress certainly thought so.

“Why here,” she replied.

“On dis plantation, ma'am?”

“Oh no, I don't mean that exactly, but you see, the Yankees are determined to take our Negroes from us, and we are equally determined that they shall never, never do so. Why Daddy August, don't we treat you all well?”

“Ob cose yo does, ma'am. Wha dey bodder deyself bout we fer?”

“That's just it; they are simply jealous to see us getting along so well, and they want to take our Negroes and put them at all kinds of hard work, like horses and mules. They are sending emissaries among our Negroes, to make them dissatisfied.

“Wha dem is, Miss Em'ly?” (Of course he had not the slightest idea what an emissary was!)

“Oh they are men who will try to sneak around and talk to the Negroes.”

“Wha dey gwine say?”

“Well, they will tell the Negroes that they are their best friends, and so on, just for the purpose of deceiving them you know.”

For a second there was a twinkle in Uncle August's eyes which Mrs. Ward did not observe. “Mis Em'ly,” he asked with a startled expression on his face, “Wha dem embissary look lak.”

“Oh they will be in disguise, you know, but they try to look like our own people. Why?”

“Well yo kno, toder day wen I bin gon over ter Mr. Hudsin, ma'am? When I coming back an git mos to de big gate, I see er strange man comin' up de road. Time as I see un I tink dem “Kidnabber” cause you kno dey car off Mr. Hudsin Tom.”

“Now Daddy August,” interrupted Mrs. Ward, “I don't believe any kidnapper carried off that boy. I think he just ran away.”

“Wha he hab ter run away fer, Mis Em'ly? I sho Mr. Hudsin es er good man!”

The aforementioned Tom was at this very moment on the way to freedom by means of the “Underground Railroad,” and this Uncle August knew very well.

Enyhow I fraid dem kidnapper so I mak hase git inside de gate. Wen he git ter de gate he call ter me “Cum yer. I wanter tell yo somting.”

I say, “Cum een, sah.”

He say, “No, yo cum yer.”

I say, “I see Mas Henry cummin an I ain't ga time. (You kno Mas' Henry gon ter town dat day). Time as I say dat he hurry way.”

“I see yo ergan,” he say. Den I say ter maself I know dat da “kidnabber.”

“Did you see him again?” asked Mrs. Ward quietly but she did not succeed in hiding her alarm from the old man. He knew what effect his story (and it was a great big one), would have.

“No, ma'am!” he answered, “An I doan wanter see um gan noder.”

Mrs. Ward determined to acquaint her husband with what she had heard, as soon as possible. Therefore, when Mr. Ward returned from the city that evening, she informed him privately of what August had told her. He was even more disturbed than she was. “And,” she added, “Daddy August is frightened half to death.”

They both concluded that the stranger was a Yankee spy. “It will not be good for him if I find him prowling about here,” said Mr. Ward, “I shall question August further about it.”

He found an opportunity that evening, without appearing to attach any importance to the incident, to question the old man closely. However, August had nothing to add to what he had told Mrs. Ward. He considered it was already a sufficient “whopper.”

But Mr. Ward was uneasy. He told Uncle Joe to have two horses saddled, and they rode over to Mr. Hudson's. He did not acquaint the driver of the object of the visit, but that was not necessary as August and Joe had already had a hearty laugh over the hoax. From Mr. Hudson's they went to Mr. Benton's. To each of these gentlemen Mr. Ward related what he had heard. Neither of them had seen or heard of any stranger in the neighborhood. They both promised to look out, and if such was found it would not be their fault if he did not give good account of himself. But the mysterious man was never found of course.

Some days after the incident just related Mrs. Ward was superintending some work which Uncle August was doing in the garden; setting out plants And the like, for it was now early spring. A team Drove up to the house and the men proceeded to Unload a tall pole. “Wha dey gwine do out dey, Mis Em'ly?” asked the old man innocently.

“Why they are going to set up a flagpole. You see we are to have a government of our own so we must have a flag of our own; the Confederate flag. It is going to be a very pretty one, too.”

“No priteer dan de old flags upstars.”

“Oh yes, a great deal prettier,” but the lady was thinking of the old flag her father and grandfather had fought under.”

The old man glanced at her. “Well,” he said, “It hab ter be berry puty ter beat de old flag.” There was more in his words than he meant his mistress to understand.

“Daddy August,” said Mrs. Ward, as though not wishing to speak any more about flags, “We will put that right here,” (alluding to a plant the old man held in his hands).

August did as directed, but he was not quite through yet. Presently he said, “Mis Em'ly, wha yo gwine do wid de old flag? Yo pa an yo granpa use ter tink er heap ob dat one.”

“Burn it up!” replied Mrs. Ward in rather a vehement tone.

Uncle August knew he had said enough.

It was now about the middle of April 1861. Important matters seemed to require Mr. Ward's attention in the city, and much of his time was spent there. One evening Mrs. Ward told Uncle Ben he must meet Mr. Ward at the station the following day with a pair of horses. He usually used a single horse and a dog cart for this purpose. “Sumting up,” said the old coachman to himself.

Mr. Ward had not been home for near two weeks. The Negroes on the plantation knew war was approaching, for though they could not read the newspapers, it is remarkable how well posted they were in regard to the trend of events. They knew also that their master's long absence was to be accounted for in the coming conflict. His return therefore, was anxiously awaited by them; as they hoped to gain some information as to how matters actually stood.

The next morning Uncle Ben had his team in tip top shape, and rigged up with his regulation coachman's outfit, including his shiny silk hat. He carried Jake along to open the gates. “I kno wha he want,” he had said, “But wait little bit.” And he drove away.

As they left the station Mr. Ward said, “Save your horses Ben,” but when they swung into the plantation avenue he told the coachman to “let them go.”

Uncle Ben pulled up his lines, drew the whip lightly across his horses and said, “Git out.”

Tom and Jerry responded and they came up the “home stretch” in fine style. The whole family stood on the front porch waving their handkerchiefs. Mr. Ward waved his in return. As Uncle Ben drew up at the stepping stone, Mr. Ward sprang out, ran up the steps, embraced his wife and children, and kissed his mother-in-law, (a thing which I believe men seldom do). “We have taken the fort,” he said, as they entered the house.

THAT night conflicting emotions governed those who lived on “Pine Top” plantation. In the big house there was gladness and rejoicing, while at the Quarters there was groaning and lamentation. The Negro believed that as long as Major Anderson held Fort Sumter their prospects were at least hopeful; but when Sumter fell, they felt that their hopes were all in vain. Though the future looked dark, there were two on the place who never gave up; Uncle Ben and Aunt Lucy. You are acquainted with the old man already. Aunt Lucy was the plantation nurse. Years of hard and faithful toil in the fields had gained for her respite from active labor. It was her sole duty now to take care of the young children of the women who had to go into the rice and cotton fields, and those mothers were glad indeed to have such a kind christian woman as she was to look after their little ones while they were at work. The old woman, though well on in years, was still hale and hearty. “Min, wha I tell yo. De Master gwine bring we out,” were her words of encouragement to those who were ready to despair. Uncle Ben's words were, “Dem buckra kin laf now, but, wait tel bime by.’

Between the “big house” and the Quarters there was a spring from which the people got their drinking water. Every afternoon a long line of children might have been seen with “piggins” on their heads, taking in the supply for the night. On the evening of Mr. Ward's return, the children did not appear. In their stead, and at a later hour, their parents came. It was noticeable too, that they lingered at the spring, being concealed from view by the trees that grew about it. The reason of all this was that arrangement had been made with Jake that as soon as possible after dinner, he was to run down and tell them any news he might gather during that meal. Jake, as a possible gatherer of news! Why that was absurd! He was spry enough about the house and dining-room, but otherwise he was as dense as a block of stone. At least, that was what his master would have said of him. This density on the part of the Negro was, in fact, a weapon of defense—the only one he had. Do you think Captain Small could have run the Planter out of Charleston harbor if it was thought he had sense enough to do so? No, indeed! He never would have had the chance.

I said Jake was to run down. That was a mistake. He was much too wise for that. After dinner was over he sauntered down the back steps as soon as he could. Upon reaching the ground, he thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked slowly toward the spring, whistling, “Way Down Upon the Swanee River,” as though he didn't have an idea in his head. “He comin' now,” said Aunt Lucy, “Well mi son, wha he say,” as the boy drew near.

“Well, ma'am, dy tak de fote. We done now” was heard on all sides.

ON arriving in Charleston we found great excitement there. Men were going about the streets wearing blue cockades on the lapels of their coats. These were the “minute men,” and the refrain was frequently heard, “Blue cockade and rusty gunWe'll make those Yankees run like fun.”

Soldiers on parade often passed by our house, and we ran to see them. One day a troop of horses went by. The ladies waved their handkerchiefs and the officers saluted. I heard they were on their way to the “Front.” I wanted very much to know where that was, therefore, when Uncle Ben and I went to the stable I asked, “Uncle Ben, where's the ‘Front?’ ”

The old man made me no immediate reply. In fact, he never did. Knowing he heard me I waited patiently. Presently he looked up:—“De front, boy, es de place weh dem young buckra gwine ketch de debble,” he said, and resumed his work.

Mr. Ward had received a commission in the army with headquarters at Secessionville. It chanced that Mr. Edward Dane was appointed on his staff, and he took my brother, several years older than myself, into the army with him. But the dear boy contracted fever and soon died. Later, the command was removed to another point in the harbor, and for a short time I took my brother's place as officer's boy! And here I must admit I wore the “gray.” I have never attended any of the Confederate reunions. I suppose they overlooked my name on the army roll! I carried a knapsack, too. My uniform consisted of a confederate gray jacket, blue pants, and a Beauregard cap. My knapsack was somewhat smaller than the regulation article, and was covered with glazed leather. It usually contained clothes going to or from the washerwoman in the city. I had a day in the city every week and thus had ample time to do my shopping which usually consisted of five molasses groundnut cakes, at one dollar each! They were not quite as large as those you get for a penny now, either. Once I went to buy a pair of shoes and the storekeeper charged me seventy dollars for them. I tried several other stores and finally got a pair for sixty-five dollars. Talk about things being high now, why then most things were literally “out of sight”—especially things to eat.

In the early part of our day on the Island things were reasonably plentiful. The real business of the struggle had not yet begun, and General Ward still had cattle at Pine Top. It was his custom to occasionally have a lamb or a “Harry Dick” dressed on the plantation and shipped down to the Island. On these he regaled himself and brother officers. And, “Hereby hangs a tale,” from which we get another glimpse of the general's limitation for the Negro.

General Ward had a boat's crew of six men. With one exception they were detailed soldiers—up country men—who had little knowledge of the management of boats. The exception was Dick Brown, a Negro fisherman. As is well known the fishermen in and around Charleston have no superiors in the handling of small craft on the river, or in the open sea. Dick pulled the stroke oar, acted as coach, and when the wind was fair, he sailed the boat. Relying on Dick's skill and knowledge the general had never missed a trip on account of weather. On one occasion he presented his crew with a side of meat and they appointed one of their number who had had some experience as a butcher, to cut up and share it. The general chanced to pass by while the sharing was in progress. “Ah boys,” said he, “Sharing up?”

“Yes sir,” replied the butcher, “There are six of us and I am trying to divide as equally as possible.”

“Oh well now, I certainly want Dick to have a portion, but I did not expect him to share equally with you white men; a Negro must never share equally with a white man, you know. Where was Dick while this was going on? He stood right among the speakers together with Jake, the general's boy and I, for Mr. Ward would never think of being so “unjust” to a Negro as to speak behind his back.

There are two of us alive today. I don't know where General Ward is, but I do know that he is dead. Shot did sometimes fall thick and fast on the Island, but then, the general, had the benefit of the sea breeze!

The command was soon ordered to Virginia, and I, being too young to be taken along, was given an indefinite furlough.

During the latter part of my stay on the Island things were tight. As for provisions, well, there weren't any to speak of. Ground-seed corn and hominy with an occasional piece of bacon, was considered very acceptable. These advocates of “plain food” should have been with us. Nothing could have been more plain than our fare. I don't believe it was unhealthy either, although I have had no desire to try it again. “Pie” is good enough for me. For coffee we had parched grist steeped and sweetened with molasses, “Mule Blood” brand. I went over from the Island in Mr. Ward's boat every Saturday. They were steamers that ran regularly to our Island, (“The Planter,” of heroic memory was one of these), but they only crossed at night so as to avoid “salutes” from the blockading fleet. Most of the officers of our command kept row boats in which they could reach the city at their pleasure. Our landing place at first was Market Dock, but when General Gilmore began to raise the temperature in the lower part of the city, we moved our moorings further uptown; for it would have been rather unpleasant to be standing on a wharf and have a shell come whistling by taking one's head off. Furthermore, the head might roll overboard, or else the kind comrade who picked it up might, in his haste, be apt to clap it on again upside down, or backside front; and like the lady who did not receive an invitation to the “pink tea,” one would never feel the same again.

“The Old Coffee” and “DeKalb” belonged to our fleet. Captain Christian of the “Coffee” was one of the most popular seamen at the port of Charleston— “as jolly an old sea dog as ever drank grog.” I always returned to the Island at night by steamer. Several times, random shots fell near us but we were never hit, and soon got used to them. When one came skipping toward us we simply said, “Shoo fly.” At this time I was about ten years old, and rather small for my age. I shall never forget the peals of laughter that greeted my first appearance at headquarters. I boarded the Old Coffee at “Market Dock” and was met on the other side by Mr. Dane who took me up to the place. Then I was taken into a large room in which were General Ward, Captain Parker, Lieutenant Tompson and Jenks. “What in thunder are you going to do with that boy!” they cried in unison.

“This boy is all right Jim,” said Mr. Dane looking at Lieutenant Tompson, “He can ride.” The laugh was now turned on the lieutenant who, as I afterwards learned, had been thrown from his horse a few days before.

My duties were very light. If any of the old soldiers are now living who were on that Island at that time, (1862-63), remember seeing an officer splendidly mounted, followed by a mite of a Negro boy also mounted, galloping over the Island, the boy was myself.

TURKEYS and even chickens were very scarce on our Island. It is remarkable how quickly these creatures disappear from the neighborhood of a soldier's camp during war times, especially when rations are scant. I suppose they become alarmed and fly away. Some people may be of a contrary opinion, but we will let that pass.

Adjoining our Quarters there lived an Irishman who owned some turkeys. Besides these there was not so much as a turkey feather for miles around. At this time one of these festive birds was worth his weight in gold. But, there was no gold in circulation hence the amount of confederate money it would have taken to buy one would have equalled the turkey himself—at least in bulk. When Mr. O'Flanagan wanted to buy a piece of real estate, or make some similar investment, he just sold one of his turkeys to some young officer who was willing to part with a small fortune. For these and other reasons you may be sure that Pat kept watchful eyes on his flock.

One afternoon one of these turkeys, without the fear of consequences, flew over into our yard. We had a dog that would “fetch,” therefore, Jake quietly remarked, “Sic um, Bull.” In less than no time Bull had that turkey by the neck, and in equally short order, Jake had that bird in the bag.

The fence between the lots was a high one. Those on the other side would not see what was going on in our yard, but they heard the dog chasing the turkey. Therefore, it was not long before Mr. O'Flanagan presented himself to the sentinel at the gate. “I wud loike to go in an git me turkey,” he said.

IN a previous chapter I promised to say something further about Mr. Bale. It was his habit to spend a week or more with his mother every year, and during our stay at Mrs. Bale's, and after our return from Pine Top he made one of his yearly visits, bringing his wife and child, nurse, coachman, and three horses.

It is said that no man is wholly bad. If this is true why the young man of whom we are going to speak must have had his redeeming qualities. But they were never manifested in the treatment of his slaves. He was a very young man. His father had died when the son had barely reached his majority, and he was left in sole control of the large plantation on which were more than four hundred Negroes. It was said, he had from his youth exhibited an ugly disposition, and this early elevation to power did not tend to improve his character. In many instances where the master was harsh, the mistress was considerate; while in others the reverse was true. In either of these cases the servants had a chance, but where both were alike inconsiderate, the fate of the slave was hard indeed. . . . Young Mrs. Bale was hard to please.

Some say that even the devil is not as black as he is painted. I never could endorse that statement. I have always thought he was as black as it was possible to paint him, and a great deal blacker. At any rate I am free to say there was not one, single, mitigating feature in the treatment of those unfortunate creatures who had to serve Tom Bale; they all suffered. A double share seemed to fall to the lot of “London,” the coachman. To say that this poor fellow had a hard time would convey but a faint idea of his condition. He was competent, faithful and submissive, but these qualities did not secure for him the slightest consideration. Frequently, after going over the cushion, etc., with her handkerchief, his mistress would send the carriage back to the stable as being “Absolutely too dusty to ride in.” The slightest complaint from Mrs. Bale exasperated his master against him and he was often severely punished even though he had done all in his power to have everything in perfect order. His patient fortitude under cruel treatment was indeed wonderful. Despite the terrible hardships he had to endure, he managed to extract some pleasures from his occupation. He loved his horses and often spoke of them in terms of endearment. “Dem boys nebber mak me shame yit,” he would say in speaking of them, “Wen I say cum Daddy, cum Spug, de Nigger dat pick me up got ter kno wha he bout.”

London and I were best friends, and so as to be on hand each morning when he went to the stable I was permitted to occupy a cot in his room, for I liked to go with him. He went much earlier than Uncle Ben. The poor fellow was glad to have me with him at night. It was a relief to him to have someone to talk to. He would tell me about the fine horses he had handled, and others he had known: Of Old Tar River, Bonnet so Blue and Clara Fisher. When he was seated on his box flourishing his whip with the easy grace of the experienced southern coachmen, one would not think his life was the terrible grind it really was.

One morning at a very early hour I heard Tom Bale calling from the yard, “London, London!” I tried to rouse the sleeping man without success. Presently I heard the heavy tread of his master coming upstairs.—And London slept!—The balmy air of that spring morning was seductive. The night had been rather warm and London was not encumbered with any superfluous clothing. Now London was very careful with his whips. They were not allowed to lay about carelessly, but were suspended from a rack of polished wood, made for the purpose, and hung against the wall in his room. There was one gold mounted, one mounted with silver, and one was adorned with carved ivory, one had a dainty little red ribbon bow on it, while the two others were decorated respectively with white and yellow.

IT is more pleasant to me than otherwise that I have no other similar instance of cruelty to relate, coming under my own observation like that of Tom Bale's. Although the following may not be called cruel, still it is not devoid of severity and harshness.

Among our neighbors there was a family whose servant had rather a hard time of it. The family was very religious but not liberal minded. All their servants had to attend the family church.

WHILE we were at Mrs. Bale's and before I went “into camp,” I had the following sad experience:— Up to this event it had never dawned upon me that my condition was not as good as that of any boy in the country. With kind parents, two sweet little sisters, an affectionate brother, gentle companions to play with, and every boyish wish gratified, the improbability of my succession to the presidential chair never once occurred to me. But now I was made to feel that life was not all “one pleasant dream.”

One day my mother received a message calling her down to the Dane's. When she returned she seemed very sad, and upon my father's arrival home I saw them in earnest conversation. Before I went to bed that night my mother told me that I would have to go with her to the Dane's on the next day. “The Old Jay wants to see you,” she said.

I was greatly pleased at this for it was a long time since I had been there. When we arrived the next day I found all the servants arrayed as if for some holiday occasion and I also found that they were to be “praised.” However, I couldn't understand why persons dressed up as they were, and who had been bought together for commendation, should look so sad. I did not know what I had done deserving of special mention, but I did remember that sometime before my horse ran away with me through the crowded streets, and that I had managed to keep my seat. I finally brought the animal to a stand without any damage. Therefore, I thought I would receive a gold medal, or perhaps “four pence” in money. But to be certain, I would ask Cora what it all meant.

I found her seated alone on a bench in the yard looking more beautiful than ever. “Cora,” said I, “What is all of this about?”. . . Instead of answering my questions she began to cry and she took hold of me and hugged and kissed me right there in the yard, before all those people!! My, didn't I blush!

The fact was, kind reader, as you have already surmised, the “Estate” was to be sold, and the people had been brought together for “appraisement.”

Several gentlemen came out into the yard. The people stood up, and the gentlemen went among them asking questions. One of them placed his hand on my head. . . . “Well, my boy,” said he, “What can you do?”

“I can ride, Sir,” I answered, whereupon my mother gave me a gentle nudge which meant, “Hush.” She then explained to him that my brother and I were not to be sold for she had earnestly requested Mr. Dane not to “sell” us. She knew that we should receive good treatment as long as we were in his hands, and that if we went with her, the Negro Traders would soon separate us. With many protestations Mr. Dane had promised her that he would not sell us even if he had to go barefoot. He kept his word, but my mother and two little sisters went and for four years, we neither saw nor heard of each other. When “the cruel war was over” we were brought together again, and you may know there was a happy meeting for—“He had given his angels charge concerning us.” We were all there to greet the gallant Major Anderson when he returned to raise the “Old Flag” over Fort Sumter.

The war was ended. The Union had come. Soon the schools were thrown open, and under the leadership of the enthusiastic Redpart, and that noble band of pioneer men and women from the North, the children flocked to them. Surely there must be a future for a people so eager to learn as is the Negro, and though we are not yet out of the woods, “We are coming, Father AbrahamFull many a million strong.”

ON the night of December 11th, 1861, our dear old home on Guignard street was destroyed by fire. This was the greatest conflagration that has happened in Charleston during my lifetime.

It broke out at, or near the corner of East Bay and Hasel Streets, and swept in a direction across the city to the very edge of Ashley River, at the other side of town; licking up nearly everything in its patch. When the alarm was given Ward 3, we hurried out from Mrs. Bate's where we were living at that time. Not very far away from the old place, looking in that direction, we saw the flames leaping up, and hastened on. The sparks seemed to rain down from the heavens as we ran. When we reached there, we found the engines pouring streams of water on the house, while there was a long line of men reaching from the well in the yard, up the back stairs to the roof of the house, passing buckets of water from one to another.

The devoted ladies stood by encouraging them. “Water! More water!” they cried. But it was all unavailing. The fire soon caught the piazzas, then burst in the windows and doors seeming to say, “Who would stay the ‘Fire King?’ ” Soon the old home together with nearly all of the neighboring houses was a mass of ruin. On swept the flames reaching Broad Street. They raged about the Cathedral. It was thought that owing to the material of which that beautiful structure was built, it would have escaped, but no—under the fierce onslaught of the devouring element, the costly and magnificent edifice melted away; and onward the fire sped, not stopping until it reached the waters of the Ashley River.

I do not know the casualties that attended this distressing event, but the property loss was very great.

IT was late in the Fall of 1865 that Mr. Ward was on his way to join his family. As soon as possible after the surrender of Richmond, he had made a hasty visit to Charleston to assure himself of their safety, but had returned to Richmond after a few days stay with them to engage in some clerical work he had previously secured in that city; the compensation for which he found himself sorely in need of at that time. He was now on his way to join them permanently. He had an irresistible impulse however to visit the old plantation. As the train sped on, the desire grew upon him, therefore when they pulled up at the little station, White House, he got off, determined to walk out to the place. It is worthy of note that this man did not for a moment doubt that he would be kindly received by his former slaves, if any remained there.

Fortunately he met an old friend at the station who gladly provided him with a horse on which he rode out to the plantation, beset by emotions better imagined than described. As he turned from the road into the long avenue a mass of ruins met his eyes. The noble old house had been destroyed by fire! With a sad heart he rode on.

Uncle Joe was at work burning stubble in a nearby field. As he raised his eyes they rested on the lone horsemen. “Wonder who da him,” he said as he started to meet the stranger, “Um, ee luk like Mass Willum, Lord bless me!”

As the two men drew near each other Mr. Ward leaped from his horse and extending his hand he cried, “Joe!”

“Mas Willum!” sobbed the old Negro.

They fell on each others necks and wept like children. Oh why did the designing stranger and the native demagogue enter to thwart this auspicious opening of a new era between these men?

After a while they started toward Uncle Joe's cabin. Mr. Ward refused to remount though urged to do so by the old man. As they walked along Mr. Ward inquired about those he had left on the place. Some had gone away. They had sought the city. It were well for many of these if they had remained on the plantation, for the town held many snares and temptations to which they were unaccustomed, and to which they fell a prey. Old Uncle Josh and his wife had gone to Mrs. Ward in Charleston. Uncle Josh was not inclined to leave the plantation, but his wife was anxious to go and see how Mrs. Ward was faring, and if she could be of any help to her. Thus they went.

Mrs. Ward was more than glad to see her old friends. “I thank you very much for coming to me at this time,” she said to Aunt ——, but I am not able to offer you any wages, for I am without means now.”

“I a'int cum fer yo money, Chile,” the old woman answered, “Ef yo doan need my sarbis I ken go back.”

“Oh you dear creatures, you know how much I need you. I only meant that I cannot pay you anything just now.”

And so the old woman took charge, greatly to the relief of Mrs. Ward, also to that of Uncle August who had been constantly with his mistress, and was acting in the capacity of general house servant. The advent of Aunt Peggy allowed him a chance to go out doing odd jobs, thereby earning a few dollars. He steadily refused to accept any work that would take him away permanently from Mrs. Ward. The lady could offer comfortable quarters to Uncle Josh and his wife. The old man soon obtained work in the city and the three servants lived on the premises until they died. It is doubtful if Mrs. Ward ever had any more faithful and truer servants than they were.

Mr. Ward was glad to find that there were still many of his people on the plantation, all of whom seemed glad to see him. Old Aunt Binah, Uncle Joe's wife was dead, and his two boys, now strapping young fellows had gone to the city to work. “Long shore” the old man informed him, also that they had turned out well and came up to see him often.

As they neared the cabin they passed a pen in which were six fine shoats “Dem b'long to Mingo, sah,” said Uncle Joe.

A shade passed over Mr. Ward's face. “Mingo?” he asked.

“Yessah. Mingo mar'ed Dolly, yo kno sah, an ee com ter lib yer wid er. And den wen they gon ter town an my old ooman dead, Dolly un him com lib wid me sah, caise I so lonsum. Mingo is er good christon man sah, an dey berry kine ter me.”

The shade on Mr. Ward's face deepened. “Joe,” said he, “I treated Mingo harshly once.”

“I kno dat, but ee don forgit all bout it, sah.”

DOLLY knew the high estimate Mr. Ward had of old Aunt Lucy's ability as a cook, therefore she requested her to come over that evening. This the old lady readily consented to do, and as she proceeded with her pleasant task, she indulged in many reminiscences of former occasions on which she had officiated to the gastronomic delight of Mr. Ward; and even of old Mr. Bale, Mrs. Ward's father. When everything was ready Dolly brought out a snowy cloth, spread it on the pine table, laid a plate, knife and fork thereon, then she ran down to the spring for some fresh water. Returning, she placed a glass of this beside the plate. Meanwhile Aunt Lucy was taking up the summer. On a large dish she gently placed the festive possum done to a turn. Then she carefully arranged some baked sweet potatoes around it. Over all she poured some gravy that had been simmering in a saucepan by the fire. She placed this dish in front of the plate on the table, and flanked it on one side by a dish of rice as white as milk, and on the other by some delicious cornbread. She surveyed the table a moment then announced, “Supper ready.”

“Draw up, sah,” said Mingo acting as master of ceremonies.

“Surely you are all going to join me!” said Mr. Ward rising.

“No sah,” answered Uncle Joe, “It do ve mo good ter see yo eat dan ter eat vesef, sah.”

Argument was of no avail, therefore Mr. Ward sat down and in a remarkably short space of time that dish of possum and potatoes had very perceptively diminished. After Mr. Ward was through, the table was rearranged and the others sat down.

The gentleman looked thoughtfully into the fire, and when all had finished he stood up. “Joe, Lucy, Mingo, Dolly,” said he, calling each by name, “I can never hope to enjoy another meal such as I have had, as long as I live. His earnestness impressed them all. They made no reply.

Immediately after supper Mingo had excused himself, and was absent for more than an hour. All of those whom Mr. Ward had not seen during the day came in after supper to shake hands with him. Mingo was seen to whisper to two or three of the younger men, and together they went out; seemingly on some mysterious errand.

Some of the older people tarried a while to talk. “Chillun,” said Aunt Lucy, “Look at de vonders ob de Master.” Then she raised her voice and sang, “And are we yet alive?”

Uncle Joe requested the old woman to pray. They all knelt down while she uttered a prayer of wonderful strength; full of faith and hope. Mr. Ward was asked by the old man to read the 14th chapter of St. John. Uncle Joe, though still vigorous, was quite an old man; therefore, at the conclusion of the reading he sang:— “On Jordan's stormy banks I standAnd cast a wistful eye.” They all felt that he was looking, “For a house not made with hands, but eternal in the heavens.” And so he was, for a few months later he passed to his reward.

They had all joined in the singing, and accustomed as was Mr. Ward to hearing them, it seemed as though he was never so impressed as now. Again and again he requested them to sing, and they responded with such old hymns as:— “Roll Jordan, rollMy bruder, yo aught to bin dereTo yer wen Jordan roll.”

When they rose to leave they sang heartily:— “No fearin, no doubtinWhile God's on our side.We'll all die er shoutin'De Lawd will provide.”

Kind reader have you ever heard those people sing? If a band of these old veterans could be brought together and travel through the country singing their old time songs, I believe it would do more towards settling the so called Negro problem, and allaying the growing unrest caused thereby, than any other single force. The particular ones of whom I write are all, with a single exception, dead; but there are still many of the “Old Timers” living.

Mr. Ward had not expected to stay so long, but the hours sped swiftly, and he was forced to spend the night under the roof of old Uncle Joe. Mr. Mingo went to work early the next morning before Mr. Ward was up.

The borrowed horse had been returned by one of the men going to the station, as the gentleman found his stay would be prolonged. Uncle Joe would drive him over to take the train.

After breakfast Uncle Joe went to the barn to “hitch up.” When he drove up to the cabin door there was a large homespun sack which seemed to contain something bulky, lying across the rear part of the buggy. “Got quite a load behind you, Joe,” remarked Mr. Ward as he stepped in.

“One ob Mingo shoats, sah. Ee kill im las night. Say ee sory ee didn't hab time to cut up de meat. Yo kin hab dat don wen yo git home. Hang im up in er cool space, sah.”

The gentleman made no reply, but there was a strange, far away look in his eyes. As they drove, the old man imparted such bits of information as he thought might be of interest. Finally both became silent. “Joe,” at length said Mr. Ward, “You are thoughtful as usual.”

“Fine nuff ter tink bout, sah. Member once wen I didn't tink, an ee put de wuk on de plantation bac two days. He laughed loudly as though amused by some recollection. Mr. Ward smilingly asked when this happening had occurred. Then the old man related the circumstances which were as follows:—

Mr. Ward had directed him to have a piece of work done. He had delayed in doing it because there was something about it to which he wished to call his master's attention. However, before he could do so Mr. Ward called him and demanded to know what was the cause of the delay. “I thought sah,” began Uncle Joe. “I don't want you to think. Do as I tell you,” Mr. Ward had said sternly.

Later the old man's reasons were discovered to be well founded, but his master made no acknowledgment of it. One morning some time after Mr. Ward had said, “Joe, tomorrow morning early, take two double teams and four men, and go over to Mr. Bennett Ward's (a brother of his). There are some things there; furniture, etc., that I wish to have brought here. Make a very early start. I will ride over after you. Wait there until I come.”

Now it so happened that on this very day, after Mr. Ward had given his instructions, he received a letter calling him to the city on urgent business. He went down that evening. Naturally he said nothing to Uncle Joe, nor did he change his orders. The old man knew he was gone, also that it was impossible for him to return in time to ride over to his brother's, as it was eight miles across the country. But he was not to think!

By daylight next morning, he with teams and men, was on the road to “Mas' Bennett.” On his arrival he told the gentleman the orders he had received from his master. “All right,” said he, “Wait.” And they waited.

At dinner time Mr. Ward expressed surprise that his brother had not come. At night he felt worried about it. “If he is not here in the morning I shall ride over and see what the matter is,” he said.

The next day, when breakfast had been completed, he mounted his horse and rode away, telling Joe to remain there as his brother might come at any moment. He had expected to meet Mr. William on the way, but after riding several miles without doing so, he became quite alarmed and went on to Pine Top. His brother he found, had been called to the city unexpectedly, and had not returned as yet. Mrs. Ward knew that her husband intended to send Joe, but thought he had altered the arrangement when he found that he would be absent. She was just on the verge of sending for Joe to come back.

It was near three o'clock when Mr. Ward got home. His brother was in the act of leaving. “I did tell Joe to go over to your place yesterday, and to wait until I came. I forgot all about it until a few moments ago. When you get home, please see that the wagons are loaded tonight, and let them start back by daylight,” said Mr. William Ward.

Not until nine o'clock in the morning of the third day of their absence did they return to Pine Top. Work had been terribly put back on the place. But, Uncle Joe had done as he was told, without thinking.

Mr. Ward remembered facts distinctly. He now learned for the first time the true inwardness of them. “Joe,” said he with a smile, “That was not the only mistake I ever made.”

They bade each other good-bye at the station. “Remain on the plantation, Joe, and tell all the others to do so until we see what is to be done,” said Mr. Ward as he boarded the train. They never met again!

Mr. Ward entered the ministry and labored for some years on the coast among his own people, in the vicinity where he once had his military headquarters. Was the inspiration furnished by that memorable visit to the old plantation? Who can tell?

RECONSTRUCTION times were now at hand. The ruinous conditions that followed that period have been oft and repeatedly charged to the Negroes of South Carolina. Is this just? Is it true? I say, No! I was but a boy then. I remember going with my father who was one of a delegation of men selected for the purpose of calling on some gentlemen of Charleston. These gentlemen, although they had been slaveholders, were always kindly disposed toward the Negro. I understood the purpose of the visits was to secure the good offices of these gentlemen in framing new laws for the government of the state.

The first one they called on came out and stood uncovered on the doorsteps, while the spokesmen of the Negroes explained the object of the visit. The venerable gentleman thanked the delegates for this expression of their confidence, and promised to do all in his power to bring about peace and tranquillity to the state and people.

They made other visits with like results. “Bless be the man who ne'er consents by ill advice to walk,” is as applicable to a state or community as to an individual. Ill advice seemed to have ruled the first attempt at legislation in South Carolina after the war; for the outcome of it was the enactment of a code of laws which rendered the condition of the Negroes in the state worse if possible, than it was under slavery. These laws were very appropriately called, “The Black Code.” It is strange that we do not hear much of that code now. Possibly somebody is ashamed of it.

That was the entering wedge. It opened the door to the designing stranger, and made subsequent conditions possible. It was not the work of Negroes, but it opened the way for, and brought about, what is called the “Carpet Bag” era, of which nothing good can be said. It was “Bad,” very “Bad.”

But the state was finally wrested from the hands of the despoiler. The gallant Hampton came to the rescue. About this time men who had found things under the corrupt Carpet Bag System, “as sweet as a daisy in a cow's mouth,” awoke to the discovery that the “Civilization of the Cavalier and the Roundhead was imperiled.” That discovery it was said, was hastened by the thought that their own heads were no less so. In fact, in Charleston today, a highly respected gentleman and citizen is living, who in a public speech said in effect, “Let us not blame the Negroes; they have been but dupes. Let us rather ornament the lamp posts of the city with the suspended bodies of the rascals who have used them for their own selfish purposes.”

FOR years I had desired to visit “away down east.” I wanted to see more of those people from whom sprung the liberty-loving men and women, who did so much for the amelioration of the condition of the race. I had all ready witnessed the practical working of their christian charity, and the zeal through the labor of the gallant band, who immediately after the war came down to the south with the bible in one hand, and the primer in the other; for the purpose of enlightening and elevating a benighted people.

They have nearly all passed away, for it is more than forty years since, but there remains as monuments to their philanthropy, the schools and colleges they established throughout the southland.

With the view therefore, of becoming better acquainted with these people, I availed myself of the first opportunity that presented itself. Before this I had visited some of their large cities, but the population of cities do not afford the opportunity of gaining such clear insight of a people as the country does. For, in the cities they are on “dress parade,” but in the country they are “at home” so to speak, therefore, I wished to visit the rural or semi-rural parts of the country.

It is a “far cry” from the land of cotton and of rice to the land of pie and beans. Yet, within four days after leaving my home in South Carolina, I found myself among the hills and mountains of one of the eastern states, and I seemed to have landed in the very heat of the “pie belt,” as the following story will show.

Soon after my arrival I entered the services of a gentleman, and was assigned to duty at some distance from his residence. It was too far away for me to return to the house for dinner, so I was provided with an ample “dinner pail” which the cook arranged for me each morning before I left the house. The first day when I opened my pail at noon, I found some delicious bread and butter, a generous slice of cake, a piece of pie, and a bottle of rich milk. You may be sure I enjoyed this very much indeed. On the second day there were cake, bread, and pie, and on the third day pie, bread and cake.

Now, I had thought I was somewhat partial to pie, having been accustomed to an occasional bite of that delicacy at home, but this was “too much.” There were more than a dozen men engaged at the place, and I discovered that each one of them was as abundantly supplied with pie as myself. At this time there was a dear relative of mine engaged with the same family. She saw how things were going with me, and one night when I returned from work, she surprised me with a dish of rice and tomatoes cooked in southern style. It was a revelation to the cook to see rice served in this manner, but it must have been a far greater revelation to her to see how I devoured it. Soon my relative returned to her home in the south, and once more I found myself eating pie every day like a native.

The country was beautiful. It was in the famed Connecticut valley. The coloring of the landscape was all that could be desired, but there was a lamentable lack of color in the population. This, you must know, was utterly unbearable to any man from South Carolina, be he white or black, unless it be our senior senator. Therefore, I went to my employer and told him if the situation in this respect could not be changed, I could not remain in that part of the United States. “You see sir,” said I, “I have a wife and ten children, and ——.”

The gentleman leaped making a complete revolution in the air. “Ten children!” he exclaimed, “Where? What in the world!”

Here he seemed to recover his equilibrium. He had four or five children himself. I then explained to him that it was not my purpose to bring all of our children to Spring Lake, that there were ten children in our family, but five of them were at home, while the other five were doing well for themselves in another part of the States; that it was my intention to have my wife bring the five that were at home as far as New York, leave four of them there, and she and the youngest join me at Spring Lake for the present. This arrangement suited him, and he promptly handed me a check covering the amount of their passage.

Before leaving home I had arranged with my life that if I found my situation satisfactory, I would send for her, and that the arrangement for the children indicated above, would be carried out. Consequently, it was with a light heart I wrote as follows:— “Dear H.

I enclose check for — dollars. Come on north. Leave Tom, Dick, Harry and Betsy Ann with G—— in New York, and you and Matilda Jane join me at Sorwind.