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21st edition, 1998
BY
Copyright, 1887, by SUSAN DABNEY SMEDES
They will hear much of the wickedness of slavery and of slave-owners. I wish them to learn of a good master: of one who cared for his servants affectionately and yet with a firm hand, when there was need, and with a full sense of his responsibility. There were many like him. Self-interest - one might, with truth, say self-protection - was with most masters a sufficient incentive to kindness to slaves, when there was no higher motive. My father was so well assured of the contentment and well-being of his slaves, while he owned them, and saw so much of their suffering, which he was not able to relieve after they were freed, that he did not, for many years, believe that it was better for them to be free than held as slaves. But during the last winter of his life he expressed the opinion that it was well for them to have their freedom.
It has been suggested by friends, in whose judgment I trust, that these memorials may throw a kindly light on Southern masters for others, as well as for my
father's descendants. Should this be so, I shall not regret laying bare much that is private and sacred.
He was like his Jaqueline ancestors in appearance. The "grand look" of the first Jaquelines and what we knew as the "Jaqueline black eyes" were his. Several times in his life he was asked as a favor by painters to sit for his portrait; on two occasions by distinguished artists whom he met casually. "I want a patrician head for an historical picture that I am painting," one said.
He never suspected any one of wishing to be otherwise than strictly upright, and, consequently, was frequently defrauded in his dealings with dishonest people. Once, during the latter years of his life, when in extremest poverty, he made a rather worse bargain than usual.
"I do not think that you ever made a good bargain in your life," some one said.
"No, I never tried," was the emphatic answer. "A good bargain always means that somebody makes a bad one."
"Uncle Tom," one of his brother's children said to him, "why do you deny yourself everything? Your credit is good. You could get thousands of dollars if you chose."
"Yes, my dear, my credit is good; and I mean to keep it so," he replied, in a manner that precluded further argument on that subject.
S. D. S.
BALTIMORE, 1303 JOHN STREET, June 1,
1886.
The name has undergone many changes since the American branch left France, two centuries ago. It is variously written, as Daubeny, Daubney, Bigny, D'aubenay, Dabnée, and Dabney.
The traditions among all say that they are descended from that fearless Huguenot leader, Agrippa d'Aubigné, who flourished from 1550 to 1630.
But Agrippa was not the first of his name known at the French court. According to tradition in the family, a d'Aubigné commanded a company of Swiss guards at the court of Louis XII.
Agrippa d'Aubigné wrote a minute history of the
* The following is an extract from "Don Miff," a romance written by my brother, V. Dabney: "This Huguenot cross gave the old Whacker stock a twist towards theology. Two of the sons of Thomas and Elizabeth took orders, much to the surprise of their father."
fearful times in which he lived, - one of the best that has come down to us. Agrippa was the father of Constant d'Aubigné, who was the father of Mme. de Maintenon, and her brother, Chevalier d'Aubigné. Constant d'Aubigné was twice married. The first wife, Ann Marchant, left a son Theodore. The second wife, Jeanne Cardillac, was the mother of Mme. de Maintenon and Chevalier d'Aubigné; the latter was never married. The d'Aubigné line was continued through Ann Marchant's son, Theodore.
We find the name on the rolls of Battle Abbey among the list of knights who fell at Hastings. Others survived the conquest, and are mentioned in Hume's History as champions of Magna Charta.
After the revocation of the Edict of Nantes (1685), a branch of the d'Aubigné family left forever the land of their ancestors, because they could no longer there worship God with freedom of conscience. They took refuge in Wales. Somewhere between 1715 to 1717 two brothers, Cornelius and John d'Aubigné, left this land of their adoption, and sailed for America. Perhaps about the same time their brother Robert came over, and fixed his home in Boston. Cornelius and John came to Virginia and settled on the two banks of the Pamunky River, - Cornelius on the northern and John on the southern side.
In the hand-book in the land office of Richmond, Virginia, is recorded: "Cornelius de Bany, or de Bonés or de Bony - a grant of land (200 acres) in New Kent, dated 27th September, 1664. Again, another grant to same of 640 acres, dated June 7th, 1666. Again, this last grant was on Tolomoy Creek, York River. Again, Sarah Dabney, a grant of land (179 acres) on Pamunky River, in King and Queen Co., April 25th, 1701." Then follow other grants to other Dabneys in these early days of our country.
From Robert d'Aubigné, of Boston, sprang the men who for three generations, and almost from the beginning of our republic, have held the United States consulate in the Azores, or Western Islands. During this period the government has seen many changes, but only
one attempt has been made during eighty years to take the consulship out of the hands of the descendants of Robert d'Aubigne. They have borne themselves so well in their office as to win the confidence of Whig and Democrat and Republican. Under General Grant's administration it was thought advisable, for political reasons, to bestow this consulship on Mr. Cover. Accordingly, in 1869, it was taken from Charles William Dabney and given to Mr. Cover. Charles William Dabney, who had succeeded his father in the consulate, who had held it since 1806, received the new consul in his own house, as he could not be suitably accommodated elsewhere. But Mr. Cover lived only two years, and on his death the consulate passed again into the hands of the Dabney family. Charles W. Dabney had held it for forty-three years. He did not desire it again, feeling too old to serve. His son, Samuel W. Dabney, was appointed consul in 1872, and still holds the office. Honorable mention was made by President Cleveland, in reappointing him to the consulate, of the services of Samuel W. Dabney. A younger brother of Charles W. Dabney, William E. Dabney, held for twenty years the consulship of the Canary Islands, having resigned in 1882.
In the court record at Hanover Court-House, unfortunately destroyed in the Richmond conflagration of 1865, occurred this entry in the first minute-book of that county, at the beginning of the entries, which were begun when the county was cut off from New Kent County, in 1726:
"Ordered, that it be recorded that on - day of April, 1721,
Cornelius Dabney, late of England, * intermarried
with
Sarah Jennings." All accounts agree that his first wife died
soon after coming to Virginia, leaving an only son,
George. From this English George came the William
Dabney who gave two sons to the Revolutionary
army, - Charles, who commanded the Dabney Legion, and
George, who was a captain in that legion. The brothers
were present at the siege of
* He seems to have gone to England before coming to America.
Yorktown and the surrender of Lord Cornwallis. They received the thanks of Congress for services rendered. George Dabney's powder-horn, that he carried into battle, is still in existence, and in the possession of one of his descendants. Patrick Henry, who was a kinsman and companion of these brothers, was on very intimate terms with them.
From the marriage of Cornelius Dabney and Sarah Jennings sprang three sons and four daughters. The descendants of their half-brother George and of this band of brothers and sisters have their homes in Louisa and Hanover Counties. Of late years they have spread over nearly every State in the South and Southwest, and some have found their way to the Middle States.
The distinguished Presbyterian minister, Rev. Robert L. Dabney, well known as the author of the "Life of Stonewall Jackson," and now professor of the State University of Texas, is descended from Cornelius Dabney's son George.
John Dabney established himself on the lower Pamunky River, at what has been known ever since as Dabney's Ferry, and this became the original nest of the Dabneys of King William and Gloucester Counties.
"Most of the families of Lower Virginia are descended from John d'Aubigné; also the Carrs, Walters, Taylors, Pendletons, Nelsons, Robinsons, and Carters and Fontaines, Beverleys and Maurys, the Lees, of Loudoun, the Seldens and Alexanders, of Alexandria. There is hardly a Huguenot or Cavalier family in Virginia that has not in its veins an infusion of the blood of that sturdy confessor, Agrippa d'Aubigné. From the original pair of French Huguenots, married in 1685, no less than six thousand descendants have their names inscribed on a gigantic family-tree. Several thousand more could be added, if the twigs and boughs were filled out with the names of the lineal descendants known to exist."
John d'Aubigné was married twice. George was the offspring of his first marriage. James, his son by his second wife, was famous for his great strength.
George was twice married, and died, leaving two sons, George and Benjamin, by his first wife, and two, James and Thomas, by his second wife. His second son, Benjamin, refused to receive his share of his father's property, leaving it to be used in educating his younger half-brothers. His brother George lived at the old homestead, Dabney's Ferry, and became the father of sixteen children, eleven of whom lived to be grown. Of these, four were sons and seven daughters. These sisters were noted for their beauty. One of them, Mary Eleanor, attracted the admiration of General Lafayette.
A daughter of this lady, now sixty-seven years of age, writes thus:
"General Lafayette, you know, visited this country in 1825. He was the guest of the city in Richmond. No private house could do for his entertainment, but a suite of rooms in the great Eagle Hotel was secured for him. I have seen the rooms many a time, as my mother boarded there with my brother and myself. Cousin H. R. was the most gifted person with her pen, and she would, with indelible ink, make lovely leaves, flowers, doves, or scrolls, with the name in them. Well, Lafayette's pillow-cases were of the finest linen, marked by her with her own hair, which was a lovely auburn, very long and smooth and even, and a motto was also on them with the name. I saw them often. I believe he was in Richmond some time. All his pillow-cases were marked in that way. My dear mother had then been a widow four years, and was only twenty-four years old, and in the very height of her beauty. Everybody who could get to Richmond was there to see the great welcome of the city to Lafayette. Many people were not even able to find shelter. Of course, my mother and young aunts were among those who went there. There was a hall, spoken of to this day as the Lafayette Hall. My mother danced with him and became well acquainted. People used to come over with such tales to grandpa's, and he made me cry many a time, teasing me by saying that mother was going to marry Lafayette and go to France to eat frogs. You
know Lafayette was a married man, well advanced in years; but, of course, I did not know that. He really told several persons, Mrs. H. among them, that my mother was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, either in France or America. When he left Richmond many ladies kissed him, and he requested a kiss from my mother."
Benjamin Dabney married first Miss Nancy Armstead. She lived only a few years, leaving three children, George, Benjamin, and Ann. A year or two later he married his second wife, Miss Sarah Smith, the daughter of the Rev. Thomas Smith. My father was one of the children of this marriage. The sons, George and Benjamin, grew up to be of so great physical strength as to become famous at their college of William and Mary. In physical development they resembled their grandfather's half-brother, James Dabney, who bears the surname of "the Powerful" on the family-tree. George went into the navy, and was engaged in the battle of Tripoli, and was so fortunate as to save Decatur's life in that fight. He grew tired of the navy and left it for a planter's life. Benjamin also became a planter, and married his cousin, Ann West Dabney, the daughter of his uncle George.
The Smiths from whom my father was descended on the maternal side were known in Virginia as the Shooter's Hill Smiths, - Shooter's Hill, in Middlesex County, Virginia, being the home which they founded in this country. His mother was Sarah Smith, the daughter of the Rev. Thomas Smith, of Westmoreland County, a clergyman of the Established Church, and Mary Smith of Shooter's Hill. The earliest record in the old Shooter's Hill Bible is of the marriage of John Smith of Perton and Mary Warner of Warner Hall, Gloucester County, in the year 1680. One of Mary Warner's sisters, Mildred, married the son of George Washington's uncle, Lawrence Washington. A descendant of John Smith of Perton, General John Bull Davidson Smith of Hackwood, was a thorough democrat, sharing, with other Americans of that day in a revulsion and animosity against everything English.
Seeing that some of his family took more interest in genealogy and family records than he thought becoming in a citizen of the young republic, he made a bonfire of all the papers relating to his ancestors and family history. It is necessarily, therefore, rather a tradition than a fact recorded in family history, that John Smith of Perton was the son of Thomas Smith, the brother of the Captain John Smith, so famous in colonial history. The Smiths of this line adopted Captain John Smith's coat of arms, the three Turks' heads, and now hold it.
The grandson of John Smith of Perton, John Smith of Shooter's Hill, married in 1737 Mary Jaqueline, one of the three beautiful daughters of the French emigrant, Edward Jaqueline. The ceremony was performed at Jamestown by the Rev. William Dawson. They were the parents of Mary Smith of Shooter's Hill, who was married in 1765 to the Rev. Thomas Smith. In Bishop Meade's book on the old churches and families of Virginia are some interesting accounts of Mary Smith's Jaqueline ancestors and Ambler relations. The following extracts are from his pages:
"The old church at Jamestown is no longer to be seen, except the base of its ruined tower. A few tombstones, with the names of Amblers and Jaquelines, the chief owners of the island for a long time, and the Lees of Green Spring (the residence and property, at one time, of Sir William Berkeley), a few miles from Jamestown, still mark the spot where so many were interred during the earlier years of the colony. Some of the sacred vessels are yet to be seen, either in private hands or in public temples of religion.... The third and last of the pieces of church furniture - which is now in use in one of our congregations - is a silver vase, a font for baptism, which was presented to the Jamestown church in 1733 by Martha Jacqueline, widow of Edward Jaqueline, and their son Edward. In the year 1785, when the act of Assembly ordered the sale of church property, it reserved that which was passed by right of private donation. Under this clause it was given into the hands of the late Mr. John Ambler, his grandson....
"Edward Jaqueline, of Jamestown, was the son of John Jaqueline and Elizabeth Craddock, of the county of Kent, in England. He was descended from the same stock which gave rise to the noble family of La Roche Jaquelines in France. They were Protestants, and fled from La Vendée, in France, to England during the reign of that bloodthirsty tyrant Charles IX., of France, and a short time previous to the massacre of St. Bartholomew. They were eminently wealthy, and were fortunate enough to convert a large portion of their wealth into gold and silver, which they transported in safety to England."
"Whilst I was in Paris (says one of the travellers from America), in 1826, the Duke of Sylverack, who was the intimate friend of Mme. de La Roche Jaqueline (the celebrated authoress of 'Wars of La Vendée'), informed me that the above account - which is the tradition among the descendants of the family in America - corresponds exactly with what the family in France believe to have been the fate of those Jaquelines who fled to England in the reign of Charles IX. I found the family to be still numerous in France. It has produced many distinguished individuals, but none more so than the celebrated Vendean chief, Henri de La Roche Jaqueline, who, during the revolution of 1790, was called to command the troops of La Vendée after his father had been killed, and when he was only nineteen years of age. Thinking that he was inadequate to the task, on account of his extreme youth and total want of experience in military affairs, he sought seriously to decline the dangerous honor; but the troops, who had been devotedly attached to the father and family, would not allow him to do so, and absolutely forced him to place himself at their head in spite of himself. As soon as he found that resistance was useless, he assumed the bearing of a hero and gave orders for a general review of his army: to which (being formed in a hollow square), in an animated and enthusiastic manner, he delivered this ever-memorable speech: 'My friends, if my father were here you would have confidence in him; but as for me, I am nothing more than a mere child. But as
to my courage, I shall now show myself worthy to command you.'
"This young man started forth a military Roscius, and maintained to the end of his career the high ground he first seized. After displaying all the skill of a veteran commander and all the courage of a most dauntless hero, he nobly died upon the field of battle, at the early age of twenty-one, thus closing his short but brilliant career."
The Jaquelines have English as well as French ancestors. A branch of the family in America still cherishes a lock of Queen Elizabeth's red hair. This was acquired through Cary, Lord Hunsden, whom they claim as their English ancestor. His mother was Mary, daughter to Thomas Bullen and sister to the unfortunate Anne Bullen.
Through the Smiths and Jaquelines my father was related to the Washingtons, Marshalls, Amblers, Joneses, Pages, Carys, and many other Virginia families. My father's grandfather, the Rev. Thomas Smith, was not related to his wife, Mary Smith, although she bore the same name. The result of this union was a family of three sons and four daughters. Among the list of their names in the family Bible we find a Mary Jaqueline. Their fifth child, Sarah, was born on the 27th of February, 1775, and her brother, John Augustine, seven years later. A thirteen-year-old sister, Ann, was struck by lightning and burned to death in her closet.
Thomas Smith was rector of Nomini Church, Cople Parish, Westmoreland County, from 1773 to 1776. At one time during the residence of his family at the rectory attached to this old church, there came an alarm that the British ships were coming up the Potomac River. The rector ordered everything that could be hastily collected to be put into a wagon to be driven off to a place of security. As the servants were engaged in loading up the wagon, the oxen moved one of the wheels against a plank on which a line of beehives were standing. The plank was upset and the hives thrown to the ground. The bees flew in every direction, stinging every living thing within reach.
The family and servants fled into the house. They were obliged to stuff even the keyholes to keep out the infuriated bees. The oxen ran entirely away, and the fowls which were in coops in the wagon were stung to death.
The Rev. Thomas Smith died in May, 1789. Two years later, in December, 1791, his wife died. In October, 1791, their daughter Sarah, in her seventeenth year, was married to Benjamin Dabney. He was a widower with three children, though but twenty-seven years old. Sarah's step-daughter, Ann, afterwards married her brother, Major Thomas Smith.
Benjamin Dabney had given up the family mansion at Dabney's Ferry, together with his patrimony, on his father's death, to his brother and his half-brothers, and he made his home on the York River at Bellevue, in King and Queen County. He had also, to some extent, used his own means in the education of his half-brother, James Dabney, and his wife's favorite brother, John Augustine Smith. Both young men received medical educations abroad, - James Dabney in Edinburgh, and John Augustine Smith in London and Paris. His kindness and trust were not misplaced. When his own early death deprived his children of a father's care, Dr. James Dabney and Dr. John Augustine Smith were the best friends whom his children had.
Two brothers had died in infancy before his birth, and the vigorous boy was hailed with much rejoicing. The christening was a great event. It was celebrated at Bellevue on so large a scale that the cake for the feast was made in a churn. Often as children we heard the old servants refer with pride to this occasion, and to the large company invited to witness it. In the old Smith Bible, for the rebinding of which one hundred dollars of Continental money is said to have been paid, is found this entry, in his mother's small, old-fashioned handwriting: "Thomas Smith Gregory Dabney, our third child, was born on the 4th day of January, 1798; was baptized the 11th May, 1798. His godfathers were Messrs. Robert Wirt, Harvey Gaines, Thomas G. Smith, James Dabney, Thomas Fox, and Edward Jones. His godmothers were Mrs. Lee, Mlles. Milly Williams, Elizabeth Robinson, Mary S. Whiting, Mary Camp, and Ann S. Dabney, and Ann Baytop." The first incident
recorded of the baby was his great terror at the sight of a very ugly lady, a visitor of his mother's. "Missis, he didn't know if she was folks," was his nurse's explanation when his screams had drawn attention to her charge. When only one year of age he was inoculated, having been sent with his nurse to a public hospital, as the custom then was in Virginia. In due time he passed safely and without disfiguring marks through the dangers of varioloid. He used to relate to us that his mother had said that one of the happiest moments of her life was when her spool of cotton fell from her lap, her little Thomas, then eighteen months old, picked it up and handed it to her. When he was two years old his brother, Philip Augustine Lee, was born, and, two years later, his sister, Martha Burwell. This little flock were taught their letters and to read by a favorite servant, the daughter of their mother's maid. Thomas had great difficulty in remembering one of the letters. Finally, a cake was promised, all for himself, if he would try still harder. So, all day he went about the house repeating "G, G," and the next day, when lesson hour came, his mother put his cake before him as fairly earned.
My father's recollections of his father were very distinct, considering that he died in the forty-third year of his age, when his son Thomas had only attained the tender age of eight years. The memory of this father was ever a most cherished one, and his children remember the almost pathetic manner in which in his own old age he lamented the untimely cutting off of that young life and brilliant career.
Benjamin Dabney was at the head of the bar in King and Queen County, and was engaged by the British government to settle British claims. In nearly every case that came to trial in his county he was engaged as counsel on one side. He was considered by his brethren in his profession to be the most learned man in the law in his section. The judge who at that time sat on the bench appealed to him when doubtful on any legal point, saying that Mr. Dabney knew the law, and there was no need to look into
the books when he was at hand. My father used to tell us of his vivid recollections of seeing him drive home every evening when the court was in session. He was accompanied by his body-servant, who followed the gig on horseback, and who, after my grandfather got out, carried into the house the shot-bags of gold doubloons that had been stowed away under the seat in the gig-box. He sometimes brought home several of these. One of his fees amounted to four thousand dollars, which, considering that he died when barely in his prime, and the value of money at that time, was exceptionally large.
His eight-year-old son was already learning from him some of the fond, fatherly ways, which were destined years after to endear him to his own children and grandchildren, and which he practised in imitation of this tender father eighty years after that father was laid in his grave. One of our earliest recollections of our father was his having some treat for us always on his return home from a visit. This dainty was invariably put in the very bottom of his great-coat pocket, and the delightful mystery of feeling for that package and bringing it up to light, and then, with eager, expectant fingers untying the string before the treasure could be seen, was a pleasure not to be forgotten. My father's face at such times was one of the great charms of the scene, so merry and loving, and almost as full of the pleasant little excitement as the group of bright young ones gathered around him. In explanation to a visitor who might be looking on, he would say, "This is the way that my father treated me. I shall never forget how I enjoyed running my hand down in his greatcoat pocket when he came back in the evening from court. I was always sure of finding there a great piece of what we called in Virginia 'court-house cake.' "
He was like his father in his thorough business methods and his punctuality On the days when Benjamin Dabney did not attend court he retired to his study after breakfast, and his wife used to say that her orders were not to have him disturbed unless the house
was afire. Promptly at three o'clock he left his books and his business cares behind him in his study, and, after dressing for dinner, joined his family in the drawing-room. He was invariable in his rule of being there ten minutes before dinner was announced, and he expected all in the house to conform to this. Many guests came and went at Bellevue, but this was never allowed to interfere with his business. After breakfast he would say to the gentlemen, "Here are guns and horses and dogs and books; pray amuse yourself as you like best. I shall have the pleasure of meeting you at dinner." After dinner he was like a boy on a holiday, ready to join in anything that was proposed, and the life of every party. He was so elegantly formed that after his death it was said that the handsomest legs in America were gone. His death was caused by a violent cold, contracted in the discharge of his law business. At this time a young and rising lawyer, Mr. Charles Hill, was already beginning to share many of the important cases and large fees with Benjamin Dabney. This gentleman was destined to become the father of a child who, years after, married the son of his rival, Benjamin Dabney, and whom we knew as our dearest mother.
Our faithful old nurse, Mammy Harriet, who grew up from childhood with my father; being only two years younger than himself, and who was scarcely ever separated from him, sits by me as I write, and she gives me an incident connected with the death of my grandfather too touching to be passed by.
"Yes, honey," she says in her affectionate way, that seems to claim us still as her babies, "'course I 'member when ole marster die. I 'member well de ole 'oman, Grannie Annie, who sot wid him night an' day - sot wid de coffin upstairs - all by herself; lay by de corpse all night long, put her arms roun' de coffin, an' hold on to it, cryin' all night long. She foller de coffin twenty miles to Bellevue whar dey bury him; foller behin' it cryin' an' hollerin' an' hollerin' an' cryin' to marster to say how d'ye to Toby - dat was her son - an' to Mars Gregory Smith, - dat was marster's uncle, what was
dead. De ole 'oman use to wear gre't big pockets, wallet-like, an' she used to fill 'em full o' peanuts an' hickory-nuts an' apples an' dem kind o' things, an' carry 'em to Mars Jeemes Dabney, de brother o' her own marster, what was dead. He was Doctor Dabney, you know, your cousin Jeemes's father. He thought a heap on her. Yes, to be sho, he was a married man den, wid two chillun. She mighty good ole 'oman. When she die her hyar was white as my cap."
When Thomas was nine years old his mother, feeling that her brother, Dr. John Augustine Smith, would be a better judge than herself of the necessary requirements for the education of her sons, sent them to him, and Thomas was under his care for nine years. Augustine had never been a strong child, and it was soon decided that he was not able to stand the rigorous climate of Elizabeth, New Jersey, where the boys had been placed at boarding-school. At this early age the devotion of a lifetime had begun between the two children. The tender care and admiration of Thomas for his gentle, studious brother knew no bounds. He used sometimes to tease him himself, but never allowed any one else to do so. He was the self-constituted champion of this younger brother, whose thoughtful, retiring habits might otherwise have drawn on him many petty annoyances from his heedless school-fellows. At this time Augustine possessed the gift, which he lost later in life, of handling bees and other insects without danger of being stung. When he was missed from the playground, he might often be found in some secluded spot, with various stinging insects tied to strings, flying and buzzing around his head. He was quite fearless, and so gentle that they seemed to understand that no hurt would be done them. Thomas was occasionally deluded into trying the same experiments on seeing how easily it seemed to be managed, but in an instant he was off roaring with pain, and bitterly rueing his misplaced confidence. He always believed that Augustine was by nature fitted for a naturalist, and he deplored that his education was not turned in that direction. The harsh climate
that froze the blood of the delicate boy and made his return to his mother's care in the Virginia home necessary, built up for the elder and stronger lad the iron constitution that was during his whole life the wonder and admiration of all who knew him.
In talking of these school-days, he used to amaze his Southern-born children by his stories of the moonlight races that he and his schoolmates took over the New Jersey snows. This they did without an article of clothing on. They sometimes ran a mile, diversifying things on the way by turning somersaults in the snow-drifts that were waist-deep. When they got back, they would creep softly up-stairs and jump into their beds and sleep like tops. At last old Parson Rudd, the head of the school, got wind of all this, and strictly forbade it. Nothing daunted, the boys were out again like rabbits when the snows and the moonlights were propitious They were captured once, as they entered the door, after one of these escapades, and Parson Rudd did not fail to flog them soundly all around. In those days flogging was considered as necessary for a boy as his food, and as good for him.
The habits formed at this time clung to Thomas through life. He used frequently in winter to stand in the cold night-wind in his shirt and get thoroughly chilled, in order, he said, to enjoy returning to bed and getting warm. His family feared that revulsions so sudden would endanger his life, or his health, and tried to persuade him to give up what they could not but look on as a dangerous habit, but his laughing assurance that he liked it, and it agreed with his constitution, was the only satisfaction they received in answer to their solicitations.
On one occasion during his school-days in Elizabeth his mother came to pay him a visit, and Mrs. Winfield Scott called on her there. As Mrs. Scott was taking leave her coachman, an ignorant Irishman, got the fiery horses into so unmanageable a state that they stood on their hind legs and pawed the air. In vain did he try to make them move off. Thomas, seeing the difficulty, asked Mrs. Scott to allow him to drive her home.
She had not seen him before, and asked, "My little man, where do you come from, that you know how to manage horses?"
"I am from Virginia," he answered.
"If you are a Virginia boy you may drive me home," she said.
In a moment he was on the box by the coachman, and had shown to the unruly horses that a fearless hand had taken the reins. They yielded at once to him, and in a short time Mrs. Scott was at her own door.
General Scott came out to meet her as he heard the carriage roll up, and as he handed his wife out, asked, "What young gentleman am I indebted to, my dear, for bringing you home?"
"He did not tell me his name," she replied; "he only said that he was a Virginia boy. I do not know who he is."
General Scott turned to thank him, but he was already speeding away across the fields. When he had gotten too far away to be thanked, he could not resist looking around to see how the horses were behaving. They were standing on their hind legs pawing the air.
Thomas was taken from this school into the household of his uncle, Dr. Smith. This gentleman was admirably fitted by nature and education for the trust committed to him by his sister in the care of her sons. His character was so strong, and of such uncompromising integrity, as to impress itself on all who came under his influence. He received his medical education in London and Paris, and was a practicing physician in the city of New York when Thomas was put under his charge. When only twenty-five years of age his native State of Virginia called him to the presidency of William and Mary college. From this post he was recalled to New York by the offer of a professorship in the College of Physicians and Surgeons. Ultimately he rose to be president of the college.
In order to stimulate Thomas's ambition in the city school which he now attended, Dr. Smith urged him
to try to take the Latin prize. He did succeed in winning this prize, a handsome set of Plutarch's Lives, and when he carried the volumes home, his uncle took a five-dollar gold piece from his pocket and put it into the boy's hand. His first thought was to spend the whole of this in candy and raisins, and he went as fast as his feet could take him to his favorite resort, a little candy-booth kept by R. L. Stuart. Unfortunately, sulphur had just been weighed out in the scales, and the raisins had a strong taste of sulphur when they were handed to the lad. He was made so ill by this that he could not eat a raisin for years. R. L. Stuart was, fifty years after this time, one of the millionaires of New York.
Mrs. Smith heard Thomas say one day that he had never had as much pound-cake as he could eat. She made one for him, about the size of a grindstone, he used to say, and had it set before him when the dessert came on the table. "Now, Thomas," she said, "that cake is all for you." Thomas was cured of his fondness for pound-cake for the rest of his life by the very sight of this huge one, for he ate only a very small slice of it.
But the lively, gay boy was more fond of going to the theatre than of his Latin books. He spent nearly all his pocket-money in this way; and during the nine years that he was with his uncle he saw almost everything that was brought out on the New York stage. He went nearly every night, and the inexhaustible fund of amusing songs that were the delight of his children and grandchildren, and that are indelibly associated with him by his friends, who cannot recall them without a smile, were learned in this way.
After the horror of the burning of the Richmond Theatre the play-houses were not entered in New York by the public for some weeks. Every night the managers had their plays performed to houses absolutely empty. One night Thomas went to a theatre, and finding a man sitting there, stayed during the half of the play. But the situation of having all the actors and actresses looking at them, and going through their parts for
them alone, became more and more embarrassing, and both Thomas and the man slipped quietly out. Curiosity to see the end prevailed, however, and finding a little crack in the lobby, the two stationed themselves so as to be able to peep through that, and held their posts till the curtain went down on the last act.
His memory was very strong, and so clear in the minutest detail as to be the admiration of all who came in contact with him. Everything that he heard or read seemed graven on steel. Hence, by this constant attendance at the theatre, he became familiar with Shakespeare's plays, and with all the standard works of the English drama. He was especially fond of Shakespeare's plays, and of "The Rivals" and "She Stoops to Conquer," and he quoted from them with ease. This, however, he rarely did, having an unconquerable shyness in making anything like a premeditated speech. At dinners he often made speeches and proposed toasts when the occasion called for them, but those who knew him cannot fail to recall the mounting color and slightly husky voice which accompanied even the shortest address.
When he was nine years old he saw Robert Fulton make the trial trip with his steamboat on the Hudson River. He never forgot the appearance of Fulton as he stood on the deck with folded arms, looking as if he were chiselled out of stone. All along the river-banks were the crowds who had gathered to witness what most of them had predicted would be ignominious failure, and they would have shouted in derision if their evil predictions had been verified. Instead, involuntary shouts of wild applause and admiration burst forth as the wheel made its first revolution and the steamer moved off from her wharf like a thing of life. The river-bank all the way was lined with people who came to see the wondrous thing. In the city of New York it was known that the steamer was on her way down the river while she was yet several miles off by the loud shouts of the crowds on the river-banks. Thomas, like most boys born on tide-water, was exceedingly fond of boats and of all sorts of water sports, and used to amuse
himself by climbing the masts of the vessels in New York harbor. From the roundtop-mast of an English ship, just brought in as a prize, he one day witnessed the steaming in of Robert Fulton's steamboat. When he went back to his uncle's house, his mother, who had arrived on the boat, told him that she had seen a little fellow no bigger than himself up in the rigging of a big ship, and was amazed to hear that he was no other than her own boy.
His admiration of naval courage and prowess was boundless, fostered in childhood by the recitals of his half-brother George, the midshipman, and later by the stirring scenes of the war of 1812. He was one in the funeral procession that bore our heroic "Don't-give-up-the-ship" Lawrence to his last resting-place in Trinity church-yard.
At one time during his residence under his uncle's roof Dr. Smith became dissatisfied with his want of application to his studies, and advised his mother to set him to work at some handicraft. Accordingly, he was set to work in a printer's shop, and he printed a Bible before he concluded to apply himself to the cultivation of his mind. At the same time Augustine was sentenced to learn the business of a coachmaker for the same offence of idleness. He was actually in his mother's carriage, on his way to be apprenticed to a coachmaker, when, at Dr. Smith's suggestion, he was given one more opportunity of showing that he was not hopelessly indolent. The result with both boys was quite satisfactory; they returned to their books with new interest, and there was never again occasion to find fault with them on this subject.
One night when Thomas was about fourteen years old he had run to a fire. This he always did when near enough to reach the scene. Above the uproar of the flames could be heard the screams of a poor woman entreating some one to save her baby, which she said was in the burning house. No one moved to attempt to rescue it. The smoke was already puffing out of the windows, and it was considered as much as a man's life was worth to enter the building. The boy
seized a piece of rough scantling, which he adjusted to the second-story window that she indicated, and on this he climbed until he reached the window. He got into the room and felt his way to the bed, where the woman had said that her child lay. The bed was empty. Unknown to the mother, the child had been taken out and was in a place of safety. The boy now groped his way to the window. The fire had made such progress that the window-panes were falling in great drops of molten glass. Not a moment was to be lost, and he seized the scantling with both hands and slid to the ground. The liquid glass fell on his hands, and the splinters and nails, of which the scantling was full, lacerated them. The scars left by these wounds were so deep as to be plainly visible during his whole life. The crowd had watched with breathless suspense his climbing into the house, and it was believed that he had gone to certain death. His reappearance at the window was hailed with tumultuous cheers and applause. The police crowded around him, asking his name, and the woman fell on her knees before him to bless him for his efforts in her behalf and to beg to know his name. He refused to give it, being quite embarrassed at finding himself the centre of so much attention, when he had been doing what seemed to him so plain and simple a duty. He got away as fast as he could, and did not even tell his uncle of his adventure. The New York morning papers contained an account of the "heroic action of a young boy who had refused to give his name." It was many years before he mentioned the circumstance to any one.
One cold day, when he was about nineteen years old, he noticed on the ferry-boat, as he was coming from New York to Jersey City, a poor woman, who was shivering in her calico dress. He took off his great-coat and put it around her.
In after-life he amused his friends very much by his stories of a certain Mr. --, who, as some sort of expiation for having killed a negro, built a church, and undertook to gather a congregation and to preach to them. His efforts brought together a number of the
wild spirits of the city. Thomas, who was afraid of Dr. Smith's displeasure if it were known that such a place was his Sunday evening resort, introduced himself to this man under the name of Gregory. "Brother Gregory," as Mr. -- always called him, was promoted in this motley assembly to be the raiser of the hymns, and he was besides the senior warden. One of his duties was to snuff the candles; he also handed around the plate for the contributions of the congregation. He received nothing but wads of paper and cigar-ends, but the man persisted in having the plate handed around regularly. There were no end of practical jokes played on him by his unruly congregation. They shied rotten apples at his head and blew out the candles, and tried in every way to interrupt him, especially when his eyes were tightly closed in prayer. It was observed that no amount of disorder or noise could make him unclose his eyes at these times, and so the merry fellows invariably played the wildest pranks on him as soon as he began the prayer. Thomas was often the leader of these, but the man never suspected him, as he always seemed so ready to help to catch the offenders. It must have been remarked even by Mr. -- that he was singularly unsuccessful in these efforts at assisting him. One night he threw the snuff of a candle-wick on a fuse that he had arranged so that it would go off in the midst of the prayer. At the same moment the candles were put out all over the house. This time the unfortunate man was really so alarmed that he shrieked for Brother Gregory to come to him, that they meant to kill him. With a most officious show of zeal Thomas rushed forward. The two pursued the supposed offenders through the church, and up the stairs and through the gallery, Thomas taking good care not to overtake the fugitives. In the gallery they fled through a door, which they held against the united efforts of the preacher and his ally. At a preconcerted signal they suddenly sprang from the door, which now gave way, and the poor man and his trusted friend were precipitated headlong on the floor. It is almost needless to say that the police frequently
appeared on the scene when this horse-play became very uproarious. Mr. -- became so fond of his young friend that be took him to tea at his house one evening, and introduced him to his daughters, two very pretty girls. After tea he asked his guest to lead in prayer. But this was a length to which the boy could not be induced to go. Indeed, that he was asked to do it made such an impression on him that he made up his mind never again to attend the Sunday evening meetings. Years after this Mr. -- had occasion to go to Richmond, Virginia, and he made many inquiries about a much valued friend, young Mr. Gregory, who had come, he said, from that part of the world, and whom he had lost sight of, much to his regret. Of course he found no trace of him. His mother, who heard of these inquiries, was greatly diverted. She had had many a hearty laugh over the stories of his escapades under the assumed name, for it was all too good to be kept from her. His mother went very often from her Virginia home to visit her brother in New York. The devotion of Thomas to her was one of the strongest feelings of his nature. After her death, which did not occur till he was nearly sixty years of age, he said that he had never said a disrespectful word to his mother in his life. During her lifetime he never failed to go to visit her every other year, after he moved out to Mississippi. Until railroads were built this journey was performed in stages and by steamboats, and it could not be made in less than two weeks. Each time he took one or two of his children with him, that he might show them to her in turn. The last child that was taken to her of the nine that she lived to see was the first-born girl, her own little namesake, Sarah. He had greatly desired to have a daughter, that she might bear his mother's name.
While he lived with Dr. Smith he did all the family marketing. He also frequently went with him when surgical operations were to be performed. He learned so much from him in surgery as to be of lasting service to him in the care of his servants on his plantation. It was often said of him that he should have been a
physician. His steady hand and strong nerve fitted him especially for the practice of surgery. When he was fourteen years old the war of 1812 broke out. A report came to the Gloucester home that the British were making a demonstration of landing at Old Point Comfort. The State of Virginia called for men to go to the defence of the Point, and among the drafted men was Mrs. Benjamin Dabney's overseer. I shall give the account of this in Mammy Harriet's words. She was a child twelve years of age at the time, and never forgot the scenes then witnessed.
" 'Course I 'member when Mars Thomas went off to de wars. What's to hender me from 'memberin'? He warn't grown, you know. He was just like Mars Ben, he own son Ben, when he went off to fight. You all know how you fix him up to go off to fight? Jest so he ma fix him up, and put him on de horse to ride to Old Point Comfort. De horse was Juno colt. Don't I know Juno? She was one of missis carriage-horses, an' she used to stan' straight up on her hin' legs when she was put to de carriage. You see dey come an' call for de overseer, Maja, an' he was mighty skeered, an' he cum hollerin' to de house, Mrs. Dabney! Mrs. Dabney! Whar is she?' Den she cum out an' tell her son Thomas to go in de overseer place, 'cause de overseer was of use on de place. Mars Thomas was delighted to go."
Mrs. Dabney sent him on a lame horse, telling him that a lame horse was good enough to advance on, but would not do for a retreat. Her brother, Colonel Thomas Smith, was already in camp at Old Point Comfort, and Thomas was sent to join him. At the end of three weeks it was seen that this place would not be attacked, and Thomas returned home. He was through life a soldier at heart. Perhaps this early taste of the military life made the indelible impression. His step and bearing were those of a soldier, and this appearance was heightened by the old style of dress, - the swallow-tailed, blue cloth coat and gold-plated buttons. This was his dress till he was over sixty years of age, when he no longer had the means to pay for the costly clothes.
On the breaking up of the camp at Old Point Comfort, Thomas and Augustine were sent to the college of William and Mary. Here they were once more under the eye of Dr. John Augustine Smith, who had just been called to the presidency of the college. A house was rented for the two boys, and, with the assistance of a cook and a body-servant apiece, they kept house during their collegiate course. Thomas was there for a comparatively short time, being called to take charge of Elmington. At this time his mother contracted a second marriage, with Colonel James H. Macon, of New Kent County, and she moved to his home, Mount Prospect, in that county.
When Thomas Dabney had been a widower about three years, he met at the county ball at King and Queen Court-House Miss Sophia Hill, the daughter of Mr. Charles Hill of that county. She was but sixteen years of age, and this was her first ball. All who saw her at that time say that she was one of the most beautiful creatures that the eye ever rested on. Her hair and eyes were of that rare tint called the poet's auburn, and her complexion was the fair, fine skin that is found only with such hair. Teeth of snow, a shapely head on lovely shoulders, hands and arms that might
have served as models for a sculptor, and a charming smile, and one of the sweetest voices in the world, made up a combination that is rarely met with. To this matchless beauty was joined a sunny, happy disposition and bright manner that made her irresistible in her youthful grace.
Thomas Dabney always said that he fell violently in love with her as soon as his eyes fell on her across the ball-room. He lost no time in securing an introduction, and before the evening was over he was resolved on winning this lovely girl for his wife. He found several formidable rivals in the way, but he was so fortunate as to win her young heart. He drove from his home in Gloucester to her father's home, Mantua, on the Matapony River, in King and Queen County, every two weeks during the two months' engagement. He went in his gig, with his body-servant following; on horseback. Each time he took a gift, - sometimes handsome jewelry, and at other times volumes of standard English authors.
On each alternate week he wrote a letter to her. None of these letters were answered. He looked for no acknowledgment, - his thought was that he was honored sufficiently by her receiving them. This he expressed many years after, in speaking of a nephew who had complained that his betrothed did not write as often as he did.
The marriage took place at the Mantua house, on the 26th of June, 1826. The ceremony was performed by the Rev. John Coles, in the midst of a large company of relatives and friends. One who saw the bride the next day said that as she sat in her soft white gown, with her fair hands crossed in her lap and a smile on the beautiful face, she was like the vision of an angel.
On that day Thomas took her home to Elmington. Her beauty and gentleness and modesty won the hearts of his friends. Mrs. Mann Page, of Gloucester, was celebrated for her beautiful hands, but after Sophia came, it was acknowledged that hers surpassed Mrs. Page's in beauty. She found Elmington full of her husband's servants, who had been accustomed to take
care of him during his life as a widower. She felt shy about taking things into her own hands, fearing to excite their jealousy, and she took no voice in the housekeeping for two years.
The butler, George Orris, was quite equal to the trust committed to him. It was only necessary to say to him that a certain number of guests were looked for to dinner, and everything would be done in a style to suit the occasion. George himself was said to know by heart every recipe in Mrs. Randolph's cookery-book, having been trained by that lady herself. Virginia tradition says that Mrs. Randolph had spent three fortunes in cooking. At the appointed hour, in knee-breeches and silk stockings and silver buckles, George came to announce that dinner was served.
George was so formidable in his dignity of office that the timid young wife stood quite in awe of him, and before she learned to know the good, kind heart that beat under that imposing appearance, was actually afraid to ask for the keys to get a slice of bread and butter in her husband's house. Some one asked George how he liked his new mistress. "I like her very much," was the reply, "only she wears her under petticoat longer than the top one." She was much amused on this being repeated to her, and explained that the white satin wedding-gown which George had seen her wear to her own dinner-parties was longer than the lace overdress that covered it. George was sincerely mourned at his death, which occurred a few years later.
The lady's-maid, Abby, whom Sophia found at Elmington, was in her department as accomplished and as faithful as George Orris was in his. She took the new mistress at once all over the house, giving her an inventory of everything that had been left in her care. In speaking of this afterwards, when both mistress and maid were grown old together, Sophia said that not even the smallest thing had been misappropriated by those honest hands.
On the 27th of March of the following year the first child was born. The happy parents gave him the name
of Charles. But the child lived only nine months. On Christmas-day, 1828, a second son was given to them, whom they named Thomas. Then followed James, another Charles and Virginius.
The life at Elmington was the ideal life of a Virginia gentleman. Elmington was situated on an arm of the Chesapeake Bay, the North River, in the county of Gloucester, that has so often been called the garden-spot of Virginia.
The house was of red brick, quaint and old-fashioned in design. It was built very near the water's edge. The lapping of the waves of the incoming tide was a sweet lullaby to the quiet scene, as the eye rested on the greensward of the lawn, or took in the bend of the river that made a broad sweep just below the Elmington garden. The North River is half a mile wide. On the other shore could be seen the groves and fields and gardens of the neighboring country-seats. The low grounds on the river-shore extend back a distance of a mile and three-quarters, and lie like a green carpet, dotted here and there with grand old forest-trees and corn, wheat, rye, and tobacco fields. Far as the eye can reach stretches this fair view around Elmington. And far over, beyond field and grove and creek, rises the line of soft, round hills that mark the highlands of Gloucester.
On the land side, the Elmington house was approached through the fields by a lane a mile and three-quarters long. It was broad enough to admit of three carriage-drives. Many of the lanes in Gloucester lie between avenues of cedar-trees, and the fields in most of the estates are divided by cedar-hedges. It was so on the Elmington lands.
About four miles inland from the North River, in a quiet spot, surrounded by venerable oak and pine and walnut and other native trees, stands old Ware Church. It was built in colonial times, and its age is unknown. It is nearly square in form, and altogether unlike the present style of church architecture in this country. But its ancient walls are churchly, and the look of unchangeableness is soothing to the spirit in this world
of unrest. This was the parish church attended by the North River people. The old pew-backs at that day were so high that the occupants were invisible to each other. Many of them might read the names of their deceased ancestors on the tombstones that served as a floor for the chancel. The floor of Ware Church was made of flagstones. Stoves were not then in use in churches, nor was any attempt made to heat them. Delicate people stayed at home in the winter, or had warming-pans of coals carried in by their servants to put to their feet.
Gloucester County had been settled by the best class of English people who came to this country, the younger sons of noble houses, and other men of standing, who were induced to make their homes over here by an inherent love of change, or because they had not the means to live in the mother-country in the extravagant style required by their station. These brought to their homes in the New World the customs and manners of the Old. The tone of society has always been truly English in Lower Virginia, the "tide-water country," as the people love to call it. Everybody kept open house; entertaining was a matter of course, anything and everything was made the occasion of a dinner-party. The country-seats were strung along the banks of the North River in a way to favor this. A signal raised on one could be seen for several miles up and down the river. If one of the colored fishermen, whose sole occupation was to catch fish for the table at the Great House, as they called their master's residence, succedeed in catching a sheep's-head, his orders were to run up a signal-flag. This was an invitation to dinner to every gentleman in the neighborhood. If a rabbit was caught the same rule was observed. Rabbits were not common, which seemed to be the pretext for this, for they were not really esteemed as a dainty dish. A rabbit was served up rather as a trophy of the hunt than as a part of the feast intended to be eaten. But the sheep's-head in those waters were not uncommon, and one was taken by the fisherman of one house or another nearly every day. At five minutes
before the time for dinner the gentlemen would would up, or come by boat to the door of the house that had the signal flying. If any one was unable to attend, his servant rode up promptly with a note of regrets. Punctuality in the observance of all the rules of courtesy and good breeding seemed inherent in the men and women in Gloucester society. In his Mississippi life Mr. Dabney was often annoyed by the different manners of his neighbors out there, very few of whom thought it necessary to send regrets or apologies when his invitations could not be accepted.
Old Bishop Moore would go two or three miles out of his way in order to spend a day or two at Elmington. One night at about ten o'clock, in the midst of a snowstorm, he drove up. A game of whist was going on in the dining-room. Mr. Dabney, hearing the sound of his carriage-wheels, went out to welcome the guest, and found the bishop and his daughter there. While he was helping the old gentleman to get out of his great-coat before taking him in to the dining-room, the company there were busy hiding away the cards. Meanwhile, Bishop Moore was telling him, with hands upraised, of the cause that had brought his daughter and himself out in such weather and at such an hour, - the people at whose house they had intended to sleep they had found engaged in a game of whist! Mr. Dabney roared with merriment in telling this story. "The bishop saw the devil behind every card," he always added.
At this time John Tyler, afterwards President of the United States, was among his intimate friends, and he wrote to ask if he could come to Elmington for a week of absolute rest and quiet. Upon the invitation being sent, he came, and his wishes were respected in the true Virginia manner of letting the guests of the house be happy and comfortable in their own way. He sat all day over his papers, no one being allowed to intrude on his privacy. Every evening, when he came down to dinner, he found a company invited to dine with him.
Augustine Dabney had married Miss Elizabeth Smith,
of Fredericksburg, and lived in Gloucester, back in the country some miles from the North River. Thomas's nearest neighbor and most valued friend was his father's half-brother, Dr. James Dabney. Living on adjoining estates, their homes were barely a stone's throw apart, and not many hours of the day passed without intercourse between the two houses. The uncle and nephew were congenial in many ways, and Sophia revered and loved Dr. Dabney like a father. Thomas's aptitude for medicine and surgery was at times so helpful to Dr. Dabney, that he fell into a way of calling on him frequently to assist him. He used to say that Thomas's soft hand and acute sense of touch enabled him at times to diagnose a case that would baffle a practitioner of considerable experience who was not possessed of these natural advantages. He always had him at hand in his surgical cases if possible, and thus, under this uncle, were renewed the lessons given by Dr. Smith. Dr. Dabney was a man made of no common clay. His hospitality was on so princely a scale that he made no charge for medical services to any stranger visiting his county, thus making the whole county of Gloucester his home. Although for many years a widower, with only two children, both sons, the arrangements of his home were set with a view to a large household. Everything was on a scale liberal even for Gloucester.
A lady now sixty-eight years of age writes thus of Dr. James Dabney: "He stood very high in his profession. He was a widower from my earliest recollection. He had a housekeeper and five servants, and entertained people by the score for months at a time. Even ladies used to stay there from cities."
His home, the Exchange, was seldom without its guests of a day, or a week, or many months. The ample fortune of the host justified the elegant hospitality of the house.
He had expended the whole of his patrimony during his five years at the medical school in Edinburgh. On his arrival in America, after graduating in medicine, he was obliged to borrow five hundred dollars in order to open his office as a practitioner of medicine at Gloucester
Court-House. It was not long before his ability brought him into a large practice, not only in Gloucester County, but he was called to Richmond, Norfolk, and other places as consulting physician.
In the midst of Dr. Dabney's busy professional life his friends and neighbors called on him to represent his county in the Virginia Legislature. This he refused to do, alleging that he had no time for political work. But they were so persistent that he finally yielded. He stipulated, however, that he would not make one electioneering visit or ask for a single vote. In this he remained firm, and even went so far as to absent himself from the polls on the day of election. He was elected by a large majority, and he served the term out. His county people tried hard to induce him to allow his name to appear a second time as a candidate for the Legislature. But he was not to be moved from his resolution of devoting himself henceforth to his profession.
The strong, character of Dr. James Dabney made its impress on Thomas. Doubtless he had inherited some of the traits with the blood of this large-souled uncle.
Dr. Dabney's views about his own interment were very simple. He required from his son James a promise to carry them out on his death, and his last wishes were respected. He was placed in a plain pine coffin, and no stone was set up to mark his grave. A brick wall saves it from desecration. Like his uncle, Thomas had a repugnance for costly and showy funeral trappings. He carried out these views in his own household. He always expressed a desire to be buried himself as he buried his loved ones, in a plain pine coffin. "That I may return as quickly as possible to the original elements in the bosom of the earth."
This taste was in accordance with the simplicity of character of the two men. They did nothing for show during their lifetime, and did not desire anything done for show over their ashes.
In colonial days a robe of silk was spun and woven for the Merrie Monarch in Gloucester County, and in
the garret of the Exchange the silk-worms spun the silk for two complete suits for General Washington. In color they wore gray. Thomas Dabney remembered seeing the silk-worms up there when a child, and his aunt Anderson, who presented these suits to General Washington, used occasionally to give him a cocoon for a plaything.
Thomas Dabney was interested in all that was going on in Virginia. He rode to Richmond frequently. When it was known that Watkins Leigh, or R. G. Scott, or the Stannards, or any other of the distinguished men of that day, were to engage in a debate, he was pretty sure to be there to hear them. Thomas was present at the famous dinner at Yorktown given in honor of the nation's guest, the Marquis de Lafayette. At the table he was placed next to George Washington Lafayette, who occupied the seat next to his father. It was in the month of October, and there was a small dish of red Antwerp raspberries sent by Mrs. Tayloe of Mount Airy. They came from her hot-houses, and were set before General Lafayette. The courteous gentleman leaned across his son and offered the berries to Thomas. He took two.
The story is still told in Gloucester of Thomas's capture of a man by the name of Crusoe, living in the lower part of the county. This man had acted for some years in open defiance of the oyster law. No sheriff had arrested him. He openly boasted that none should. Thomas had lately been elected to this office, and he determined to make an attempt to capture Crusoe. Summoning a posse of three of his neighbors, he proceeded in a boat down the river to Crusoe's schooner, that was lying out in York River. The schooner was well built and in stanch condition, while the boat which held Thomas and his friends was a wretched water-logged craft. As they drew near Crusoe's schooner, the sheriff called out to him to surrender. The only reply made to the summons was to cover the little boat of the sheriff and his party with an enormous old swivel-gun, and to warn them with an oath not to advance any nearer. Thomas held
a consultation with his friends, telling them that they must decide whether they were willing to approach the schooner under such circumstances. It was decided that it would be foolhardy to attempt to board a well-equipped boat when they were in a crazy thing that could not be managed in an emergency. So they went back home, leaving Crusoe master of the field for the time.
Ascertaining that Crusoe was in his house on a certain night, it was resolved to capture him there. Accordingly another posse was summoned, and Thomas and his four men rode to the man's house, a distance of about twelve miles. They surrounded the house, and the sheriff knocked at the door and demanded instant surrender. Crusoe's wife put her head out of the window up-stairs and said that her husband was in bed; that if Mr. Dabney would come upstairs alone and unarmed, he would give himself up. The posse objected to these conditions, and said that Mr. Dabney should at least be accompanied by one of them, or should wear his arms. But he called to the woman that he was ready and willing to come up on Crusoe's terms.
She came down then and unbarred the door, and he followed her up to the man's room. He gave himself up at once, and, at the sheriff's bidding, prepared to mount a horse and go with him as his prisoner. He was greatly dejected at the prospect of being thrown into prison to await his trial, and was very sulky as they rode along. The party did not stop till they had reached Elmington.
When dinner-time came, Thomas ordered dinner to be served to him, but he refused to eat. He had not tasted food the whole day. Thomas said to him, "Mr. Crusoe, would you like to go back to your wife tonight?" The man looked up quickly, his whole countenance changing. "I mean to put you on your honor," the sheriff continued. "You know that it is against the law for me to release you without bail. I will be your surety that you will be at Gloucester Court-House to pay the hundred dollars' fine in two weeks."
The man was much moved, and shed tears. The sheriff lent him his own horse to ride home. On the appointed day he was at the court-house with the hundred dollars in his hand. His gratitude to the man who had trusted him, one who had been an outlaw for years, made a changed man of him. He was ever after a law-abiding citizen, and was Thomas's stanch friend as long as he lived.
Crusoe passed away years ago, but his son, himself an aged man now, loves to tell the story of Mr. Dabney's trust of his father. This son asked Mr. James Dabney of the Exchange if he was a relative of the former sheriff, and on hearing that they were cousins, expressed his own gratitude and his father's for the confidence placed in him in the time of trouble. The fifty odd years that have passed since that time seem not to have obliterated it from the memory of the Crusoe family.
At the time when the negro rising known as the Southampton insurrection was threatened, Thomas received from Governor Floyd a commission of colonel of militia. He and his men kept their horses saddled and bridled in the stable every night for three weeks, ready for any alarm or emergency. He was an accomplished horseman, and sat his mettlesome, blooded stallion like a part of himself. A boy in the neighborhood, whom his father asked if he would like to go to the court-house to see Colonel Dabney's soldiers drill, said in reply that he would rather see Colonel Dabney on his horse at the head of his regiment than all the soldiers. This boy, now a gray headed man in Baltimore, delights yet in talking of those days. "When the drum and the fife struck up," he says, "that was the time that we boys had the fun. Colonel Dabney's horse sprang into the air and seemed hardly to touch the ground, and we wondered how he kept his seat."
On the night when it was understood that the negro rising was to take place he called his own negroes up, and put his wife under their charge, as his duty called him away from her. His charge to them was that not
only was she to be protected by them, but she was not even to be alarmed; and if harm befell a hair of her head, they should be held accountable for it. The negroes were faithful, and guarded the house all night long, and with so much tact and genuine affection that when Thomas Dabney returned to his home the next day, his wife was amazed to hear from his lips the story of the peril that she, along with every white woman in Gloucester, had passed through during the night.
It is a singular circumstance that, with the exception of the negroes on the Elmington place, not a negro man was to be found in Gloucester County on that night by the patrol. It was supposed that the daring spirits had gone to join in the uprising, while the timid ones had hidden themselves in the woods.
About the year 1835 a great many Virginians were induced to remove with their families to the far South. For several reasons Thomas began to consider the expediency of moving out to the then new country. He was considered one of the most successful wheat and tobacco farmers in his part of the State. But the expensive style of living in Gloucester began to be a source of serious anxiety. He knew that with a young and growing family to educate and provide for the difficulty would be greater each year. He felt also the increasing difficulty of giving to his Negroes the amount of nourishing food that he considered necessary for laboring people. In view of these facts, he made up his mind that he must leave his home in Virginia for a new one in the cotton-planting States.
Many and great were the regrets when it became known that Thomas Dabney had determined to leave Gloucester.
The farewell dinner given to him at the court-house was perhaps the most notable ever given within the limits of the county. A copy of the Richmond Enquirer, bearing date of September 22, 1835, contains the published account of the proceedings of the day, which is here inserted.
"To the Editors of the
Enquirer:
"GENTLEMEN, -
Under cover you have the proceedings which
occurred at a public dinner recently given by many citizens of this
county to Colonel Thomas S. Dabney, the insertion of which in
your paper of an early day is desired. I have the honor to be your
ob't serv't,
"JOHN TYLER.
"DEAR SIR, - On
behalf of many of the citizens of this county,
who have learned, with the deepest regret, your determination
shortly to leave Virginia for a residence in another State, we tender
you an invitation to a public dinner to be given at Gloucester Court-House, on such day, prior to your departure, as may best suit your
convenience. Those whom we represent are desirous of thus
publicly manifesting their respect towards you because of their high
estimate of your character as a man and your conduct as a citizen.
We trust that no consideration will induce you to hesitate in
yielding to their wishes, thereby affording them an opportunity,
which may never occur again, of shaking you cordially by the hand
and bidding you a warm and affectionate adieu.
"We feel ourselves honored in having been made the channel of
this communication, and subscribe ourselves, in all sincerity, your
faithful and sincere friends,
"WILLIAM ROBBINS, "COL. THOMAS S. DABNEY, Elmington.
"ELMINGTON, Sept. 8th, 1835.
"GENTLEMEN, - Your
greatly esteemed note of the 5th inst.
on behalf of many citizens of this county, tendering me a public
dinner, has been received. Deeply sensible as I am that the honor
proposed to be conferred upon me is immeasurably beyond my
merits, yet the footing upon which you have been pleased to place
my acceptance or refusal leaves me no alternative, for it is
impossible I can refuse my long-tried and best friends an
opportunity of bidding me adieu prior to my leaving the State;
and it might not become me to prescribe the mode. I therefore
accept the invitation of my Gloucester friends with profound
sensibility, not only for the distinguished and unexpected mark of
their affection and confidence which it bespeaks, but also for the
numberless obligations with which they have been loading me for
years past. If it should be agreeable to yourselves, gentlemen, and
those whom you represent, I will meet my friends on Saturday, the
12th inst.
I have the honor to be, gentlemen, with perfect respect and
esteem, your grateful friend,
THOMAS S. DABNEY
"TO CAPT. ROBBINS, COL. SMITH, GOV. TYLER, CAPT.
PAGE, and COL. CURTIS.
" 'Our guest, friend, and countyman, Colonel Thos. S. Dabney. His
departure from among us leaves a vacuum in our society not easily
to be filled. He will be to Mississippi what he has been to Virginia,
one of her most useful and valuable citizens.'
"After the applause which this sentiment elicited had subsided,
Colonel Dabney returned his thanks in a feeling and appropriate
address, of which we regret we are unable to furnish more than the
briefest outline. He expressed himself to be most deeply affected
by the kindness manifested towards him. The motive which had
led to this assemblage, the sentiment just uttered, and the warm
response with which it had met, the organ through whom it had
been announced, - all - everything was calculated to overpower him
with sensibility. He stood in the midst of long-tried friends, to whom
he was about to bid an affectionate and perhaps last farewell. He
was in the act of leaving his native home, and the land so dear to his
affections. Those considerations left him no voice to utter one-half
of what he felt. The prospect of bettering, in a worldly point of
view, the ultimate condition of his children had induced him
to seek a place of abode in another clime; and he would say
that if his humble bark, pushed out in what was to him an untried
ocean of adventure, could be used as a breakwater by those
who were here, or their children's children, when engaged in a
similar voyage, he would regard himself as most truly happy. He
added many other remarks, and concluded by offering the following
sentiment:
"By Colonel Thos. S. Dabney: 'The citizens of Gloucester
County, in the Old Dominion:
'
"Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see,
"By the
Vice-President: 'Our friends emigrating from the County
of Gloucester: Health, prosperity and happiness attend them.'
"By Captain P. E. Tabb: 'Our Guest: May the people destined to
be his future associates know his virtues and appreciate his merits,
as do the warm hearts met this day to testify their love and respect
for him.'
"By the Vice-President: 'Our Guest, Robert Nicholson: A worthy
son of the ancient dominion.'
"Mr. Nicholson expressed his grateful thanks for the notice
that had been thus taken of him.
"By Mr. Nicholson: 'The State of Virginia - the land of my
forefathers. My greatest boast shall ever be that I was born a
Virginian.'
"By Colonel Thomas Smith: 'Our friends Thomas Dabney,
Richard R. Corbin, and Benj. F. Dabney: They possess our love
and respect, and when they move from among us we shall not forgot
them.'
"By Wade Mosby, Esq.: 'The memory of the late Philip Tabb,
one of Gloucester's best benefactors.'
"Mr. Mosby preceded this by remarks expressing his great
veneration for the character of Mr. Tabb, which called for an
acknowledgment from Mr. Philip E. Tabb, as the representative of
the family, which was rendered after the most feeling manner.
"By C. S. Jones, Esq.: 'Colonel Thomas S. Dabney: May the
star which guides his destiny lead him and his to prosperity, to
everlasting peace and happiness.'
"By John P. Scott, Esq.: 'Mrs. Thomas Dabney, to whom may be
applied the words of the noble Cornelia, when inquired for her
jewels, pointing to her sons, "These are they." ' Mrs. Dabney's
name was received with long-continued applause.
"By John R. Cary, Esq.: 'The State of Mississippi: She will ere
long contain some of Virginia's most noble sons; she will not fail to
cherish and honor them.'
"By Richard Morriss, Esq.: 'Hinds County of Mississippi: A
State within itself, - Jackson, the seat of government; Clinton, the
seat of science; Raymond, the seat of justice; and Amsterdam, the
port of entry.'
"By Andrew Van Bibber, Esq.: 'Augustine L. Dabney: Though
not with us, not forgotten; one worthy of all remembrance.'
"By A. L. Byrd, Esq.: 'Colonel Thos. S. Dabney: I have known
him for seventeen years; if he has any superior in those qualities
that adorn a man, I should like to see him.'
"By John T. Seawell, Esq.: 'Wyndham Kemp, and those of our
fellow-countrymen who will soon join him: May God remember me
as I remember them.'
"By Dr. P. R. Nelson: 'Virginia: I can never leave thee or forsake
thee, -
'
"The bridegroom may forget his bride
"By Robert Tyler,
Esq.: 'The Emigrants: With sorrow and
regret we part with our fellow-countrymen; but if they will go,
we pray God speed them.'
"By C. S. Jones: 'We lose in our friend Colonel Dabney one
of Virginia's most valued sons; but no matter where his destiny
may be cast, his motto will still be "States rights forever." '
"By Wade Mosby, Esq.: 'The memory of Thomas T. Tabb,
late of Todsbury: Hospitable, generous Virginian, - who that knew
thee does not mourn over thy grave, and shed tears for thy too
early death?'
"By J. S. Cary, Esq.: 'Wyndham Kemp, Esq., of Raymond
Mississippi: Though far away, thou art not forgot.'
"By A. L. Byrd, Esq.: 'Richard R. Corbin and Dr. Benjamin
F. Dabney: They are about to leave us, with our friend Colonel
Dabney, - may Heaven crown their efforts with success.'
"By John Tyler, Esq.: 'The good old County of Gloucester:
Her name is identified in history with the names of Nathaniel Bacon
and John Page, of Rosewell. The one resisted the arbitrary acts of a
king's governor, the other of a king. Let us cherish their names and
emulate their virtues.'
"By John T. Seawell, Esq.: 'Mrs. Thomas Dabney: "Take her for
all in all these eyes shall never look upon her like again." '
"Numerous other sentiments were given, which unfortunately did
not reach the chair, and the day concluding, terminated a feast as
full of reason and the flow of soul as ever it has been our good
fortune to witness."
The ancestors of both Thomas and Sophia Dabney
had been slave-owners. The family servants, inherited for
generations, had come to be regarded with great affection,
and this feeling was warmly returned by the negroes. The
bond between master and servant was, in many cases, felt
to be as sacred and close as the tie of blood.
During the course of years many of the Elmington
negroes had intermarried with the negroes on neighboring
estates.
When the southern move was decided on, Thomas
called his servants together and announced to them his
intention to remove, with his family, to Mississippi. He
further went on to say that he did not mean to take one
unwilling servant with him. His plan was to offer to buy all
husbands and wives, who were connected with his
negroes, at the owners' prices, or he should, if his people
preferred, sell those whom he owned to any master or
mistress whom they might choose. No money difficulty
should stand in the way. Everything should be made to
yield to the important consideration of keeping families
together.
Without an exception, the negroes determined to follow
their beloved master and mistress. They chose rather to
give up the kinspeople and friends of their own race than
to leave them.
Mammy Harriet says of this time, "Master was good all
de time. He do all he could to comfort he people. When he
was gittin' ready to move to Mississippi, he call 'em all up,
an' tell 'em dat he did not want anybody to foller him who
was not willin'. He say, all could stay in Figinny, an' dey
could choose dey own marsters to stay wid. Ebery one o'
he own, and all who b'long to de odder members o' de
fambly who was wid him, say dey want to foller him, 'ceptin'
'twas two ole people, ole gray-headed people, who was too
ole to trabble. An' dey was de onliest ones leff behind on
dat plantation, an' dey did cry so much I did feel so sorry
for dem. I couldn't help cryin', I feel so sorry. Our people
say, 'Ef you got a husband or a wife who won't go to
Mississippi, leff dat one behind. Ef you got a good marster,
foller him.' My husband b'long to Cappen Edward Tabb, an'
marster went dyar twice to try to buy him. But Cappen Tabb
say dat no money couldn't buy him from him. Den Mrs.
Tabb say dat she would buy me, an' two odder people dyar
wanted to buy me too. But I say 'No, indeed! Go 'long! I
shall foller my marster.' My sister want to go wid marster,
too. She had five chillen dat was goin' wid
him. I was standin' by marster when he talk to dey father,
my brer Billy. He say, 'Billy, your children shall not lack for
father and mother. I will be both father an' mother to them.'
I heerd him say dat myself, an' he did it too."
The five brothers and sisters were ever favorite and
trusted servants. I did not know till I heard this account
from Mammy Harriet the special reason of their being
favored above others. I often heard my father speak of
them very affectionately. One day he said that he had
never had occasion to punish one of them but once, when
the girl had frightened the baby Virginius by telling him
that a lion would catch him. "I hated to punish one of
that truthful, honest family," he said; "but my orders had
always been that no child of mine should be frightened
by any one, and I could not pass it over."
When it was resolved to leave Virginia, the baby boy
was named Virginius, after the beloved State that had
given birth to his ancestors. This child, the youngest of
four brothers, was but six months old when, in September,
1835, the long journey southward was begun.
Sophia's father and mother and her two sisters, one,
married to Mr. Lewis Smith, with her husband and
two children, Augustine Dabney, with his wife and
family, and other kinsfolk and friends had become
quite infatuated with the desire to go with Thomas
to Mississippi, and a number of these arranged to
undertake the move along with him. Mr. Charles
Hill took charge of the carriages that held the white
families, while Thomas had the care of the negroes
and wagons. The journey was made with so much
care and forethought that not a case of serious
illness occurred on the route. The white families
were quartered at night, if practicable, in the houses
that they found along the way. Tents were provided
for the negroes. The master himself, during the
entire journey, did not sleep under a roof. The
weather was perfect: no heavy rains fell during the
two months. He wrapped himself in his great-coat,
with sometimes the addition of a
blanket, and slept all night in their midst, under one of the
travelling wagons.
One of the first nights on the road was spent at the house of
Thomas's cousin, Mr. Thornton, of King William County. The
cousins had never met, but Mr. Thornton, hearing that the
moving families were to pass by his gate, sent to beg that his
kinspeople would stop in their journey for a day or two and
refresh themselves under his roof. Thomas sent Mr. and Mrs. Hill
and Sophia and the children to accept this hospitality, feeling
unwilling himself to leave the large number of negroes under his
care for even one night. Those who were entertained by Mr.
Thornton greatly enjoyed it. It was a regret to Thomas not to
meet this kinsman of his father's. This regret was greatly increased
when, during the Confederate war, he learned of the death in his
country's cause of a noble scion of this house, the lamented
Colonel Thornton, known and beloved as "Jack Thornton."
My dear father was very fond of recounting anecdotes and
incidents, especially in his table-talk, of brave and generous and
honorable deeds. At such times his eye kindled, and his whole
face glowed with the intensity of his feeling. It was quite
impossible for a young person to look at him, and to hear his
words and tones, without an aspiration to be worthy of such
commendation.
The stern incorruptibility of his wife's father was a theme on
which he had talked with earnest enthusiasm to his children. He
was very fond of relating an occurrence that took place on the
journey from Virginia to Mississippi. Somewhere in the
mountains of Tennessee one of my grandfather Hill's carriage-horses
had fallen ill, and was quite incapable of proceeding farther.
Thomas set about to look for a substitute; meanwhile trying such
rememdies as he could think of for the ailing horse. While he was
standing by the beast, a countryman rode up on a fine, powerful
horse. At once Thomas inquired if he would sell him. To his
surprise, the man answered immediately that he would exchange
his horse for the sick one, if ten dollars were added. The
bargain was made in a few minutes. Then Thomas said to the man,
"Now you have the money, there can be no objection to your
telling me the fault in this vigorous young creature, that looks
to me like a very valuable horse."
"I will tell you what is his fault," the countryman answered.
"He is very good for some things, - for drawing in double or
single harness, and for a saddle too, and he ain't got no
tricks. He is as gentle as a cat. But he won't tote double. Me and
my old 'oman wants to go to meetin', that's the main thing that
we wants a horse for, and he won't tote us both. That's the
reason that I want your horse. I ken cure him very soon. Thar
ain't much the matter with him." But the man was mistaken. In a
few hours the sick carriage-horse was dead, never having moved
from the spot where he had been sold and bought.
The next day Mr. Hill, who had fallen somewhat behind, came
along over the same road. He saw the great, hulking mountaineer
weeping bitterly by the side of a dead horse, which he at once
recognized as his own. He stopped and inquired into the case,
and the man related the transaction, attaching no blame to any
one. He had made his own terms, and had been quite elated with
his bargain until he found that none of his nostrums, in which he
had so confidently trusted, availed anything.
Mr. Hill rode forward to Thomas and desired him to return at
once, and to see that the man was quite satisfied before leaving
him. This Thomas did. The man said that five dollars more "in
United States money" would compensate him for the loss that he
had sustained, and his tears were dried in a moment when this
was handed to him. Tennessee was in those days but sparsely
settled, and the simple country people were delighted to receive
travellers, and to give them the best that the land produced,
almost considering themselves repaid by the pleasure of their
company. At one house, after a bountiful supper on chickens,
eggs, butter, cream, honey, and other country delicacies, for
which the price charged was so insignificant as to seem
quite absurd, our travellers asked what the charge would
be if they spent a week there. Mine host replied that he
could hardly say, that he had had but one boarder. This
boarder had come to spend a week, but had stayed on and
on till two months were passed, and he had thought that
one dollar a week was about the right thing to charge him.
His horse, he added, had cost him nothing, and so there
had been no charge made for him, and he had kept fat on
the mountain pastures.
"We leff in September, when dey was pullin' fodder, an' we
get to Mississippi three weeks to Christmas. Missis had so
much patience wid her chillun. Sometimes she gib 'em one
pat wid her low slipper. One pat was 'nuff. I say, ef I had all
dem chillun I should knock some on 'em in de head wid de
odders. On dat road I come to somethin' what I nebber see
before; it 'twas a log town. All de houses was made out o'
logs; all 'ceptin' de court-house. Dat was weather-boarded.
I dunno whar 'twas. I nebber 'quire 'bout dat. 'Twas somewhar
'tween Mississippi an' de old country. We got to de Injun
chief's. And de young Injuns come from de muster. Dey
had on dey muster-close, and dey had on de appleettes on
dey shoulders and do silver ban's on de hats. Dey was de
grummest people what I ebber see. Dey look mad as de
ole scratch. I thought cert'inly dey would speak to your pa,
but dey didn't dat! Dey was de savagest-lookin' people. But
dey was sosherble wid your our pa, an' gib him de liberty o'
lettin' us hab some lumber to fix a place to sleep. Dey was
de headest people what I ebber see. We
women buss out larffin' when we hear 'em talk. Dey was
mighty savage people. We butt up wid a whole parcel on
'em ebery day. Dyar was mos' as many o' dem trabellin' as
dyar was o' us. I was 'feared on 'em. I nebber see a yeller
Injun before. In Figinny dey was dark. De wife o' de chief
ask marster to let her hab de ferry-boat to go to see her
sick daughter. He had 'gaged it to tik us over. He say
'certainly.'
"One day a beggar come 'long, an' master gib her five
dollars. Your pa was always good; good to everybody.
"Marster was so good to us. He do eberything on dat
journey dat was for our good.
"Marster do all he could to comfort he people.
"He buy fresh meat, salt fish, eberything. Ef he see a
turnip-patch or cabbages or apples or 'taters, he say, 'Go
on, see if you can get these things.' Sometimes dey gib 'em
to us, sometimes we buy. One ole man say, 'I want a 'oman
to live wid me. Don't you think your marster would let me
have a 'oman or a chile ? I would like to buy you. You seem
to be a very likely 'oman.'
" 'Buy who! buy me!' " And as my dear old black
mammy recalls this insult to herself and to her honored
master, her dim eyes kindle, her voice is full of suppressed
feeling, her frame at its height, her manner such as might
become an enraged pythoness. " 'No, not one! Don't you
know marster don't want to sell none o' his people? We are
follerin' our marster. We ain't no nigger-traders. No, when
marster sell any o' his people 'tis 'cause he is made to do it.
'Tis 'cause he cyarn't do nothin' wid 'em himself.' *
"We did live like princes, I can tell you. Sich a cookin'! sich
a cookin'! We bile greens an' eberything. We live good; we
did that. We didn't want for nothin'. All had umberillas, ebery
one, an' when it rain you see all dem umberillas go up.
* Mammy's testimony here is pathetic. One of
the four negroes
whom her master sold was her son.
"Marster did eberything to comfort he people on comin'
to Mississippi, eberything to comfort 'em.
"Marster gib we all new fryin'-pans an' buckets for de
journey. De big famblys he gib two buckets to. You see we
sell all our things. We git good prices for em, too, 'fore we
leff Figinny. He gib me one bucket. Dey make me very mad,
'cause dey tik my bucket to water de horses and de muels an'
eberything. I say 'Who got my bucket?' Eberybody say, 'I
dunno.' So I say, 'Lem my bucket alone; marster done gib it
to me. Nobody sharn't hab it.' Den one day I was settin'
down, an' my bucket was by me, an' de oberseer or some o'
de white folks sen' for my bucket. I say, 'Lem my bucket 'lone.
I don't keer who wants it. Marster gib it to me. Ef he want it
he ken hab it, but nobody else.' Den de oberseer come an'
say, 'Harriet, give me that bucket.' 'I won't. It is mine. Marster
gib it to me.' Den he went to marster an' tole him dat I say
dat. Den marster say, 'You let Harriet alone; let her bucket
alone, every one of you. Do not touch it.'
"When we come to Raymond marster say, 'This is the
last town. If you want to buy anything, go in an' buy.'
"So we all 'cluded cat, seein' 'twas de las' town, we
would go in an' buy. I went in an' buy cups an' saucers an'
plates an' coffee-pot an' things. Den when we got to de
Burleigh land we was all right. I was jes' as well satisfied as
eber I was in ole Figinny jes' as soon as I got settled."
Mammy Harriet's testimony of the life and character of
her master, taken down in the freshness of her grief for his
loss, is not arranged with any system. It seems best to set
it down just as she said it. She grew up with him. They
were never separated until the last few years of his life,
when he had not the means of supporting his faithful old
servants about his person. He did not fail to provide her
with such comforts as he was able to pay for as long as he
lived. "Law, I tells eberybody dat mammy is jes' as well off
as she was in slave'y times," her daughter has said, in seeing
clothing and provisions sent to her mother at stated
intervals. "Law, mammy don't hab no trouble like we all,
'cuz de white folks don't forgit her."
"I hates to talk 'bout him," she says, with a groan. "When
I hear 'bout it I thought 'twould hab kilt me. I nebber had
such feelin's before. I cyarn't 'spress what I did feel 'bout it.
Oh, my good marster is in glory, but we couant help missin'
him; we couant help it. I nebber was so surprised in my life
as when I hear 'bout it. It make me sick an' nervous to talk
about him an' about dem times; but for de satisfaction ob
you all I talk 'bout him.
"Ain't you ebber see your grandma, honey? She always
was pretty, honey, a mighty pretty 'oman. She had black
hyar an' eyes. Your pa was like her in dat. An' she had a
noble 'pearance. Marster was like her in dat. He move to
what dey call de Shipyard from Bellevue. We didn't live
dyar no time, 'cordin' to my understandin'. Dat's what de
ole people tell me. I don't 'member 'nuthin' 'bout it. Dat was
'fore we move to Elmin'ton.
"I had a weddin' - a big weddin' - for Marlow's kitchen.
Your pa gib me a head weddin, - kilt a mutton - a round o'
beef - tukkeys - cakes, one on t'other - trifle. I had all de
chany off de sideboard, cups an' saucers, de table, de white
table-cloth. I had on your pa's wife's weddin' gloves and
slippers an' veil. De slippers was too small, but I put my
toes in. Miss Mary had a mighty neat foot. Marster
brought out a milk-pail o' toddy an' more in bottles. De
gentlemans an' marster stand up on de tables. He didn't
rush 'mongst de black folks, you know. I had a tearin'-down
weddin', to be sho'. Nobody else didn't hab sich
a weddin'. Yes, Sis Abby hab a mighty nice weddin',
too, - cakes an' things, - a handed roun' supper, you
see. Marster promised de first one what git married
arter he did a tearin'-down weddin', an' I was de fust.
De whole day 'fore I was to be married Miss Mary - dat
was your pa fust wife - kep' me shut up in a room.
'A bride must not be seen,' she said. An' she wouldn't
lemme come out to dinner, but she sent my dinner in
to me on a plate. De nex' mornin' I went to marster's an' Miss
Mary's room 'fore dey was up. 'Who is that?' she say. I say,
'Harriet.' 'Good-morning, Mrs. Bride. I wish you joy, and every
year a son or a daughter.'
"Oh, yes, I'se been
see good times!
"In dem days I always
dress my hyar very fine an' wear a high
top comb in it.
"I don't nebber 'spect
to see no sich times again.
"Miss Mary was a lady to de tips o' her toes. She hab de most
beautifullest walk dat eber I see. I used to love to see her walk
off. I neber see nobody walk like her.
"I want to tell you how good marster was to his people in
Figinny. De people would ketch a few oysters ebery day, an' by
Sadday dey would hab a heap o' oysters piled up on de bank.
Den dey would go to marster an' say, 'Marster, I'se got a heap o'
oysters dat I would like to sell.' 'Very well,' he would say, 'go
along and take the cart and mule and take your oysters around and
sell them.' In de harves'-time he had two waitmans to wait on de
people who was cuttin' de wheat and de barley. An' dese two
waitmans dey had two gre't harmper-baskets full o' bottles o'
whiskey, - a pint for ebery man an' half a pint for ebery 'oman.
An' dey used to larf an' say to de young gals, 'You young gals
ought not to drink whiskey so; you ought to put water in it.' But
de young gals always tik de whiskey.
"Me an' Sis Patsy was de milkers, and Miss Mary used to
say, 'You young girls * must not drink whiskey in
that way.' So
she always put mine an' Sis Patsy's in a pail, an' put water an'
sugar in it, an' gib it to us so. You see, we was house-servants.
She was a good lady, mighty good, - sich a good missis.
"When de harves' was gathered, de dinner for de black people
was cooked in de kitchen, - same as for de gre't folks, - all sorts
o' nice things. She would go out den an' cut off de house-servants'
dinners. Ef there
* In quoting her master and mistress, Mammy
generally used correct
language.
was a piece o' spoiled meat she would say, 'Throw that out to
the dogs. That is not fit for people to eat.' She had a big chany
bowl, an' if a roach fell in it, she had ebery drop o' de molasses
throwed out. She say, 'That is not fit for the servants to eat.
They shall not eat it.' She nebber let her people eat what she
would not eat.
"Dey had big doin's, I know, when your our ma was married,
'cause Mrs. Hill was a stawmped down fine lady, - a lady from
de crown o' her head to de bottom o' her foot.
"In your pa house de servants eat dinner after de marster
an' de missus eat, - de same things as dey eat. Uncle George sot
de table for de servants to eat. Dyar was plenty on 'em. Dey
come wid dey marsters an' missises. Mr. Root come in carriage an'
four an' three servants. He nebber trabble wid less. De maid sot
by he side in de big carriage, an' de man ride postillion, an' de
biggest gre't dinners, gent'mans! George Orris was de cook for
dese big dinners. He tik apples or oranges either an' he cut
handles an' figgers an' preserve 'em. He feed de tuttles out in de
ribber whar he tie 'em. He mik four dishes out o' one
tuttle, - forcemeat balls an' things. Mammy can't 'member all de
names o' de dishes. De day dat tuttle was cooked de people come
fo' what was out! He mik a fine dish out o' chicken-foots an'
heads, - fricassee 'em.
"When we fust come out to dis country, Mississippi, marster
made de ploughers tik out de muels at eleven o'clock. An' he
didn't 'low 'em to put 'em back 'fore three o'clock, an' nobody
worked in dem hours. I s'pose dat was to get us used to de new
country. Oh, no, we was nebber hurried. Marster nebber once
said, 'Get up an' go to work,' an' no oberseer ebber said it, neither.
Ef some on 'em did not git up when de odders went out to work,
marster nebber said a word. Oh, no, we was nebber hurried.
"In later times our ploughers and de odders worked till twelve
o'clock, an' den dey tik out de muels an' eberybody sot down
to eat an' res' till three o'clock. Sometimes when we was all
settin' roun' one would say to de odder, 'Come, le's we git up
an' go to work.
We hab been settin' here long 'nuff.' But marster nebber
said sich a thing. In dem days some o' de people used to
obersleep deyselves. We used to larf so much at 'em;
'speshully at Sarah, my brer Billy's daughter. Marster would
nebber hab no horn to wake us up. When one oberseer
come dyar wid he horn, marster soon put a stop to dat. He
said, 'I do not keep hounds to be called up with horns.'
Sarah was a gre't hand to obersleep herself, an' marster
didn't nebber let nobody call her, nor any o' de odders what
obersleep dyselfs. He say, 'Don't trouble them. They cannot
help that.' An' to dem he would say, 'Ef you don't wake up till
twelve o'clock, get up and come out to work then. Don't
stay at home and say that you are sick, because I don't
blame you.' Sometimes I would not get through givin' out de
buttermilk to all de little black chillun, en' dat was 'bout
eleven o'clock or twelve o'clock, an' I would see marster an'
Sarah goin' out to de fiel' together. An' we would all larf at
Sarah, and she would say, 'What you all larffin' 'bout? Go
'long. You do like you ain't got no sense. You fools, go
'long.' Sometimes we larf 'bout dat to dis day wid Sarah, an'
we set an' talk 'bout it. You ken ask her, an' she will tell you
jes' what I tell you 'bout it.
"Yes, honey, dat he did gib us Fourth o' July, - a plenty
o' holiday, - a beef kilt, a mutton, hogs, salt and pepper, an'
eberything. He hab a gre't trench dug, en' a whole load o'
wood put in it, an' burned down to coals. Den dey put
wooden spits across, an' dey had spoons an' basted de
meat, an' he did not miss givin' us whiskey to drink, - a plenty
of it, too. An' we 'vite all de culled people aroun', an' dey
come, an' we had fine times. Our people was so good, and
dey had so much. Dyar warn't no sich people no whyar.
Marster mus'n't be named de same day as udder people.
Our people want to help de poor critters what didn't hab
nuthin'; dey saved it up for dem. Marster 'lowed us to hab
meetin', just as much meetin' as we choose. A heap o'
people didn't let dey people hab meetin'; didn't like for dem
to visit an' see udder people. Marster warn't dat way. We
went 'bout.
" 'Fore we got
'quainted at de Pass, * marster used to
tell brer Harrison to tik de carriage-horses an' put 'em
to de wagon Sunday evenin's, an' drive we all out down
de street, down town. Oh, we was big bugs in dem
days, an' we sot up dyar in de wagon; who but we?
An' we did hab nice times. And you chillun would
say 'I want to go with mammy, I want to go with
mammy,' an' we would tik you little ones an' dress
you up an' tik you 'long, too. An' afterwards, when
we got 'quainted, de culled gent'mans would 'vite we
all to de ice-cream an' things. An' marster made brer
Harrison carry us dyar in de wagon. 'Twas 'bout a
mile. An' we had cake, - currant cake, plain cake, dis
here iced cake - all kind o' nice things. An' how we
did 'joy ourselves! An' do you 'member de green
oranges, jes' turnin', dat Mrs. Henderson let her people
gib to us? Law, I did drink so much o' dat orangeade.
Mrs. Henderson was so good to her people. An' we
used to go down dyar to de Pint, all dressed up an' set
back on dem pleasurin' benches. Mrs. Henderson had
a big watermillion patch ebery year, an' she let her
people hab all dey want. An' dey cut a heap ov 'em
for we all, an' we sot back on dem benches an' we eat
jes' as long as we could. Oh, I'se been see good times!
"An' de fish. Don't you 'member all de fish dat
marster gib us? On de first day always when we got
to de Pass, marster stop at de fish-house, when we was
passin' thro' de town, an' buy a gre't long string o' gre't
big fish, - all sorts, croakers an' mullet, an' all sorts, - so
he hab to gib to 'em all. He say, 'Here, take those
home an' cook them for your dinners, but don't make
yourselves sick.' An' we did eat fish three times a
day, an' sometimes four times. Your pa always buys
de best ob eberything for us. Ebery mornin' he go
out fishin' at de Pass in he canoe, an' he ketch 'bout
half a bushel o' fish. Marster used to buy fine sweet
potatoes for all his people in trabellin' to de Pass, an'
at night he put he head out o' de tent an' say, 'Beverly,
don't make yourself sick on potatoes, so that you
* Pass Christian, on the Gulf of Mexico.
will not be able to travel in the morning.' An' Bebly say,
'Yes, sir.' An' all dat time he had a spiderful o' potatoes
settin' by him, an' jes' as soon as he got thro' wid one
spiderful he put anudder in de fire.
This Beverly, who was one of the wagon-drivers, was a
great favorite with my father. I have heard him say, as
Beverly's merry laughter sounded over field and wood, - for
I never heard any laugh quite so careless or so
astoundingly loud as this gay fellow's, - "Well, I do enjoy
hearing that." The trip to the Pass was a gala time to
Beverly, as to all the other servants who were taken, about
nine or ten. The white family still recall with amusement the
contest as to who could eat the greater number of fish on
the day of the arrival at the Pass. Mammy Maria, one of our
dear nurses, of whom much is said in these memorials, and
her brother Beverly usually carried off the palm, he having
been known to eat at the first meal fourteen silver trout and
she thirteen.
"Oh, de Sundays, when all de people dress up in dey
finery, an' come thro' de gate, an' walk thro' de yard an' pass
by de porch whyar all do family was settin'! How dey
switch by! Don't you 'member Phoebe? She twis', she twis',
en' she twis'. You see brer Aaron come down from
Raymond ebery Sadday, an' de nex' mornin' he say, 'Gals,
lemme show you de steps de town ladies tik.' Den he put he
hand 'hin' he back, an he twis' heself, and we larf 'twell we
cry. Dyar's whar Phoebe ketch de step. Brer Aaron was
mighty funny.
"We buy things at Christmas ef we choose, but ef we
didn't choose to do dat, we had things. We was given flour
an' sugar an' coffee an' butter an' whiskey an things. De
sick people call for anything dey want, any time, en' missis
sont it to de quarters
"Joe Nelson was at de Pass, wukkin' on de house down
dyar, an' my aunt, Grannie Harriet, ask marster to send for
him, 'cause she want to see him. She 'peared to know dat
she was gwyne to die. * Marster
* Joe was her adopted son. The Pass was two
hundred miles from
Burleigh.
send for him right off, an' he hadn't been at home more dan
three day s 'fore grannie was struck wid paralysis. I was
settin' wid her, and she was on de bed, an' she look mighty
strange all on a sudden. I thought she was dyin'. I run to de
house to missis. Marster was out in de fiel'. I tell missis dat I
thought Grannie Harriet was dyin'. Missis put on her
bonnet an' went to her jes' as fast as she could. When
grannie see her she could not speak, but she hold out both
arms to her. Missis run into her arms an' bust out cryin'. She
put her arms roun' grannie's neck, an' grannie could not
speak, but de big tears roll down her cheeks. An' so she die.
"I often begged marster to let a funeral sermon be preached
over grannie, but he always say, 'No, Harriet, I do not know
anybody good enough to preach a sermon over her.' "
I remember well the death of this aged servant. The
master himself led the funeral procession, and all his
children followed the coffin as mourners. He ordered out
the whole plantation, every one who could walk, and every
man, woman, and child carried a torch. The sound of the
mournful funeral hymn, and the blazing of the many
torches, as we wound down the road to the dark shades of
the burying-ground, made a painful impression on me as a
child, and caused many a secret tear. I wished much to be
excused from going to the funeral; but the master seemed
unapproachable in his grief, and I was afraid of incurring
his displeasure if he should discover that I was unwilling to
pay what he considered fitting respect to the memory of
this trusted friend.
His mother had given her to him with the words, "You
can trust her in everything. She has never told me an
untruth or even prevaricated in her life."
It is recorded of Grannie Harriet that when the wagons
drew up at the new home place on the Burleigh plantation,
and she looked around at the rude accommodations, she
asked, "And is dis what my marster left Gloucester for?"
The master ever treated her as a member of the
family. His daily habit on his return from the fields at mid-day was to dismount at her grate and to sit laughing and
talking with her for a half-hour. He consulted her about his
plantation affairs as he did no one else, and her judgment
was so sound that he relied on it. He missed her much after
her death. No one ever filled her place with him either as
adviser or friend. Our childish associations with Grannie
Harriet were delightful. She petted and spoiled us to our
hearts' content, and could not bear to have any fault found
with us.
Especially at Christmas did we delight in going to her to
beg for cake and other dainties. Mamma took care that she
should have a good store on hand; and we, who knew
nothing of this, praised grannie's things, and found them
ever so much nicer than anything to be gotten at the
"great house."
Sometimes we were allowed, as a very great treat, to
wrap up in sheets and go to grannie's house to frighten
her. Her feigned terror at the sight of the band of little
ghosts filled us with rapture, only equalled by that we felt
when, on suddenly dropping the sheets, we heard
grannie's exclamation of astonishment that the master s
children were playing such pranks on her.
She lived alone. We were not allowed to visit any of the
other servants with such freedom. Her master said that he
would be proud to hang her portrait in his drawing-room in
such esteem and affection did he hold her.
Owing to the delay with the sick horse, which was at the
time looked on as an unmixed evil, the travellers did not
reach the Mississippi plantation till two weeks later than
had been calculated on. When they got shore they found
that the log houses in which they had expected to find
shelter till better could be provided had been completely
demolished by a cyclone. They were but a heap of timbers
lying on the ground. Had they reached this place at the time
set for their arrival they would have been in these houses,
and could scarcely have escaped with their lives, for the
cyclone had passed over in the night.
Thomas looked at the wreck and remembered his
annoyance at the delay to which, under Providence, he
owed their safety. The scene made an impression that was
life-long. It influenced his character. It gave him a belief in
a special Providence that was ever afterwards unshaken.
His trust in the wisdom and goodness of God was from
that hour so strong that he never for a moment doubted it.
Under no circumstances was a murmur or anything
approaching to it ever heard to escape his lips. Not even
by a wish would he imply that he could desire the decrees
of Providence altered.
One of the farmers whose lands he had bought, and
who had not yet moved out of his house, was able to
spare a few rooms for the white families, and the marquees
were pitched for the negroes. All hands were set to work
to build houses.
In selecting his plantation, Thomas showed his usual
sound judgment in practical matters. It comprised four
thousand acres in a compact body, not all bought at one
time, but as he saw opportunity to secure the property of
small farmers whose land adjoined his. In this way he
shaped his place to suit himself; and it was characteristic of
his exact methods that after making his final purchase the
section lines fell so as to form an almost exact square, with
Tallahala Creek crossing it diagonally from northeast to
southwest. The lowland bordering the creek, called "The
Bottom," was inexhaustibly fertile, and ensured heavy
crops in the dryest season. From the creek-bottom the land
gradually rises and runs back in a series of hills and
plateaus. Those not already cleared for cultivation were
covered with a magnificent growth of timber, - oaks of
many species, yellow pine, hickory, elm, sweet-and black-gum,
besides countless other trees and shrubs of less
value. Walnut-trees of magnificent size, magnolia, beech,
and laurel grew on the banks of the creek.
Crops raised on the bills flourished best in wet weather;
so with the admirable diversity of soil on the plantation
there was never a failure of a whole crop in the most
unfavorable season.
The land was well watered throughout by Tallahala Creek, with
its tributary branches, Indian Jumper and Snake Creek, and a
number of smaller bayous. In the hills springs bubbled out, giving
rise to spring "branches," which did not go dry in the most prolonged
drought. There was always pasturage for cattle along these water-courses,
and in the bitterest cold of winter they found abundant green
food in the canebrakes of the creek. In this mild climate many
wild flowers adorn the fields and woods till late in the fall. Tiny
blue innocents dot the grass as early as January. Later come wild
violets, roses, the wild lily, rhododendron, clematis, woodbine,
snap-dragon, and a host of flowering trees, shrubs, and vines. Among
these we find the red-bud, maple, dogwood, crab-apple, hawthorn,
and wild peach; but supreme in beauty and in fragrance we have the
yellow jasmine. It is the crown and glory of Southern woods,
throwing its drapery of golden bells over trees and shrubs for
whole acres.
It was Thomas's plan in the management of this large estate to
bring under cultivation a certain portion of new land every year.
His rule was to clear one hundred acres each season. The cotton-plant
delights in a virgin soil, and he counted on making a bale and
a half of cotton to the acre on all new ground. This was, of course,
above the average. In the hill country a planter thinks himself
rewarded for his labor by an average yield of half a bale to the
acre. Thomas one year made six hundred bales on six hundred
acres, but that was an exceptional season. The fact that this place
would be as productive now as ever with the same cultivation
goes to show how well the land lies, and how wise Thomas was
in the choice of his plantation.
The roof of the house in which Thomas had to put his wife and
children was so leaky, that be had sometimes at night when it
rained to sit up in bed and hold an umbrella over her and the
baby.
There were then no railroads, and the cotton crop had to be
hauled in wagons forty miles, to Grand Gulf. The roads were so
bad that to trust the teams to negro-drivers alone was not to be
thought of, and the master went with every wagon.
Not more than a quarter of a mile from Thomas's home, in
those early days in Mississippi, lived a man named Jack Cotton.
He was one of a band of highwaymen who infested the road
from Vicksburg to Memphis. Their practice was to waylay
planters and rob them on their return from selling their cotton.
Jack Cotton's house was a half-way station and a rendezvous for
the band. Jack was civil to the new neighbors, and they were
ignorant of his reputation as a desperado till he ran away to
Texas to escape the law.
There was no doctor or church nearer than Raymond, which
was ten miles from Burleigh. The country people around the
plantation, seeing that Thomas knew how to take care of his
servants, began to send for him
when they were sick. He was so successful that his
reputation grew more than was convenient. They had a
way of sending for him at night that was specially
disagreeable, and he had finally to refuse to make night
calls. One day he was summoned to attend a woman who was
about to die, the messenger said. When Thomas reached
the house, he saw tied to the fence and to trees horses with
men's saddles and horses with side-saddles, and on the
little porch were men, women, and children, evidently a
gathering of the sick woman's clan. One woman, sitting in
the sick-chamber, was rocking her baby crosswise on the
plank floor. Altogether the hubbub was something
distracting. The patient herself was in a highly nervous
state. The husband explained that she had not been able to
sleep for one or two days and nights. Thomas's advice was
that every man, woman, and child should be sent away. It
was acted on at once. "Folks, the doctor says you must all
go home," the man called out from the door.
In a few minutes they were unhitching their horses and
getting away as fast as they could. As soon as all was
quiet, a soothing potion was given to the sufferer. The next
morning the news came to "the doctor" that she had slept
all night and was a great deal better, and not at all in
danger of dying.
A disease called black tongue appeared among the the
negroes at Burleigh at one time; very soon forty of them
had their tongues protruding from their mouths, swollen
and cracked open. The doctors were losing so many cases,
for the disease was epidemic in the country, that Thomas
resolved not to send for a physician. He made a careful
study of the symptoms, and observed that the vital powers
were strongly taxed and the system run down very low.
Not knowing what medicine would check the disease, he
resolved to give none, but to build up the system with
stimulants and nourishing food, leaving to the recuperative
power of nature to pull his patients through. A liberal use
of port wine and mutton-chops (such chops! I never saw
their like elsewhere) justified his hopes and expectations.
He did not lose a case.
Thomas was misunderstood and misjudged by the people
in Mississippi by whom he found himself surrounded.
The plainer classes in Virginia, like those in England, from
whom they were descended, recognized the difference
between themselves and the higher classes, and did not aspire
to social equality. But in Mississippi the tone was different.
They resented anything like superiority in breeding.
Thomas Dabney was considered cold and haughty. It
took them long years to find out that he was a true friend
to the poor. As years passed on they learned to look on
him as one to be relied on, not only for substantial help but
for sympathy. Under the look of stern dignity the heart
was tender and compassionate as a woman's.
It was the custom among the small farmers in his
neighborhood to call on each other to assist when one of
them built his house, usually a log structure. Accordingly,
one day an invitation came to the new-comer to help a
neighbor to "raise" his house. At the appointed time he
went over with twenty of his men, and he did not leave till
the last log was in place and the last board nailed on the
roof, handing over the simple cabin quite completed to the
owner. This action, which seemed so natural to him, was a
serious offence to the recipient, and, to his regret, he was
sent for to no more "house-raisings." On another occasion,
a small farmer living a few miles from him got "in the
grass," as the country people express it when the grass
has gotten ahead of the young cotton-plants and there is
danger of their being choked by it. Again Thomas went
over with twenty men, and in a few hours the field was
brought to perfect order. The man said that if Colonel
Dabney had taken hold of a plough and worked by his
side he would have been glad to have his help, but to see
him sitting up on his horse with his gloves on directing his
negroes how to work was not to his taste. He heard a long
time after these occurrences that he could have soothed
their wounded pride if he had asked them to come over to
help him to raise his cabins. But he could not bring himself to
call on two or three poor white men to work among his
servants when he had no need of help.
Another neighbor he found more grateful. This man was
very sick during the season when his field should have been
ploughed. His wife and only servant were quite taken up
with nursing him. One day they heard the voices of workers
in their field, and, on looking out, recognized Colonel
Dabney and his servants. He had heard of the trouble, and
had ordered his men to go to this place with their mules
and ploughs, and to put everything in order for the crop,
not failing to take their dinners along. The man got well,
and he and his wife and children were life-long friends to
the family at Burleigh.
A young doctor moving to the neighborhood said in
his hearing that he found it difficult to buy corn.
Thomas made no comment, but the next morning the
doctor saw a six-mule wagon at his gate The driver,
whom he recognized as a Burleigh negro, asked where
the corn should be stowed away. He showed him his
corn-crib, and a day or two after, meeting Thomas,
asked what he owed for the corn. "Oh, nothing," was
the answer; "I do not charge a neighbor for a wagonload of
corn. This incident is hardly worth mentioning were
it not that little things make up a man's life and show
the spirit.
His plantation was considered a model one, and was
visited by planters anxious to learn his methods. He
was asked how he made his negroes do good work.
His answer was that a laboring man could do more
work and better work in five and a half days than in
six. He used to give the half of Saturdays to his
negroes, unless there was a great press of work, but a
system of rewards was more efficacious than any other
method. He distributed prizes of money among his
cotton-pickers every week during the season, which
lasted four or five months. One dollar was the first
prize, a Mexican coin valued at eighty-seven and a half
cents the second, seventy-five cents the third, and so on,
down to the smallest prize, a small Mexican coin called
picayune, which was valued at six and a half cents.
The decimal nomenclature was not in use there. The
coins were spoken of as "bits." Eighty-seven and a
half cents were seven bits, fifty cents four bits, twenty-five
cents two bits. The master gave money to all who
worked well for the prizes, whether they won them or
not. When one person picked six hundred pounds in
a day, a five-dollar gold-piece was the reward. On most
other plantations four hundred pounds or three hundred
and fifty or three hundred was considered a good day's
work, but on the Burleigh place many picked five
hundred pounds. All had to be picked free of trash.
No one could do this who had not been trained in
childhood. To get five hundred pounds a picker had
to use both hands at once. Those who went into the
cotton-fields after they were grown only knew how to
pull out cotton by holding on to the stalk with one
hand and picking it out with the other. Two hundred
pounds a day would be a liberal estimate of what the
most industrious could do in this manner. A very tall
and lithe young woman, one of mammy's "brer Billy's"
children, was the best cotton-picker at Burleigh. She
picked two rows at a time, going down the middle with
both arms extended and grasping the cotton-bolls with
each hand. Some of the younger generation learned
to imitate this. At Christmas Nelly's share of the
prize-money was something over seventeen dollars.
Her pride in going up to the master's desk to receive
it, in the presence of the assembled negroes, as the
acknowledged leader of the cotton-pickers, was a
matter of as great interest to the white family as to
her own race.
The negroes were helped in every way to gather the
cotton, not being interrupted or broken down by any
other work. Some of the men were detailed to carry
the cotton-hampers to the wagons that the pickers
might lift no weights. Water-carriers, with buckets
of fresh water, went up and down the rows handing
water to the pickers. They would get so interested
and excited over the work that they had to be made
to leave the fields at night, some of the very ambitious
ones wishing to sleep at the end of their rows, that
they might be up and at work in the morning earlier than
their rivals. The cotton was weighed three times a day, and
the number of pounds picked by each servant set down
opposite to his or her name on a slate. Quite a remarkable
feat of memory was exhibited by one of the negro men one
day in connection with this. His duty was to help the
overseer to weigh the cotton. One day the slate was caught
in a rain and the figures were obliterated. This man came
that night to the master's desk and gave from memory every
record on the slate, the morning, mid-day, and evening
weights of each picker. The negroes stood near enough to
hear if he had made a mistake in any man's figures. It was
the more remarkable as he could not have expected to be
called on to do this. In addition to the cotton crop, corn was
raised in such abundance that it was not an unusual thing
to sell a surplus of a thousand or two bushels or more. A
maxim with the master was that no animal grew fat on
bought corn. In putting in his corn crop he made full
allowance for a bad season, hence there was never a
scarcity. A lock on a corn-crib was not known. After the
mules and horses were fed in the evening the negroes
carried home all that they cared to have. They raised
chickens by the hundred. One of the chicken-raisers, old
Uncle Isaac, estimated that he raised five hundred, unless
the season was bad. Uncle Isaac's boast was that he was a
child of the same year as the master, and that the master's
mother had given to him in her own arms some of the baby
Thomas's milk, as there was more of it than he wanted. He
would draw himself up as he added, "I called marster
brother till I was a right big boy, an' I called his mother ma
till I was old enough to know better an' to stop it myself.
She never tole me to stop."
The negroes sold all the chickens they did not eat They
were taken to Raymond or Cooper's Well in a four-mule
wagon, provided by the master. As he paid the market
price, and as there was some risk of their getting less than
he gave, there was not often a desire to send them off if he
would take them. And he had
need to buy all he used after the death of our faithful
Granny Harriet. Different servants were given the care of
the poultry, and all failed so signally that Aunt Kitty, who
was renowned for success in her own poultry-yard, was
placed in charge. She was given all the conveniences and
facilities she asked for, - chickenhouses, coops, and
separate enclosures for young chickens. The result of
all this outlay was not a chicken the first year, and only one
the second. The history of that one deserves to be
recorded. It was hatched out in the hedge and raised by its
mother hen without the aid of our accomplished hen hussy.
The thrifty negroes made so much on their chickens,
peanuts, popcorn, molasses-cakes, baskets, mats, brooms,
taking in sewing, and in other little ways, that they were able
to buy luxuries. Some of the women bought silk dresses;
many had their Sunday dresses made by white mantua-makers.
Of course they had the clothes of the master and
mistress in addition; and in later years, as the house grew full
of young masters and young mistresses, theirs were added.
As the family knew that the servants liked nothing so well as
the well-made clothes that they laid aside, they wore their
clothes but little. They justly considered that those who had
labored for them had rights to them while still fresh. Under
these circumstances it did not seem wasteful for a daughter of
the house to distribute, at the end of a season, as many as a
dozen or more dresses that had been made up but a few
months before. It was quite funny to see among the gallants
three or four swallow-tail coats of the master's come in at the
grate for the grand promenade on Sunday evenings, escorting
the colored belles in all their bravery of hoop-skirts, and
ruffles, and ribbons, and flowers. Mammy Harriet gives me this
account of the management at Burleigh:
"De men had twelve pounds o' meat ebery two weeks
an' de women ten pounds. Viney, my brer Billy's daughter,
had as much as a man. You see she was a hearty eater. An'
dey had 'lasses too 'cordin' to dey famblys, - a water-bucketful.
Den some on 'em let dey meat gin out an' come
for mo'. Marster git 'em mo'
meat out o' de house, an' den he go out to de smokehouse
an' cut mo'. I hab see marster out in de fiel' after breakfast
an' Headman Charles say to him, 'Marster, some o' dese
people ain't got nothin' to eat.' Den he ride back an' hab a
bushel o' meal sifted, an' git a piece o' meat, an' tie up de
salt, an' ride back an' say, 'Charles, let those fellows get a
plenty of oak bark and cook these things. Here is a plenty
of meat and meal and salt.' Den dey sot on sometimes a
dozen pots an' bile water to make up all dat bread.
"Dyar warn't no chile born on dat place widdout no
clo'es to put on. Missis had 'em made in de house. I know I
myself mik' clo'es for Nelly chile, eben to de bonnet. I mik'
de bonnet out o' a piece o' missis dress. She gib five pieces
to ebery chile at a time. She had two made in de house, de
udder three she say, 'Make yourself. You ought to know
how to sew for yourself.'
"Ebey udder Sunday was draw day. Dey draw de meat
an' missis lay aside all her clo'es an' her chillun clo'es to gib
'way, - a pile on 'em. She say, 'Maria, send the servants to
me in the house,' an' she gib de clo'es to 'em. I heard her
say to marster one day, 'There is a beggar-woman here.'
'Well, have you something to give her?' 'No; I have too
many servants to give my clothes to beggars. Give her
some money.' He say, 'Very well.' An' he gib de 'oman
money. She nebber 'fused her people nuthin'; nobody
warn't 'fear'd to ask her for anything."
One day a great lubberly, stupid negro woman stalked
into her room and said, "Missis, gib me a dress." The
woman was uncouth and rude. The little girl sitting with her
mother saw her get up at once and hand a pretty woollen
dress to the woman. "She did not even thank you," the
child objected, when the negro had gone out. "And don't
it teach her to beg to give her the dress when she asks for
it?" Time has not obliterated the memory of the gentle
rebuke. "Poor thing, she has no one to teach her manners,
and she has so little sense, and no one to ask for anything
but me. I was very glad, indeed, that she came and asked me
for something."
For some years the master accompanied every wagon
loaded with cotton that went to market from his plantation.
He slept on these journeys under the wagons, and
sometimes on awakening in the morning he found that his
great-coat, in which he was wrapped, was frozen hard to
the ground. His negro drivers were more heavily clad than
himself, each one being provided with a thick woollen
great-coat that reached to his heels, home-knit woollen
socks and gloves, and an enormous comforter for the neck.
No illness resulted from the exposure. In the morning a hot
meal, cooked by one of the negroes - and all the race are
admirable cooks - was shared by the master and his men.
Until over seventy years old, he was singularly indifferent to
cold or heat, or to discomforts of any sort. But he felt
compassion for his negroes. He knew that the warm African
blood in their veins was not fitted to endure what he could
stand. He never regarded the weather for himself, but was
very careful about sending them out in bad weather, and
never did it unless it seemed a necessity. On such occasions
he wore an anxious look, and said that he could not go to
bed until his servants had gotten home safely. They were
always sure of finding a hot fire and a warm drink ready for
them on their return.
Every other year he distributed blankets on the
plantation, giving one apiece to each individual. Many of
the families were large, and as the fathers would move off
under a load of twelve or fourteen blankets, some, whose
quivers were less full, would be heard to exclaim over
the good fortune of the lucky ones. There were usually a
dozen or so left over in these distributions, and they were
thrown in for good measure to those who had the large
families. "Poor things, they have so many children," seemed
to my dear mother a sufficient explanation for special favors
that she often bestowed on those who had no other claim.
Some of the negro men with the big families of children had
a funny little affectation of feigning not to know either the
names or the number of their boys and girls. "I disremember,
missis, dyar's so many on 'em," with a little pleased
laugh, was considered a sufficient answer to inquiries on the
subject on every-day occasions. But not so on the days when
blankets were to be given out. Then their memories were fresh.
Then the babies that had not been in their cradles more than a few
days, mayhap hours, were remembered and mentioned in due turn
with no danger of being forgotten or overlooked because there
were "so many on 'em."
In addition to the blankets, comforts were quilted in the house
by the seamstresses for every woman who had a young baby. The
every-day clothes of all the negroes were cut out and made in the
house; two complete woollen suits for winter and two cotton
ones for summer. For Sundays, a bright calico dress was given to
each woman The thrifty ones, and, with scarcely an exception,
these negroes were thrifty, had more than they needed, and the
clothes were in their chests a year before they were put on. The
woollen socks and stockings for both men and women were knit
in the cabins by old women, and in the "great house" by young
girls. These last were set a task by the mistress, with the
privilege of holiday the rest of the day when it was done. This
had the desired effect of making them quick and industrious, and
so interested that they would be at their work betimes in the
morning. The clever ones sometimes get through with the allotted
task before breakfast.
On rainy days all the plantation women were brought into the
house. Then Mammy Maria, who was in her way a field-marshal
on such occasions, gave out the work and taught them to sew. By
word and action she stimulated and urged them on, until there
was not on the Burleigh plantation a woman who could not make
and mend neatly her own and her husband's and children's
clothes.
Poor mammy! She dreaded these days of teaching and
worrying over her big scholars. It gave her the headache, she said:
some seemed so hopelessly dull and stupid and lazy, - so unlike
herself. Hers was a case both of greatness thrust upon one and of
greatness achieved. She had grown up at my mother's feet,
having been about her ever since she could remember, and had
come to love the white family better than her own blood and race.
She resented their being deceived and imposed on by her fellow-servants,
and did not fail to inform them when such was the case.
This confidence was considered as sacred, but of course it grew
to be known that Mammy Maria was a "white folks' servant."
She was far more severe in her judgment of misdemeanors
than the master and mistress. The place that she had made for
herself was one that would, in a character less true and strong,
have brought on herself the hatred and the distrust of her race.
But they knew her to be just, one who never assailed the
innocent, and with so warm and compassionate a heart in real
trouble that none were afraid to come to her. From being a
confidential servant she grew into being a kind of prime
minister, and it was well known that if she espoused a cause and
took it to the master it was sure to be attended to at once, and
according to her advice.
Her independence and fearlessness in the discharge of her
duty, both to the master and to her fellow-servants, won for her
the affection and esteem of both. In consequence of her
popularity with her own color, her namesakes became so
numerous that the master had to forbid any further increase of
them, on account of the confusion to which it gave rise. This
her admirers evaded by having the babies christened Maria, and
another name adopted for every-day use.
My brave, good mammy! Who that knew thee in these days,
when thy heart was gay and bold as a young soldier's, could think
that the time would come when that faithful heart would break
for the love of thy old master!
The master and mistress taught the negroes truthfulness
and honesty, as they taught their own children, by not
tempting them, and by trusting them. It was a maxim with
the master that it made a child honest and truthful to
believe its word. He was by nature so unsuspicious that it
required no effort to carry this out in his daily life.
On one occasion one of his daughters was at a reception
in New York given to the House of Bishops. The
honored guest of the evening was that great missionary,
Bishop Selwyn, of Litchfield, who had come over
from England to our General Convention. Among
other subjects the dishonesty of the negro race was
discussed, and some one asked if all negroes were
thieves. Thomas Dabney's daughter felt diffident about
speaking, but she regretted afterwards that she had
not said that a very large proportion of her father's
negroes could be trusted to any extent. The interrogator
had probably confounded negroes who were trusted with
those who were not. The confidence shown in them by the
heads of her Southern home had taught the negroes so
much self-respect that a thoroughly thievish negro was
put under the ban in his own little world. Thomas had the
control of about five hundred of them. About two hundred
were his own, and on the Burleigh plantation. The others
belonged to his wards, and were nearly all family negroes,
closely related to his, and living on neighboring plantations.
He had the management of four estates belonging to minors.
It was a saying in the family that the estates of his
wards were better managed than his own, and their
property increased faster than his. "Of course, I put the
best overseers on their plantations," he said. "You see, I
am here to look after my own." The negroes of these came
to him as to their master, and he treated them as his own.
He bought a cook, one of his mother's negroes, after he
went to Mississippi, at the same time making the
arrangement to buy her husband. For some reason both
did not go out together. A cook was always a belle on a
plantation, and this young Alcey soon had all the
unmarried men at her feet, among others a
young fellow named Bob. One Sunday evening, as the
rival suitors were sitting with her, Bob, who was thought to
be a favored one, got his jawbone caught back in an
unfortunate yawn, and spent several hours speechless,
with his mouth wide open, while a messenger was
despatched for the doctor. But this did not seem to
disillusionize the object of his addresses, for she wrote a
letter to her husband in Virginia that quite decided him
not to join her. He also, it was said, had been casting his
eyes around for a more congenial mate. When Mrs.
Chamberlayne spoke to him of going out to Mississippi,
he answered that Alcey had given him an account in a
letter of the terrible ocean that had to be gone over on
the way. Mrs. Chamberlayne said that if a woman
could stand the journey a strong man certainly could.
"Yes, Miss
Marthy, but Alcey know more 'bout dem mysteries
dan I does."
When Alcey was spoken to on the subject, she said
"Tell marster not to bother 'bout sendin' for him. He
lazy an' puny an' no count." Bob's charms had triumphed.
On wedding occasions, in addition to the materials for
a cake, the bride always expected a good many gifts,
and some of the master's family to be present. The
mistress's big prayer-book was taken over, and the
marriage service read by one of the young masters.
They would not be satisfied unless the bride and the
cake were duly complimented. The children of the house-servants
were married in the dining-room at Burleigh,
and it was a saying in the family that these turned out
to be happy marriages.
At one of the weddings the bridegroom did not respond
when his time came. "Solomon," said the young master,
"say thou wilt." "Thou wilt," repeated Solomon, in his
most solemn voice. The marriage ceremony went on.
"Courtenay, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded
husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the
holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve
him love, honor and keep him in sickness and in health;
and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long
as ye both shall live?"
"I does," responded the bride.
The nurse who took care of the women when their babies
were born received a fee each time. The mothers themselves
looked on these seasons as gala times. They were provided
with flour, sugar, dried fruit, and often meals from the table,
and a woman to do all their cooking, washing, and house-work
for a month. During the rest of the year they did little
more than take care of the babies. Their cabins were clean
and orderly, their beds gay with bright quilts, and often the
pillows were snowy enough to tempt any head.
When we children were allowed to go to see some of the
servants, they delighted in setting out a little feast. If they had
nothing else, we were not allowed
to go without a new-laid egg or two. Once at Christmas
Mammy Harriet gave a "high tea" to us children. I was at
that time about fourteen years of age, the oldest of the
invited. A friend of my own age, Arabella Foote, the
youngest daughter of Henry S. Foote (Governor and
United States Senator), was spending her Christmas
holidays with me. Mammy felt some modesty about
inviting the young lady into her house, but I took
Arabella, and she enjoyed it as much as any of us.
Mammy had made a nice cake and hot biscuits and tea for
the occasion, set out in her choicest cups, some of rare old
china, and with sugar in the sugar-bowl that she had
inherited from her mother. She gave us besides,
sweetmeats, nuts, raisins, fruits of several kinds, - indeed,
a delightful tea. And she stood behind us
waiting on the table, her bright bandanna kerchief
towering aloft on her head, and she looking so pleased.
The children delighted in teaching the house-servants.
One night the whole family were formally invited, the
master, mistress, governess, and guests, by a twelve
year-old school-mistress to hear her pupils recite poetry.
She had about a dozen of the maids, old and young,
Mammy Maria among them. One of the guests was quite
astonished to see his own servant, whom he had with him
spending several months at Burleigh, get up and recite a
piece of poetry that had been learned with pains for this
occasion.
Some of the sons taught those of the plantation
negroes who cared to learn, but very few were willing
to take the trouble to study. Virginius was successful
with his scholars. Five of them learned to read so
well that they became preachers. For this service he
got one dozen eggs a month; or occasionally in lieu
of this he received a pullet at the end of two months.
He taught in the kitchen by the light of pine torches.
His method of enforcing discipline on these middle-aged
men was truly ludicrous. As his tutor, being one of the
old-fashioned sort, did not spare the rod in the morning,
so at night Virginius belabored the backs of his sturdy
fellows. His beatings were received with shouts of
laughter, the whole school would be in an
uproar, the scholars dodging about to escape the young
pedagogue's stick, and the cook and other on-lookers roaring
with laughter. One of his graduates asked his advice as to a
course of reading, suggesting history as the branch that he
wished to pursue. The youthful teacher promptly advised
"Robinson Crusoe," and lent his own handsome copy to
this promising pupil. After reading one hundred pages Joe
came to him and said, "Mars Virginius, did you say dat book
was history?" Virginius explained as well as he could what
fiction was, on which Joe said, "I bin mistrustin' all 'long dat
some o' de things what Robinson Crusoe say warn't true."
With negro slaves it seemed impossible for one of them to do
a thing, it mattered not how insignificant, without the
assistance of one or two others. It was often said with a laugh
by their owners that it took two to help one to do nothing. It
required a whole afternoon for Joe, the aspirant for historical
knowledge, and another able-bodied man like himself, to
butcher a sheep. On a plantation the work of the women and
children, and of some of the men also, amounted to so little
that but small effort was made to utilize it. Of course, some
kind of occupation had to be devised to keep them employed
a part of the time. But it was very laborious to find easy work
for a large body of inefficient and lazy people, and at Burleigh
the struggle was given up in many cases. The different
departments would have been more easily and better managed
if there had been fewer to work. Sometimes a friend would say
to the master that he made smaller crops than his negroes
ought to make. His reply was that he did not desire them to do
all that they could.
The cook at Burleigh had always a scullion or two to help
her, besides a man to cut her wood and put it on the huge
andirons. * The scullions brought the
* The cook's husband, who for years had
looked on himself as
nearly blind, and therefore unable to do more than work about
her, and put her wood on the fire, sometimes cutting a stick or
two, made no less than eighteen good crops for himself when
the war was over. He was one of the best farmers in the country.
S. D. S.
water and prepared the vegetables, and made themselves
generally useful. The vegetables were gathered and brought from
the garden by the gardener, or by one of the half-dozen women
whom he frequently had to help him. A second cook made the
desserts, sweetmeats, etc. As children, we thought that the main
business of the head cook was to scold the scullion and ourselves,
and to pin a dish-rag to us if we ventured into her kitchen. Four
women and a boy were in charge of the dairy. As the cows
sometimes wandered to pastures several miles away, this number
did not seem excessive. The boy brought the cows up, sometimes
with one of the women to help him. Two of the women milked;
the third held the semi-sinecure office, taking charge of the milk;
and the fourth churned.
There were no blooded cattle on the plantation for many
years, but thirty cows in the cowpen gave all the milk and butter
that was needed for the house and plantation, and a good deal of
butter was sold. The pastures were so good that the cattle
increased rapidly and were sold, a hundred at a time. Southdown
sheep were imported from Kentucky and pigs from England.
Everything looked well and fat at Burleigh. The master was
amused on being asked by a neighboring farmer if he would let
him have some of his curly-tailed breed of pigs. The man
innocently added that he noticed they were always fat, not
knowing, as Thomas used to say, in repeating this, that corn
would make the straightest tail curl. His beeves were fattened two
years, after they had worked two years as oxen to make the flesh
firm. One year they ran in the corn-field before the corn was
gathered, and the next they were stalled. As all the oxen were
fattened for beeves after two years of work, no old ox was on the
place. He killed every winter eight or ten of these stalled oxen.
The stalled sheep were so fat that they sometimes died of
suffocation. *
* "It was just one week before Christmas.... The stall-fed ox nodded
over his
trough: the broad-backed Southdowns clustered together in a corner of their
shed,
basked in the sun and awaited a return of appetite; a remnant of sturdy
porkers, left
over from the November killing, that blinked at you from out their warm
beds, and
grunted when requested to rise, suggested sausage; while over on Charley's
farm,
and under Aunt Sucky's able management, aldermanic turkeys, and sleek,
plump pullets, and ducks, quacking low from very fatness, and geese that had
ceased to wrangle, - all thought themselves, like man before Copernicus,
the
centre of the universe....
"And can you not detect the odor of apples issuing even from that
locked door?
There are great piles of them stowed away there, and cider, I suspect, is
not lacking.
And above, the store-room shoved shelves weighed down, since the arrival of
the
last steamer, with such things as Elmington could not supply. Boxes and
bags and
bundles gave forth the mellow fragrance of raisins, the cheerful rattle of
nuts,
the pungent savor of spices, - the promise of all things dear to the
heart of the
Virginia housewife. On every whiff floated mince-pie, - mince-pie
embryonic,
uncompounded; with every sniff there rose, like an exclamation before the
imagination, visions of Plum-Pudding, - of the Plum-Pudding of Old
England, - twin sister of Roast Beef, and with Roast Beef, inseparable
attendant
and indispensable bulwark of Constitutional Liberty." - Don
Miff, pp. 153, 154.
The above passage was inspired by the Burleigh Christmas.
One day, on the occasion of a large dinner, the master
was hastily summoned to the kitchen, to see there a huge
saddle of Southdown mutton that had by its own weight
torn itself from the big kitchen spit, and was lying in the
basting-pan.
During the spring and summer lambs were butchered
twice a week, or oftener if required. That did not keep down
the flock sufficiently, and a great many were sold. The
hides from the beeves almost supplied the plantation with
shoes. Two of the negro men were tanners and
shoemakers. A Southern plantation, well managed, had
nearly everything necessary to life done within its bounds.
At Burleigh there were two carpenters in the carpenter-shop,
two blacksmiths in the blacksmith-shop, two millers
in the mill, and usually five seamstresses in the house. In
the laundry there were two of the strongest and most
capable women on the plantation, and they were perhaps
the busiest of the corps of house-servants. Boys were kept
about, ready to ride for the mail or to take notes around the
neighborhood. There was no lack of numbers to fill every
place; the trouble was rather to find work for
supernumeraries, as already intimated.
One of the overseers, who was ambitious to put in a
large crop, begged to have some of these hangers-on
sent to the field. There were twenty-seven servants in the
service of the house, he said.
The land in cultivation looked like a lady's garden,
scarcely a blade of grass to be seen in hundreds of acres.
The rows and hills and furrows were laid off so carefully as
to be a pleasure to the eye. The fences and bridges, gates
and roads, were in good order. His wagons never broke
down. All these details may seem quite out of place and
superfluous. But they show the character of the man in a
country where many such things were neglected for the
one important consideration, - the cotton crop.
He never kept a slow mule; all must be fast and strong.
They were sold as soon as they failed to come up to these
requirements. Thomas raised all his own mules and nearly all
his own horses, - his thoroughbred riding-horses
always, - and frequently he had more than he needed of
both. The great droves of mules and horses brought
annually from Tennessee and Kentucky to less thrifty
planters found no sale at Burleigh unless the master
happened to need a pair of carriage-horses. Two teams of six
mules each carried off his cotton crop, going to the station
every working day for months. It was only ten miles off,
but the eight bales of cotton, that weighed nearly five
hundred pounds apiece, and the heavy, deeply cut-up
roads, made it a day's journey. As the returning wagon-drivers
came up in the evenings they were met by other
men, who took the mules out and cared for them, and loaded
up the wagons for the next day. It was not considered right
by the master that those who occupied the responsible
position of drivers should have these labors to perform.
They had nothing to do but to go to the house to deliver the
cotton receipts, get a drink of whiskey, and some tobacco
too, if the regular allowance issued had run short, and then
home to supper and to rest, ready for a fresh start in the
morning.
Hog-killing time was a high carnival on the plantation.
There were usually about a hundred and fifty or a hundred
and seventy-five hogs, sometimes more. They supplied
the house all the year round, and the
negroes for six months. He had taken out to Mississippi
the Virginia art of curing bacon. His hams were famous
among his friends and guests, as were the chops and
saddles of Southdown mutton, the legs of venison, wild or
from his park, the great rounds and sirloins of beef, and the
steaks cut with the grain.
It was no waste or useless lavishness that these great
roasts of beef or mutton were seldom put on the table a
second time, or that the number of chickens in the fattening
coops were in the season not allowed to fall below sixty, or
that during the winter and spring turkeys were on the table
twice a week. Not only the house-servants, but usually
several sick and favorite ones, were fed from the table. In
addition to these there were almost always the servants of
guests and neighbors in the house.
It was customary on many plantations for boys to drive
the mules in the cotton-gin. Under them the mules did not
thrive, and had frequently to be changed. On the Burleigh
place the most experienced and trust worthy of the drivers
had charge of the gin-mules. Under them the same team
ginned out the entire crop, working at it every day for
months. At the end of the season they were as fat and well
as at the beginning.
Fodder-pulling was looked on with dread by most
planters, as the hot work among the corn-stalls gave the
negroes chills and fevers. The master of Burleigh guarded
his negroes against sickness by providing two barrels of
whiskey for this season. Every man and woman came for a
cup of it when the day's work was over. The wag of the
plantation, Uncle Beverly, was always given two cups,
because he had a very funny way of opening his enormous
mouth and throwing the contents of the cup into it as if he
were throwing it into a bucket. Everybody laughed when
he did it, the master enjoying it as much as any of them.
The heart-warming laugh with his master seemed to be
the best part.
Indulgent as he was when he thought his servants
needed liquor, he was equally strict in forbidding them to
touch it at other times. It was his boast that he
was always obeyed in this, and also that under his system
he had never had a drunkard on his plantation. Our friends
and neighbors were not sure at Christmas and other festive
seasons that the dining-room servants would not be
intoxicated. At Burleigh the servants knew that the eggnog-bowl
and the other things would be handed to them at the
proper time, and they felt a pride in not displeasing the
family by bad conduct. Likewise, his wagon-drivers were put
on their good behavior as long as they had the wagons and
teams under their care. The servants who went with the
carriage to dinner-parties and at night about in the
neighborhood had the lives of wife and children in their
keeping, he used to say, and he chose them for their
steadiness, and was never deceived or disappointed. In
connection with this, his children and a number of young
people, guests at Burleigh, were near meeting with an
accident one cold winter's night. The roads were heavy,
having been cut up by the cotton-wagons, and it was
thought unsafe to go over five miles of a bad road on a dark
night in anything less substantial than a six-mule plantation-wagon.
There was great glee and fun in the getting off. It
was at the Christmas season, and everybody felt in spirit for
enjoying the Christmas-parties at the country-houses. There
had been a series of them. As the wagon was loaded up with
its gay, living freight, there was some talk of firing off some
of the children's fire-crackers in order to put mettle into the
mules. In the lightness of his heart the master called out to
the steady Lewis, his trusted driver, "Lewis, don't bring
them back till you have upset them twice." And with that
parting speech, which was received with cheers, he went
back into the house. He did not dream that Lewis, who had
never disobeyed him in his life, did not mean to disobey him
this time. We thought that Lewis was surely intoxicated,
from the manner in which he brought us back home. But we
had not had time to tell papa of our grave suspicions before
Lewis's honest face appeared at the door with his apology to
the amazed master. "I do my ve'y bes', marster, to tu'n dat
waggin ober,
sir. I run it in all de gullies I could fin', but I couldn't tu'n it
ober, sir."
Southern children were taught to call the colored people
aunt and uncle as titles of respect. They resented being
called by their names without the title, and considered that it
spoke ill for the manners of a child who would do so rude
a thing. They called each other "brer" and "sis." This
referred, not to the natural relationship, but to their
relationship in the church. On formal occasions they were
"Mr." and "Mrs." Ignorance of this led me into sad disgrace
one night with my usually indulgent Mammy Maria. She had
taken me to see her brother married. I heard her address him
as Mr. Ferguson, and at once asked, "Mammy, what makes
you call Henry Mr. Ferguson?" "Do you think 'cause we are
black that we cyarn't have no names?" was mammy's
indignant reply. She could not be angry more than a minute
with "her white chillun." She never went to wedding or
party or quilting without bringing to us an apple or a cake or
a bouquet, - whatever was given to her there. I do not think
that her own children fared as well. The mistress had
wet-nurses for her babies, chosen from among her negro
servants. The devotion of the nurses to these foster-children
was greater than their love for their own. One of
them, with a baby at home very sick, left it to stay with the
white child. This one she insisted on walking the night
through, because he was roaring with the colic, though the
mistress entirely disapproved, and urged her to go home to
her own child, whose illness was more serious, if less noisy
than the white nursling with its colic.
The Burleigh plantation was regarded as a healthful
place. Thomas left a belt of trees around his house of a half-
mile to nearly a mile in width, that no upturning of the soil in
the cultivation of the crops might endanger the health of
his family. He spent the summer of 1837 at home; but he
sent Sophia and her boys to Raymond, to her father's. She
spent the next eight summers there, the winters being
passed on the plantation, which lay ten miles south of
Raymond.
A great sorrow came to the household in the summer of
1838. Thomas was at Mount Prospect on a visit to his
mother, when a letter from Mr. Lewis Smith informed him
that his six-year-old James and his Christmas boy, Thomas,
ten years of age, both died within one week. James died on
the 9th and Thomas on the 15th of July. Years after this
Thomas said that his heart had sunk lower in his body from
the day that he heard of the loss of his two fair boys.
James died first, and Sophia, dreading the effect on
Thomas, allowed no one to tell him that his playfellow was
gone. In dying Thomas called out, "Oh, I see Jimmy! Oh,
gold all around! So beautiful!"
The two weeks of weary journeying and anxiety on
the way from Virginia to Mississippi, during which his
fears were for the worst, at length came to an end.
Thomas Dabney approached the home in which he
had left Sophia and her five boys. He dreaded lest his
whole family had been swept off by the disease that
had taken away two. Great, indeed, were his relief
and thankfulness when Sophia, in her white dress, with her
Mississippi baby, Edward, in her arms, met him at the gate.
She and three children had been spared to him.
Thomas and Sophia found great comfort and enjoyment
in the near neighborhood of her favorite sister Emmeline
and her husband, Mr. Smith. The brothers-in-law were very
congenial. The Smiths lived on the adjoining plantation of
Midway, and the families spent the Sundays alternately at
Burleigh and at Midway.
Augustine Dabney had established himself in Raymond.
He soon made a reputation for knowledge of the law and for
brilliant literary attainments. He made no less a reputation
for singular simplicity and unworldliness of character. He
was of so tender-hearted a nature that he charged no fees
of any widow. It mattered not if she were far richer than he
was. Of course, this became known, and all women, and
men too, in distress and trouble came to him for the advice
and ready sympathy and assistance which they were sure
to receive. The kindly nature was imposed on sometimes,
but he did not resent it, and was ready the next time he
heard a tale of distress to give all the comfort in his power.
The brothers were in nearly every characteristic very
different, but in their faith in human nature they were the
same, - nothing could shake that. Both, in their different
ways, had been deceived in people, but they put such
cases out of their lives, considering them exceptional. The
two hearts held not one drop of bitterness. Augustine was
judge of the Probate Court of Hinds County for eight years,
the result of four biennial elections by the people. He was a
Whig. The Democratic party offered no opposing candidate
from November, 1851, to November, 1869, during which
years he held the office. Governor A. G. Brown, for
many years one of the leaders of the Democratic party
in Mississippi, said that it would have been useless for
any one to run against Augustine Dabney.
It is recorded of him that no decision of his while on
the bench was reversed by the Court of Appeals. His
hospitality and lavish generosity impaired his estate.
But his simple home in Raymond was the centre of all that
was most attractive. It was the resort of his brothers of the
bar, and of the bishop of the diocese and the clergy, and
all distinguished visitors in the county.
He was usually very quiet, but when a congenial theme
was started, he was a charming talker. He was so
scrupulously truthful in the smallest details that one felt
condemned who had been betrayed into speaking in an
exaggerated style in his presence. Mrs. Augustine Dabney
was an invalid, with a nursery full of young children. She
led the conversation at her table, unless Augustine
happened to be in the talking vein. In this case she added
to the charm of the entertainment by her witty sallies, not
taking the talk away from him, but rather stimulating him.
The intercourse between Mrs. Augustine Dabney and
Sophia was always of the most delightful kind. They loved
each other like sisters. The children of the brothers, under
such influence, grew up in the closest intimacy, more like
brothers and sisters than cousins. It was hardly an
exaggeration to say that the dearest friend of each child
was to be found in the other family. They paired off
according to their ages, which fell nearly together. A life of
Thomas could not be written if Augustine and his family
were left out. The two households, in the somewhat
isolated life in Mississippi, were more intimate with each
other than with any other relations on either side.
In the early days of Mississippi the Choctaw Indians had
not yet been moved to the Indian Territory. They soon
learned to know that they had friends in the family at
Burleigh They fell into a way of camping for two weeks
during every autumn on the Tallahala Creek. The name
Tallahala is itself a Choctaw word, signifying owl. The
lands along its banks, and through all that region of
country, were once the hunting-grounds of the Indians.
Many of their stone arrow-heads are yet to be found
scattered through the woods, and many are upturned
by the ploughmen in the fields. Less than four miles
from Burleigh is a spot where their arrow-heads
were evidently made. Bits of the flint lie scattered as
they were left by them. Arrow-heads are there in all stages
of construction; on each one can plainly be seen the reason
why it was abandoned: an unlucky or unskilful blow had
chipped it in the wrong place. Some were merely outlined
in a rude way, some had one side well shaped, some were
nearly completed, when an unwitting stroke spoiled them.
Some were plainly the work of the veriest tyro, probably of
some little brave, who was learning already the noble arts of
the chase and of war. Three and a half miles southwest of
this spot is a battle-field, where, in these early days, these
arrow-heads were thickly strewn. In the midst is an Indian
burial-mound, where, tradition says, the slain warriors who
fell in that battle were interred. Not fifty yards from the
door of the Burleigh house, on a hill-side, two very curious
specimens of Indian stone-work were found by the
children - one a highly polished and beautiful hatchet. The
Choctaws loved the Tallahala Creek. Its banks were clothed
with thickets of cane which the men used for making their
blowguns and arrows, and the women for making their
baskets. Their peculiar way of selling their baskets was
interesting. A certain basket would have as its price as
much sugar as it could hold, another coffee in the same
proportion, and others flour, etc. This arrangement was
never departed from, so far as we know.
It was quite impossible to get a "coffee-basket" with
sugar, or a "sugar-basket" with coffee, I think. Presents
of clothing or of anything else were promptly subjected
to a scrutinizing examination under the eyes of the donor.
If a torn place or other defect could be found, it was
pointed out with equal interest and naïvete. They were
an innocent, inoffensive people, and never forgot a
kindness. They were so scrupulously honest that they
burned only the fallen and dead boughs that they found
decaying on the ground. The master's fences and his
woodpile were not molested. They came in the
cotton-picking season, and the planters were always
glad to have them, as they picked carefully and
got no trash in their bags. They did all work well that they
attempted at all, tanning buckskin, blowgun-making, and
basket-weaving. On one occasion a baby was born in the
Tallahala camp on the very night before they had arranged
to depart for their homes. This did not interfere with the
plan of march. The mother and the little "pooscoos," as the
Choctaws call their babies, were set up on a pony, and in
this manner they went off. The voices of the Choctaw
women are low and sweet, - more like the cooing and
chirpings of birds than like the human voice of any but
some young children.
Mr. Lewis Smith was a true friend to the Indians. It was
said that he could not refuse any request made by them.
One day an Indian man cast admiring eyes on a red cloak
that Mr. Smith had provided for the winter, and on an
intimation that he desired it Mr. Smith took the cloak off
and handed it to him.
It was with genuine regret that their white friends saw
that year by year their number became fewer. At last the
gray-headed chief led to the "nation" the last of the
Choctaws of Hinds County.
Not more than three years had elapsed since Thomas
had made his home in Mississippi when he received a letter
from John Tyler, who aspired to the office of Vice-President
of the United States, requesting him to use his
personal influence with the prominent men of Mississippi
to bring about this result. He wrote at once, saying that by
reason of his brief residence in the State and limited
acquaintance with the people any assistance which he
could give would be of necessity small and almost
valueless, but that he would do his utmost. It so happened
that Mississippi was one of the first Southern States in
which a convention was held for the purpose of discussing
the names of Whig candidates for the offices of President
and Vice-President of the United States. The main question
before this convention was whom to nominate for
President, - the question of whose name to put forward for
Vice-President not being considered of much moment at
that time.
This convention was held at Jackson, the capital of the
State, twenty-five miles away from his plantation. As
Thomas was not a public speaker, he requested his brother
Augustine to present the name of John Tyler to the
convention for this office.
On the last day of the convention, Thomas, feeling some
solicitude, mounted his horse and rode to Jackson, arriving
there just as the house was on the point of going into
nominations.
He asked at once, "What are the chances for John
Tyler?"
Augustine replied, "I have not done anything in that
matter, and fear that it is now too late." After a moment's
reflection he cried out, "No, it is not too late; let us speak to
Sharkey, Poindexter, Chilton, - any of these gentlemen will
second the nomination." So the brothers made their way to
the seats of these gentlemen, and advocated the claims of
their Virginia friend. His name was accordingly introduced
in due form, but in the midst of the proceeding a voice
called out, "John Tyler won't do. Who vouches for him?"
Governor Sharkey at once replied, "Colonel Dabney does,
and that's sufficient." Without further question or
discussion the balloting began, and he received the
nomination. And the State of Arkansas, holding her
convention a few weeks thereafter, gave her votes to him
whom Mississippi had endorsed. When the general
convention of the party was held in St. Louis, it was
discovered that John Tyler was the only candidate for the
vice-presidency who had in advance any following; and
when his own State came to his aid he was nominated
without any serious opposition.
When, on President Harrison's death, Mr. Tyler
became the chief executive of the United States many
office- seekers put in their claims. Among others a
Mississippi name was sent up. "Not a single appointment
for Mississippi until Colonel Dabney is heard from,"
was the President's answer. But, as is well known,
Mr. Tyler did not long adhere to the principles of the
Whig party. The mortification to Thomas Dabney
was excessive. He felt almost as if he were himself
compromised, and his feeling against John Tyler became
bitter. He refused to answer any letters or messages from
him. Once during Mr. Tyler's term of office he went to
Washington, intending to spend several days there. Mr.
Tyler's son happened to be at the station, and recognized
him as he was getting off the train. He seemed unconscious
of the existing state of feeling, and was for taking Thomas
at once with his luggage to the White House. Thomas
could not explain to the affectionate young fellow, and left
Washington on the next train, as he saw no other way out
of the embarrassing situation.
Many years after this the ex-President, John Tyler, wept
as he spoke of the loss of the friendship of Thomas
Dabney, and tried to bring about a renewal of intercourse.
They had not only been friends but were allied by
marriage, as Thomas's first wife was a cousin of Mr.
Tyler's. He wrote to beg that their children might visit each
other, and invited the Mississippi family to come to
Virginia to see his. But the subject was yet too sore with
Thomas. He could never mention Mr. Tyler's name without
emotion.
As time went on comforts and conveniences grew up
around the families in the new country. But it was at times
difficult to provide for so many. In June, 1837, Mr. Hill
wrote to a sister in Virginia, "There is a great scarcity of
provisions in this part of the State. Cornmeal is worth two
dollars and fifty cents a bushel, and flour seventeen
dollars a barrel."
Mr. and Mrs. Hill had chosen Raymond as their home.
This little village was situated on an elevated ridge, and
had been noted for its healthfulness. Several other Virginia
families who moved to the far South at this time decided on
making their homes in Raymond They formed an agreeable
and cultivated society.
In the autumn of 1838 (November 4) Sophia's first
daughter was born. She was joyfully named Sarah by her
father. About a year later Sophia wrote to her aunt in
Virginia, "Little S. begins to step about."
In 1839, Mr. Charles Hill died. He was on his way to
visit Virginia, and had not gotten beyond the bounds of
his adopted State when the fatal illness seized him. It was
his request that no mourning should be worn for him,
and no stone set up to mark his last resting-place. His
family respected his wishes, and he lies in an unmarked
grave in Holmes County, Mississippi.
The following are the last lines written in his journal
before his death. They were penned on this journey:
"When will men agree to differ, - to allow each other perfect
freedom of conscience? Not until they love each other and
become Christians. Not until they set no value upon
worldly distinction but as a means of doing good and
making others good, and therefore happy. Not until they
act upon the truth that the least in the kingdom of God is
greater than George Washington on earth in all his glory."
Those who knew him said that be lived up to these high
views of the responsibilities of life. He was stern with his
children, who were a good deal afraid aid of him. He threw a
handsome doll in the fire that Sophia and Emmeline were
disputing over. Sophia said it had the desired effect, as she
never again said an unkind word to her sister.
When a very young man he had met his future wife,
when she was a girl of only fifteen years old, and had lost
his heart with her. We children delighted in making her
give an account of the courtship. It took place as she was
walking home from school with her books on her arm. It
was, like everything about him, direct. "Miss Susan, give
me your hand." The answer to this was that the little girl
frankly placed her hand in his. He saw that she was
unconscious of his meaning. "And your our heart too,"
he added. This time she understood, and the hand was
not withdrawn. Her mother had died when she was but
two hours old, and her home with a step-mother was an
unhappy one. This woman, in her father's absence, would
take her by her long hair and throw her out of the house,
and the little step-brother was set above her in every way.
The harsh treatment brought out the patience and
gentleness that endeared her to all who knew her in after-life. The
step-mother herself became attached to her, and at her
death divided her property equally between her own boy
and her step-daughter.
In the summer of 1840 the second daughter, Susan, was
born to Sophia. She was welcomed as a companion to
Sarah, and a month after her birth, which took place in
Raymond, she was taken to the plantation on a pillow.
"May she be a blessing to all who love her," her
grandmamma Macon wrote. In the winter of 1842 the
third daughter was born, and was called Sophia, after
her mother, who had gotten her name from Goldsmith's
charming heroine. The next child, Benjamin, lived only
eight days. In the autumn of 1845 Sophia gave birth to her
eleventh child, Emmeline.
Our grandmother Hill's youngest daughter had married
soon after her father's death, and the widowed mother in a
few years resolved on giving up her home in Raymond.
After several changes she fixed on the house of her
favorite son-in-law, Thomas, as her home. The large
number of young children made the house too noisy for
her delicate nerves. Thomas, ever solicitous to be a true
son to her, built a cottage for her after her own plan. It was
placed near the house, and contained two large rooms and
spacious closets.
The years spent by this dear grandmother in the midst of
the Burleigh household were among the happiest of our
lives. She was lovely to look upon in her lace-frilled cap,
and with her reticule on her arm. Each child looked on her
as his or her special friend, and she was never tired of
trying to make everybody about her good and happy. She
was too delicate to walk much. But she had beautiful taste,
and seemed to make everything prettier about the place.
Under her care many fine roses, tulips, hyacinths, and
other flowers flourished in the Burleigh garden. During the
last years of her life she lay on a lounge, with her New
Testament and Jay's "Morning and Evening Exercises"
within reach of her hand. Other books, too, were near,
and she spent much time in reading. Her room became
the sitting-room of the family, she was so bright and
sunny-hearted, and always so ready to be
interested in everything. Over all there was a halo as of a
spirit at peace with God and man. A few months before her
death, which did not take place till May, 1854, a sorrow
came that would have been a heavy affliction at another
time in her life. She said that she had no tears to shed,
because she felt so near the other world, where the loved
one had gone. Her last few months were sad. A depression
seized her that could not be shaken off. She bore it with her
usual patience, seeing a Merciful Hand in all that was sent,
yet begging her Heavenly Father to shorten the days. The
gloom was not lifted. She passed away in much suffering,
leaving the memory of a spotless life. It was said of her that
she never knew any scandal. Her neighbors in Raymond
could not look at her and tell her stories that all knew but
her. The thought of evil to that white soul was like a
physical pain. She could not bear to hear any one spoken
against, and was ever ready to plead the extenuating
circumstances that her eyes could see in each case,
however black it might look to others. The first word that
she taught her favorite grandson to spell was "good." She
was an accomplished needle-woman, and so industrious
that she did not like to be idle, even while sick. Mr. Hill
forbade her sewing, and when she heard his step she hid
her work behind her in her large chair. She gave away
everything. With all her love for the beautiful, she seemed
to have no desire to own anything that could give pleasure
to another. When she died, as has been said of another
lovely Christian character, her things were "touching in
their fewness."
At the time that she decided on giving up her home in
Raymond she divided not only ale her household effects,
but her property of all kinds, among her three daughters.
Thomas was much opposed to this arrangement and
endeavored in vain to dissuade her. She would need
money, however, to buy her clothes, and said that each
daughter should hand to her an annual sum for this
purpose. The amount named by her was small. Thomas
tried to make her double it, but she was firm, and would
receive nothing beyond the sum first asked
for. A large proportion of this was spent each year in
presents to the servants and to other needy persons. She
was at heart an emancipationist, whether from sympathy
with the colored race or with their owners I do not know.
*
In 1845, Thomas decided to look for a summer home for
his family somewhere on the shores of the Gulf of Mexico.
He heard much of the beauty and salubrity of Pass
Christian, and of the delightful society to be met there. He
visited the line of Gulf coast, and resolved on buying a
place at the Pass. He got a very simple but airy and cool
house, situated in a grove of shade-trees looking directly
on the shining beach and the blue waters of the Gulf.
The little village of Pass Christian, situated about
midway between New Orleans and Mobile on the
Mississippi Sound (as that part of the Mexican Gulf is
called), is a place of extreme beauty. The houses,
embosomed in the shade of live-oak, magnolia, and other
beautiful trees, were dotted along the beach for four miles.
The residents or sojourners were, in the main, people of
culture and wealth, - either citizens of New Orleans or
planters of Mississippi and Louisiana, who came there to
spend the summer months. Almost directly out to sea lies
Cat Island, some ten or twelve miles away, the most
western of a chain of islands which run parallel with this
coast, protecting it from frequent and sudden storms which
vex the waters of the open Gulf. Inside of this natural
barrier the water is generally shallow, and the deeper parts
or channels are called "passes," hence the name Pass
Christian. Eight miles out from the shore is another pass
called Pass Marian; and there, in place of a light-house, an
old iron ship was anchored. On board this ship lived the
light-keeper with his wife and one child, a daughter. I
remember that our hearts were stirred with compassion
for this little family, thinking that their lot was very dreary.
Many gentlemen at Pass Christian owned fast-sailing
yachts, and during the season fortnightly regattas were
held, in which the entire population felt deeply interested,
as almost every one owning a yacht entered it for the race.
Thomas was the first president of the yacht club, and was,
I believe, annually re-elected as long as he lived at Pass
Christian.
"PASS CHRISTIAN, July 30, 1847.
. . . "I have
another great comfort to add. The servants I
have brought with me have behaved remarkably well. I
never have to remind them of their duties. They all seem to
anticipate my wants. I always thought I valued my
servants very highly, but I never valued them enough.
They all act towards me as they did when you were sick.
They add much to my enjoyment. It does not take much to
trouble me when you are absent.... I would give a great
deal to see Charley, but tell him that I am very happy in
thinking about his coming next summer. Tell Virginius and
Sarah not to forget me. I know Charley will not."
Thomas was in Virginia on a visit to his mother. He had
taken, as usual, some of her grandchildren to "show to
her."
It was a shock and grief to Thomas when the State of
Mississippi repudiated her debts. He worked against
repudiation with all his energy. When he found his efforts
in that direction useless, it occurred to him that the honor
of the State that was the birthplace of his children could
yet be saved by private subscription. He offered to head
the list by giving ten thousand dollars. It would have
ruined him, for he was just beginning to get his plantation
in order. He still lived in the old log house with the leaky
roof. But, with heroic improvidence, he refused to consider
personal consequences. His efforts were fruitless. He
could not rouse the people in his State to join him in a plan
that they looked on as a costly piece of quixotism.
In one of these years Chancellor Tyler's estate was
settled up. By the laws of Virginia Thomas came in as one
of the heirs. He wrote to his brother-in-law, Mr. Whittle,
that he declined to receive his share of the inheritance. In
reply, Mr. Whittle suggested that he probably was not
aware of the amount that he was refusing, - about ten
thousand dollars. But Thomas requested that this might
be divided equally among the sisters of his deceased wife.
Sophia also declined to receive a small legacy (about three
hundred dollars) which came to her from a maiden aunt. At
her request it was given to one of the other heirs, a cousin
who was not prosperous.
Thomas always maintained that no preparation could
help him to bear a trial, and that it was no true kindness to
make concealment; and he made none in his intercourse
with those with whom he was thrown. He said that if he
were condemned to be hanged, he should not wish a
reprieve. A characteristic incident took place when he went
with a young girl, the only daughter of Emmeline Smith, to
have an operation performed on her eye. The oculist told
her that it would give her no pain at all, and begged her to
quiet herself. But she got into floods of tears, and had no
courage to submit to the operation. In her distress she
turned to Thomas, -
"Oh, Uncle Dabney, will it hurt very much?"
"Yes, my child," he said, "like the very devil."
The girl knew that he had told her the truth, and it
braced her nerves for the pain. Putting her two hands in
his, she asked him to hold them, and she submitted to the
oculist without any more remonstrance.
In the early spring of this year (1847) a sad change came
for the neighborhood. Mrs. Lewis Smith, while
superintending the planting of a large garden for the
plantation negroes, stood too long on the damp ground
and took a cold which soon developed into pneumonia.
The disease terminated fatally after a short illness.
Our mother said of her that she was the best mistress
whom she had ever known. She would add, in her
humility, that she was a much better woman than she
was. Our dear mother said that of many people. The loss of
Mrs. Smith was much felt, and led to another scarcely less.
Mr. Smith was so wretched at her death that he could not
be roused, and he died in a few months of a broken heart.
The two children, Campbell and Olivia, were committed to
the guardianship of Thomas. When Mr. Smith felt himself
dying, he asked Thomas to promise never to give up his
son Campbell. Not even to a dying man, and one to whom
he was tenderly attached, would Thomas make that
promise. He told him that he could not make a promise that
he might have to break, but he would do all that he could
for the boy. After the funeral he took him home to Burleigh.
From there he was sent in a few months, in accordance
with Mr. Smith's expressed wishes, to school in Virginia.
In 1849, Thomas wrote to his ward, H. Campbell Smith:
..."I hope you are making good progress in your
studies; for, if you flinch now, you can never make it up.
Apply yourself to the extent of your powers, so that you may
be well prepared to enter the university next October. I
entertain no doubt about your competency to achieve it if
you will but determine upon it. Do it, then, and it will be a
source of gratification to you to the end of your life; but if
you permit any circumstance to divert you from it, you will
never forgive yourself."
Sophia to her aunt, March 7, 1847: "Our house will ever
be a home to Olivia if she will be willing to come and live with
me after she has completed her education. It will afford me
great pleasure to have her with me as my own."
Olivia lived at Burleigh up to her marriage, and was ever
an affectionate daughter of the house.
The home at Midway was broken up. The family at
Burleigh turned more than ever to the Raymond Dabneys.
A little incident will throw some light on the life of the
mother who during thirty years was never without an infant
in her arms. One night one of the little girls had a dream
that frightened her, and ran to her mother's bed to wake her
up. "Let us light the candle and play with your doll-babies,"
mamma said; and the two crouched down by the
corner where the dolls slept, and planned over them and
dressed them until the child was willing to go back to her
own bed, the dream quite forgotten. There were several
children in the nursery younger than this one at the time.
She did not allow the maids to be kept up at night to
undress her daughters or to be called on to do many things
that the body-servants in other households were expected
to do. "They are not machines," she said to her children;
"they are just like you, made of the same flesh and blood."
When one of the children, old enough to dress herself,
held out her foot to have the shoe and stocking taken off,
she said, "Do it yourself. You are just as able to do it as
Milly is."
She also impressed lessons of industry and economy on
her children. She could not expect, she said, that they
would always be as well off as they were then, and she
did not know which one might be destined for poverty.
Wastefulness was a sin, she said, apart from the bad
habits that come in its train. She impressed these lessons
the more earnestly as the father was inclined to be
extravagant.
In cases of sickness where nursing at night was required
she sent those servants who performed this part to bed the
next morning. The parents themselves did most of the
nursing. During the fifty years that Thomas spent in
Mississippi he was very ill only once, and the kindness and
devotion of his negroes - "his people," as they still call
themselves, though they have been free twenty-one
years - were often in after-life referred to. He could not bear
a sound. As the house could not be kept quiet with so
many young children about, the nursery was moved to
Mammy Harriet's. Here we spent three weeks. We were too
young to feel the anxiety of the time. We thought it no end
of fun to keep house with mammy, and to play with her
black cat that knew how to shake hands, and to hear her
boy Ike ask riddles at night when he came home out of the
fields. Our nurses were so wisely chosen that we never
heard a ghost-story from one of them during the whole
course of our childhood, nor anything else that the most
careful parents could object to.
Thomas had quite an amusing experience when he
attempted to set two of his servants free. A man who had
been very lazy and unreliable in every way all his life, *
asked the master one day to let him hire his time from him
and live in Raymond. He thought that he could make a
great deal of money in Raymond, blacking gentlemen's
boots and waiting on them.
Uncle Abel's feet were so large and set at such an angle
as to be damaging to the crops as he walked between the
rows, and for that reason he was not
* This man had been sold by his former master
for half a
dollar, and had come into Thomas's possession through a
mistake.
allowed to work in the fields. His sole business was to ride
over the plantation, calling up the hogs and feeding them.
He liked to hold gentlemen's horses at the gate, too, after
a hostler had saddled them, but this was a voluntary
addition to his duties.
The master's answer to Uncle Abel's proposition was that he
should charge him nothing for his time; on the contrary, he
would present him with twenty-five dollars and set him free for
life. He added the stipulation, however, that Uncle Abel should
never return to him. Uncle Abel made no reply, but nothing
more was ever heard of his desire to make a fortune. The
woman who had charge of the Pass Christian house also was
opposed to plantation life, and did not wish to return to it when
the master sold the summer place. She had been born on the
water, she said, and she wanted to die on it, and asked to be
allowed to live at the Pass and support herself by selling
chickens and eggs. The master consented at once, and told her
that he should give her twenty-five dollars as a start in life, but
she must first promise not to return to him when she had grown
tired of working for herself. Her answer to this proposition was
to pack up her things in all haste to return with him to the
plantation, and she was quite in a tremor lest the master should
desire to set her free against her will.
Thomas sold but four negroes. One of these was a
violent and bad woman, who, after many attempts,
succeeded one day in stabbing her husband to death. She
was tried for her life, and would have been hung if her
master had made any attempt to save her. He thought she
ought to suffer the penalty of the law and made no move
in her defence, and this conduct influenced the jury to
bring in a verdict of manslaughter in self-defence, and she
was acquitted. But he would not keep a murderess on his
plantation, and she was sold. A kind man bought her,
knowing her history. Another case was that of a man who
attempted to kill the overseer. He was the son of our
beloved nurse, Mammy Harriet, - Ike, who knew so many
delightful riddles; and it was a sad day in the master's house
when it was known that one of that family was to stand a
trial for his life. As in the former case, no counsel was
employed by the master to save his property, and, as in that
case, Ike was acquitted. He was sold, and we never saw him
again. A third case was that of a girl who was so thievish
that the plantation negroes petitioned the master to sell her.
Nothing was safe in their houses if they were left open.
They were afraid to leave their hampers in the field lest
Indian Mary, as she was called on account of her straight
black hair, should rob them. Instead of picking cotton
herself she went from hamper to hamper filling her bag. As
the negroes were paid for picking cotton this was no light
grievance, and finally got to be unbearable and led to the
above result. So Mary was told that she must choose a
good master for herself. She chose a man who lived alone
and had no other servant. There was no chance of stealing,
for she was welcome, the man said, to everything in his little
cabin. For years she came over on Sundays to her old home
to tell how well she was getting on. One of the little girls in
the house was much attached to her, and learned to knit
that she might knit a pair of stockings for Mary's baby, and
begged for pudding that she might send it to the old
favorite.
The last case was that of a woman who had no family
ties on the place that she cared for, and desired to be sold
to a man who owned no other negroes. She also came over
on Sundays to visit her friends both in the house and in
the quarters.
Thomas disapproved of hiring out servants; it broke up
families, he said. At times he hired out one or two
mechanics. He hired a young blacksmith to a good master
in Raymond for some years, the man being very happy
there. The price that was paid for him was five hundred
dollars a year. Another man offered six hundred dollars, but
Thomas refused it, saying that he did not wish his young
servant to work hard enough to be worth six hundred
dollars to his employer.
One of his visits to his mother at her Mount Prospect
home was made at Christmas. A company of
gentlemen spent the holiday week there on the same
occasion. As they were all going away, Thomas, who was
about to mount his horse also, said to them, "Gentlemen,
there is one person who has contributed much to our
enjoyment. I mean the cook. Let us not forget her. Here is
my five-dollar gold-piece for her." In a minute every hand
held out a five-dollar gold-piece, and twenty-five dollars
were sent to the kitchen to the cook.
Sophia Dabney was once sent for to spend a day or two
with her sister, Mrs. Moncure, who was ill and needed her
care. When she came home she said that Mrs. Moncure
was a better mistress than she was. She spoke of the
attachment of the servants for her sister, and their anxious
inquiries at the house of her condition. When breakfast
and tea were over, she had been surprised at the line of
cups and plates that had been placed for her to fill in the
absence of the sick mistress from the table. In Sophia's
housekeeping she had not attempted to give any meal but
dinner from her table. In her humility she forgot that her
establishment, both of white and black, made it impossible
to carry out the regulations that could be practiced in a
smaller family.
Mrs. Moncure had inherited a number of negroes from
her father's estate. It is recorded of her that she never
allowed any of these servants to be punished for any
offence whatever. "They are mine" was the mantle of
protection that she threw over them and their descendants.
Mrs. Moncure had inherited the old family nurse, Mammy
Mary, to whom she and my mother were greatly attached.
She was one of the most exalted Christians whom I have
ever met. When some one asked if she, in her long years of
confinement to her own cabin in her old age, preferred
bright weather to rainy days, her answer was, "I am
thankful for whatever the Father sends."
My mother took her an annual present, and the old
nurse sent freely to her for anything that she needed. As
long as the old woman was able to move about she was
a regular visitor at Burleigh, coming in the carriage
with Mrs. Moncure when she spent the day with her
sister. When Mammy Mary grew too feeble to go out she
expected to be daily visited by Mrs. Moncure and her
children, and by all the family connections who visited her
mistress. She was a devout member of the Baptist Church,
and attended it in Mrs. Moncure's carriage. For years her
trim, neat figure, her snowy cap, and rapt face was a familiar
picture to the congregation as she sat on the steps of the
pulpit, a seat allowed her on account of her deafness. The
church was built for the white people of the neighborhood,
but a large number of benches were set apart for the
negroes. They were well filled on "meeting-days." The man
who took up the collection handed the plate to the slaves
as well as to the masters, and our George Page, among
others, did not fail to put in his contribution. George was
able to do this. He has lately said that he received as much
as fifty dollars a year from visitors to his master's house.
Thomas was an accurate shot with a rifle, and was
successful as a huntsman. He was devoted to both
hunting and fishing. The deer, which abounded on the
plantation when he bought it, grew fewer and fewer as year
by year they were hunted and killed. In the neighboring
county of Scott they still roamed in great numbers. The
lands were lying out, and free to any sportsman who cared
to shoot the deer. Thomas and some of his neighbors
organized a hunting club club to go each autumn to enjoy
the Scott County hunting-grounds. For eight years they
spent two weeks of every November over there. Thomas
took along, besides the horse on which he rode, a mule that
he called his hunting mule. "Annie" was trained to stand
while he fired from her back; and when, in the heat of
pursuit, he leaped off and left Annie with her bridle
hanging as it chanced to fall, the sagacious beast stood
stock-still till her master returned to the spot. He attributed
much of his success in the Scott County hunts to the
docility of this mule.
He had a pack of hounds that were rarely used except
on these annual hunts. A wagon with four mules
carried his servants and a marquee large enough for twelve
men, bed, camp-chest, etc. Provisions of various sorts
were stowed away in the wagon. This camping-out frolic
was looked forward to by the club with the zest of boys.
The deer were killed in numbers. Occasionally a wild turkey
would be brought into camp, and add variety to the feast.
The deer were so abundant that the greater number of
the huntsmen did not care to shoot at a doe or a fawn. But
the excitable ones did not regard age or sex. The
huntsmen used to agree that one of their number, Mr.
Mount, saw branching antlers on every deer's head that
started up before him, as he rushed wildly in the chase.
Thomas delighted in telling stories of these hunts.
They were full of adventure. The gay huntsmen, leaving all
care behind, were as full of practical jokes as school-boys. On the breaking up of the camp the deer were
divided out and taken home, some of them in their skins
and with antlers on.
Thomas was in the habit of throwing his gun across his
saddle-bow whenever he rode out into his fields, with the
hope of getting a shot at a deer or a wild turkey. One day a
gobbler started up at a distance of about fifty yards in
front of him, and ran down the road. He fired and killed him,
the bullet running along the spine and through the neck.
Thomas's eyes were strong and far-sighted. He could read
the name of an incoming steamer at Pass Christian before
any one else present could make out the form of a letter.
His eyes were not readily forgotten by any one who had
ever seen him. Madame Desrayaux, the head of a French
"pension" in New Orleans, said that she could not recall
the face of any of the fathers of her young ladies except
Colonel Dabney's. Some of these she saw every year. She
had seen him but once, as his daughter was with her but
one winter. But she could never forget his eyes.
young negro so hopelessly dull that her own mother would
not try to teach her to sew or to do other useful things.
Under the sheltering wing of the mistress this girl would be
patiently taught to do many things. Sophia was aware that
this was not the way to have her household ordered in the
best style. She was quite indifferent to the public opinion
that required only fine-looking, thoroughly trained
servants about the establishment of a gentleman. Many of
her servants were intelligent, and filled their departments
well, and the dull one was screened by being kept in the
nursery and about her. The objects of her patience and
kindness were devoted to her and proud of her favor. In
many instances they became much better instructed than
would have been thought possible by one less
conscientious and full of faith than herself.
She felt for her house servants on Sundays, and allowed
the cook and dining-room servants to put substitutes in
their places, as they were more confined than the others.
They had pride in their office, and instructed the
substitutes so successfully that very little difference was
perceived. But now and then a ludicrous mistake was made
in the table attendance. One day Sophia asked one of these
substitutes to give her a potato. A hand was promptly
thrust across the table over the heads of the children, the
potato seized, and then, without a misgiving, deposited on
the plate of the mistress at the head of the table. She gave
no sign of disapproval, receiving it as if it had been handed
her in a proper manner.
She often found difficulty in controlling her laughter. It
was contagious and very peculiar. She gave scarcely
a sound. Everything about her was soft, - her voice,
her manner, and her laugh was almost inaudible. But
it was irresistible. Every one in the room joined in,
whether they knew the cause of amusement or not.
She frequently held one hand over her face, down
which the tears were running. With the other she was
making signals of distress. * Much as these occasions
* "The last remark was levelled at her
mother, who had a singular
way
of laughing; to wit, shaking all over, without emitting the slightest
sound, while
big tears rolled down her cheeks. Alice was the idol of her heart, and her queer
freaks of vivacious drollery often set her mother off, as at present, into
uncontrollable undulations of entirely inaudible laughter." - Don
Miff, p. 69.
signs were enjoyed by those around her, it was to herself
a real regret that she was so childlike in her merriment. She
learned to dread certain stories and allusions, as they
invariably threw her into to one of these fits of laughing.
Her children and husband, who naturally most delighted in
seeing her laugh, were cautioned by her not to bring these
things up. She assured them with an earnestness that they
felt obliged to respect that she suffered physically as well
as mentally in her effort at self-control.
* A constant smile
was on the mother's face even when she was alone, and
oftentimes continued when she was asleep.
Thomas's devotion to her and trust in her judgment increased
with every year of their married life. He often said that her
judgment was better than his even in business, and that every
mistake of his life had been committed on the occasions when
he had failed to consult her. When the children asked his
consent to anything his invariable answer was, "Go to your
mother." This was so well understood that the reply to this
was "Mamma sent me to you," as she did when in doubt. His
delicate, chivalrous attentions to her were unceasing. He
delighted in teasing her, too, because she looked so young
and pretty when her blushes were brought up by his
raillery. One unceasing occasion of blushing on her part
was when he would playfully threaten to sing to their
assembled sons and daughters, now growing to be great
boys and girls, the song that had won her young heart. He
called this a "Dieaway," and the first line was, "Sweet
Sophy, the girl that I love." It seemed to be the paraphrase
of some song that he had adopted to suit his needs when
he saw that a rival lover was in higher favor than himself,
* Sarah Dabney inherited her mother's laugh.
"I try to think of all
the dead
people that I know, but I cannot stop laughing." the little child said, after
one of those fits of uncontrollable laughter in school.
- this was the account that he gave of it, and he said that it
turned the scale in his favor. After this prelude, which was
delicious to the listening children, he would begin on the
first line with every sign of an intention of going through to
the end. But her violent blushes and entreaties always
brought it to a close after the singing of the first line. He
was tenderly solicitous about her health, and in a constant
state of anxiety if she were away from home. He especially
disliked to have her go out in the carriage unaccompanied
by himself. When she went to Raymond, - to church or to
spend the day, - his rule was to ride to meet her at the
bridge, or before she reached the bridge, across the
Tallahala Creek. This bridge, being on his land, was kept in
good order. But she had once been alarmed on a bridge
when the carriage-horses had stopped and run backward,
and this left an unpleasant association in her mind. Often,
when he found that the carriage had been ordered out by
Sophia for some expedition, he would change all his own
plans and go with her. He grew more and more tenderly
anxious as years passed, and said that he was never easy a
moment when she was away. He disliked to be in a carriage,
and never got into one if he could avoid it. He rode by the
side, putting his face to the window and talking to her, and
bending to catch her answers. His wild thoroughbred
Nimrod disliked this, and they had many battles over it.
Nimrod would leap and spring off, and walk on his hind
legs in a way that would have frightened most wives.
The journey to the Pass, a distance of one hundred and
eighty miles, was made overland by Thomas and Sophia
and the young children and servants. The older children,
as time went on, were usually sent by the river by way
of Vicksburg and New Orleans. The travellers by land were
seven days on the road. For the first few years a camp
equipage was carried along, and the whole party camped
out at night. But Thomas became acquainted with the
country people along the road, and found it more
comfortable to engage supper and beds in the houses.
This arrangement, so satisfactory
to the heads of the family, was regretted by the
children, who took the wildest delight in the camping-out
experience. For them there was a charm in the long
shadows of the tall pine-trees stretching away in the
mysterious darkness like the pillars of some vast cathedral,
in the soughing of the night-wind in the tree-tops, in the
scent of the crushed pine-needles as we lay down to sleep,
and even the far-away howling of the wolves, which we
heard at one of our camping-places, had its fascination.
Then it was full of interest to us to watch the pitching of
the tent at night and the building of the great camp-fire,
and to sit around the fire while the busy servants prepared
the meals.
Thomas set out on this journey to and from the Pass on
the same day each year. The country people knew when to
expect him. A stranger passing through the country one of
these years saw such extensive arrangements for supper
going forward that he asked why so many chickens, etc.,
were being prepared. The answer was that Colonel Dabney
and his family always came on this day each year. He was
looked for at the Pass at about two o'clock on the seventh
day of the journey. One day several gentlemen were
converging at the Pass, one of them looked at his watch,
and remarked that Colonel Dabney would be along in about
five minutes. He went on to say that he had not heard from
him since parting with him at the Pass on the preceding
summer; but he knew his punctual habits. He had scarcely
gotten through saying this when the carriage and wagon
and two or three outriders appeared in view, and Thomas
Dabney was taking off his hat to the group. An old friend
of his was boasting to him one day that he had never
been too late for a steamboat or a train. Thomas said that
he could say more, he had never been near being too late.
The most remarkable instance of his punctuality is in
connection with one of his visits to his mother. He wrote to
her that one year from the date of his letter he would be in
Richmond. He did not mention this again in his letters to
her. She knew his way, and on
the day set she drove in from Mount Prospect in her
carriage to meet him.
The people in the "piney woods" counties of Mississippi,
through which the road from Burleigh to Pass Christian
lay, were almost totally uneducated. They had but
little use for money, subsisting on the products of their
little patches, and cows, pigs, and fowls. They were
frequently "squatters," living on government lands. They
raised a bale or two of cotton each year to clothe the family
and provide for other simple needs. They had no cotton-gin,
but separated the seed from the lint with their fingers.
The women spun and wove by hand; with bark and roots
of different kinds they dyed the cloth intended for the men,
but for other purposes it was left in its native whiteness.
The women and girls, of whom there seemed to be a good
many in most of the houses, dressed in white from head to
foot. The beds were white, white hangings covered the wall
in different places, and every shelf and dresser had its
snowy drapery. They showed ingenuity in varying the
patterns of the fringes and edges that bordered these
simple decorations. The chairs were made of white wood,
and were scrubbed until they were almost as snowy as the
cotton fabrics. The effect was very neat and pleasing. One
of these simple people said that Mrs. Dabney was her idea
of how a queen must look.
The hair of the children was, up to the age of ten years,
so light as to be almost white; it looked like the snowy,
silvery hair that comes with great age.
One man, Mr. Holyfield, was so proud of the single letter
that he had received in his life that it was posted up on the
inside of his door. Here, year by year, we read it. They had
a way of not undressing at night, and were quite startled at
the first sight of a lady in a night-gown. It was our
grandmamma Hill. One of her family was hastily summoned,
and the inquiry made if the old lady thought that she was
going to die. They thought that she was attiring herself in a
shroud.
Our dear mother was known as a friend to the peddlers
who come about the country with packs on their backs.
They were disliked by many planters, but
Thomas let her have her way in helping them. One day her
son Edward was in Vicksburg buying clothes, and gave his
name to the shopkeeper. The man asked if he were a son of
Colonel Dabney, and being answered in the affirmative,
was warm in his expressions of gratitude. He had been a
peddler, he said, and had been most kindly treated at
Burleigh. He had heard Mrs. Dabney say to her husband,
"This man looks sick. Why do you not give him a horse?"
"Certainly, my dear," was the answer, and when he got
ready to tie his pack up, a horse was given to him.
Another peddler who had been helped by her is now the
owner of a piano-store, and loses no opportunity of trying
to serve her children, expressing a grateful recollection of
her kindness. One day a peddler offered her ten dollars for
a blind mule that he had seen in the stable. The mule was
never used, but was fed and cared for on account of past
services. She told him that she would not sell the poor
beast, but she would give him to him on a certain condition.
This condition was that if he grew tired of him he would not
sell him, but bring him back to her. The promise was given.
But the mule was fat and strong, and a good price was
offered by some one, and the peddler sold him. He was a
young German. It so happened that another German was in
the Burleigh house at the time of this transaction, engaged
in papering the walls. He was incensed that the lady's
kindness should have met with such return at the hands
of one of his countrymen. He resolved to vindicate the
honor of the Fatherland by beating the recreant peddler
every time that he met him. Mrs. Dabney remonstrated
seriously, and plead the cause of the peddler. But it was of
no avail.
The paper-hanger gave the peddler two beatings, and
tried to beat him a third time. But the peddler turned
on him, and gave him such a drubbing that the man
was content to let him alone in the future. Several
years after this two of Thomas's daughters were at
Cooper's Wells for a few days. Finding that they
needed some ribbons and other trifles, they sent their
maid out to buy them. She returned with the things,
and all the money that had been handed her. The
shopkeeper had asked who her young mistresses were,
and on hearing their name, had refused to receive payment.
No one of that family could pay for anything in his shop,
he said. On investigation, he turned out to be one of the
peddlers whom our mother had helped.
When the fields were burned, in preparation for another
crop, the fires, unless well managed, sometimes did
mischief. Not infrequently, too, the negroes in their coon-hunts
left their half-extinguished torches about, with no
thought of the dangerous proximity of valuable property.
One Sunday the cry was raised that the fences were
burning. The master hurried to the fire with the men who
could be called, and after a hard fight it was put out.
Edward, who was now quite a lad, had run to the fire. He
perceived that another part of the fence was afire and that it
was fast running along the dried grass to the ginhouse.
There was no time to get help. He beat it out and subdued
it unassisted, and was nearly fainting when his father found
him. He sent him back to the house, while he and the
negroes completed the work. Edward did not tell any one
of what he had done. When his father came, he said that
the boy had saved ten thousand dollars for him a few hours
before, at the risk of his life. Thomas did not readily express
his affection for his children at this period of his life, but a
few words, "That was right, my son," or "my child," with
the fond, lingering touch on the head, were felt to mean far
more than the words expressed.
Colonel Dabney on his plantation than the President of
the United States.
Managing a plantation was something like managing a
kingdom. The ruler had need of a great store, not only of
wisdom, but of tact and patience as well.
When there was trouble in the house the real kindness
and sympathy of the servants came out. They seemed to
anticipate every wish. In a thousand touching little ways
they showed their desire to give all the comfort and help
that lay in their power. They seemed to claim a right to share
in the sorrow that was their master's, and to make it their
own. It was small wonder that the master and mistress were
forbearing. and patient when the same servants who
sorrowed with them in their affliction should, at times, be
perverse in their days of prosperity. Many persons said that
the Burleigh servants were treated with overindulgence. It is
true that at times some of them acted like spoiled children,
seeming not to know what they would have. Nothing went
quite to their taste at these times. The white family would
say among themselves, "What is the matter now? Why
these martyr-like looks?" Mammy Maria usually threw light
on these occasions. She was disgusted with her race for
posing as martyrs when there was no grievance. A striking
illustration of this difficulty in making things run smoothly
occurred one summer, when the family was preparing to go
to the Pass. The mistress made out her list of the servants
whom she wished to accompany her. She let them know
that they were to be allowed extra time to get their houses
and clothes in order for the three months' absence from
home. Some of them answered with tears. It would be
cruel to be torn from home and friends, perhaps husband
and children, and not to see them for all that time. Sophia
regretfully made out a new list, leaving out the most
clamorous ones. There were no tears shed nor mournful
looks given by the newly elected, for dear to the colored
heart was the thought of change and travel. It was a secret
imparted by Mammy Maria to her mistress that great was
the disappointment of those who had overacted
their part, thereby cutting themselves off from a
much-coveted pleasure.
Thomas was never an early riser. He maintained that it
did not so much matter when a man got up as what he did
after he was up. He woke up in the morning as gay as a
boy, and when Sophia, fully dressed, informed him that it
was time to get up, received the announcement with one of
his liveliest tunes. That was the only answer usually to the
first summons or two. She could not help laughing; no one
could who heard him. When she remonstrated he sang
only the more gayly.
Every one knew when he was awake by the merry
sounds proceeding from his chamber. He did not go
in to breakfast till he had danced the Fisher's Hornpipe
for the baby, singing along with the steps and drawing
an imaginary bow across imaginary strings. All the
nursery flocked about him at the signal, one or two
of the little tots joining in the capering. This habit he
kept up to the end of his life, and his grown children
would smile as they heard the cheery notes sounding
through the house on his awaking. Then he walked
with his quick, half-military step, the laugh still on his
face, into the dining-room, where breakfast was already
in progress. It was not a ceremonious meal he maintained.
Dinner was a ceremonious meal in his house. Every
one was expected to be ready, and sitting with the
family in the hall or drawing-room or dining-room not
less than five minutes before the last bell was rung. If
there was a lady guest, the master of the house handed
her in to dinner. If the guest was a gentleman, he was
expected to hand in one of the ladies, as Thomas
showed by offering his arm to one.
He was the life of the company, as he sat at the foot of
his own table. Many of his most amusing anecdotes and
stories, as well as those of deeper meaning, are associated
with the dinner-table. No one could fill his place when he
was absent.
He was often absent, being called from home by
matters of business or duty or pleasure. In addition to
spending some time every other summer with his
mother in Virginia, and going occasionally to New York, and two
weeks every fall on the deer-hunt, he made frequent visits to New
Orleans, Vicksburg, and Jackson, and occasional visits to other
places. He rarely spent a week without passing a day with
Augustine.
In travelling on steamboats, if alone, he always selected for himself
the state-room just over the boiler. If the boat were to blow up, he
said he should prefer being killed outright to running a risk of
being only half killed, or of being maimed for life. It need hardly
be added that he found no difficulty in securing his chosen state-room.
His interest in public affairs sometimes called him off to
distant cities.
January always found him in New Orleans for a three weeks'
visit. After attending to his business with his commission
merchants and buying the plantation supplies, he enjoyed the
pleasures of this brilliant city. He was a member of the Boston
Club, and he there met the most interesting and distinguished
citizens of New Orleans. One of the chief attractions of this
place was the game of whist to be had there. He was considered
authority on whist. A game that he once played at the Greenbrier
White Sulphur Springs, in Virginia, was considered remarkable.
His old friend, Mr. John Tabb, of Whitemarsh, Gloucester
County, had invited him to a game of whist in his cottage at the
Springs. Three whist-players of known skill were invited to play
with him, and a company invited to witness the game. During the
evening a singular incident took place. Twelve cards had been
played out of each hand, leaving each gentleman with his
thirteenth card only. At this point Thomas Dabney said to them
that he wished to call their attention to a singular coincidence in
the fact that every man present held in his hand a nine. When the
cards were laid on the table this was seen to be true, to the surprise
of all. One gentleman said he could show a more remarkable thing
than that, it was the man who knew it.
He was never but once a candidate for any office in
Mississippi; that was for the State Legislature. He was defeated
by one vote. The contest was strictly a party one, and all the
candidates on the Whig ticket were defeated by their
Democratic opponents.
Thomas Dabney was enthusiastic in his admiration of Henry
Clay, and followed his career with the deepest interest. He
seemed almost to know Mr. Clay's speeches by heart, and
delighted in talking of him and quoting his brilliant sayings. "I
had rather be right than President" was a great utterance, he said.
He contracted a warm personal friendship for him, and was
anxious to accept Mr. Clay's invitation to visit him at Ashland.
But my mother objected. She knew that the great statesman had
his failings as well as his virtues. She had a very gentle way of
objecting, but her gentle way was a law to him. He yielded, and
did not go. He greatly admired S. S. Prentiss, and enjoyed having
a visit from him at the Pass Christian house.
The National Intelligencer was the most ably conducted
paper in the United States, in his opinion. He kept it on file. In
sending on his subscription his custom was to send twenty-five
dollars at a time.
His lively interest in public affairs made him write a good deal
for the public press. Unfortunately, the many papers stowed
away with his articles in them have been destroyed.
Tutors were employed to teach in the family until the boys
were old enough to be sent off to college. In order to make the
boys study with more interest, the children of the neighbors were
received into the school. When the three sons were sent off to
college, a governess was employed to teach the daughters. The
teachers at Burleigh were treated like guests and friends.
Thomas said that he did not wish any but ladies to have the
charge of his daughters, and they should be treated as ladies. Miss
Dyott, the beloved governess, who lived in the house five years,
loved the family like dear relatives. When Mrs. Moncure's
daughter was taken as a pupil along with his daughters, he
handed to Miss Dyott, in addition to her salary, the money
paid for this child's tuition. She objected, and
said that another pupil or two would really make her school-
duties more interesting to his daughters and to herself; but
be was firm, and she had to receive the money.
During her stay at Burleigh, when there was company to
dinner, the master of the house took her in on his arm. At
her death, many years later, the Burleigh family stood
around her grave with her family as mourners.
It may be said that all honest men who had business
transactions with Thomas Dabney became his personal
friends. It was evident that he did not wish to get the
advantage of any one. Several of his overseers soon
became able to buy farms of their own, and grew to be rich
men. He was so liberal in his dealings with them, that it was
said they made as much in fattening and selling their riding-horses as their salaries amounted to. He was often cheated
and imposed upon. Instead of worrying over it, he said he
was very glad that he had found the scoundrels out.
The first tutor in the family was a young Virginian of
high culture. He taught the sons - Charles, Virginius, and
Edward - for nine years, and during the last few years some
of the older girls went into the schoolroom along with their
brothers. Thomas regarded this young man almost like a
son. Always unsuspicious , he was slow in perceiving that
he was falling into dissipated habits. He was attached to
Thomas, and valued his good opinion so much that he
was able to control himself when with him. But he found
that the love of drink was getting too strong for him. He
joined a temperance society, hoping to get self-control in
this way. In an hour of weakness he broke his pledge. He
no longer had respect for himself, and resolved on self-destruction.
But he could not carry it into effect while
under the influence of the strong character of Thomas
Dabney.
When the time came for the household to go to Pass
Christian, whither the tutors and governesses were
always pressed to go as guests, he steadily refused to
accompany them, as he had done in the preceding
summer. He had made every arrangement to kill
himself as soon as Thomas should be gone. "I have too
much respect for Colonel Dabney to kill myself in his
house," he had said to a gentleman in the neighborhood.
He went to a neighboring plantation and cut his throat that
night. The body was sent to Raymond for interment, and
was put by the side of the two boys, Thomas and James
Dabney. At once, on hearing of this, Thomas wrote to
Augustine to have the remains of the unhappy man taken
up. No suicide, he said, should rest by the side of his pure
children.
It is a singular coincidence that the suicide of another
teacher in his family, a German music-teacher, took
place during his absence, and it was thought that if
Thomas Dabney bad been at home it would not have
occurred. This man became so much attached to him
as to be hardly happy out of his house. His visits to
Burleigh became more and more frequent and longer,
until finally he had his trunks brought with him.
Thomas was passionately fond of music. He had in
vain tried to persuade an accomplished Belgian
violinist to move to Burleigh with his wife and child to
live there. The hundred-dollar bill that accompanied
the invitation had its effect, and he spent some weeks
there. It is possible that he would have prolonged his
stay but for being afraid to play on his violin on
Sundays. He consulted the German governess in the
family on this point in his native language, the French,
in the hearing of some of the family, who understood
French. The governess advised him not to play on his
violin. So Sunday got to be a long day with him, and
he and his wife and little "Carlito" went away. Sophia
was not sorry to see him go, although when he played
with the tears running down his face, she herself felt
moved by the divine music which seemed to come from
his very heart. All the more she felt that her husband
and children were getting too much absorbed by it.
Sometimes the artist improvised for hours, walking up
and down the room, his eyes rolled upward in an
ecstasy, - then exhaustion followed, and strong coffee
was called for to steady the overstrained nerves. At
these times the whole house was absorbed in the musician
and his music. It was all too exciting and intoxicating for
every-day life.
The violin was Thomas's favorite instrument. The German
music-teacher did not play on the violin, but he was a brilliant
performer on the piano and a good backgammon player.
These two accomplishments, with a quiet, unobtrusive
manner, made him a welcome inmate of the house. He was
careless and indolent in his music lessons, and these had
ceased long before he came to the house to live. But he
was ready to play when music was wanted in the evenings,
and was never tired of the mid-day game of backgammon,
when Thomas came back from his rides on the plantation.
One summer, when the whole family went to Virginia, he
concluded that he would stay on at Burleigh rather than
give up his room. He explained once, when invited to
spend the night away from Burleigh, that he could not
sleep well except at "home." The family stayed longer than
he expected in Virginia. They were detained by the yellow
fever, which was raging in some of the cities through
which the route home lay. The man grew morbidly anxious
to see Thomas, the only human being for whom he was ever
known to show affection in America. He went to Vicksburg
to meet him, and there heard that there was still further
delay, as the fever had broken out afresh. He became
despondent and began to drink. When Thomas reached
home he had been dead two days. He had blown his
brains out with a revolver.
Charles, the eldest son, was ready for college in the fall
of 1846. He was at this time sixteen years old. He was sent
to the college of William and Mary in Virginia. In the
following winter Thomas had the only serious illness that
attacked him during the fifty years that he lived in
Mississippi. On February 13 Sophia wrote to her son:
your papa. I have been uneasy about you, for I had not
received a letter from you for three weeks. But your papa
had more philosophy than I had. He said he was not at all
uneasy.... Your papa is a good deal better. To-day he ate
two doves at dinner, and he and Mr. Garlick drove out in
the carriage. He has a very great appetite. He is not
allowed to sit at my table....
"I am afraid you will be disappointed when you see
Sarah. She is at an ugly age. Sue has improved very much.
I think she is equally as pretty as Sarah is now. But you
have not the least idea how perfectly beautiful Emmy is.
When Mr. Dimitry first saw her he was astonished, and
exclaimed that she was a magnificent child. I never saw
such a pair of eyes. Her skin is very fair, her checks rosy,
and her countenance all amiability. She is very much
caressed. Sue talks more about you than any of the
children. She dreams about you occasionally. She dreamed
a few nights ago that you had come home and brought a
wife with you. She was quite disappointed when she
opened her eyes and found it was a dream."...
Before this letter was sealed Sophia was bidden to add a
postscript:
"S. D."
"Raymond, 19th April, 1847.
"MY DEAR SON, -
Your mother's letter to you of the 15th
was read by me and approved. This is probably as much as
you would wish me to say, but I shall say something more,
as it is due to you. To begin with your mother's postscript,
written at my dictation. I made her say that the one hundred
and eighty-seven dollars would last you some time; 'Yes, it
shall last you some time; until next fall.' Your reply to this is
in these words: 'Now, my dear father, I will certainly make it
last as long as I can. It will last me unless I have a doctor's
bill to pay, which I hope will not be the case. I know how
hard you work for this money, etc., etc.,' and, after saying
other things, you conclude with, 'If I have been too
extravagant this year, I will not be so again.' This reply does
you more honor than any act of your life. It is a perfectly
dutiful, respectful, and affectionate reply to a cruel and
unjust injunction from your father, carrying with it an
equally cruel and unjust imputation. :But you were not
unmindful that it came from your father. I will now explain.
During my illness I was kept for many days under the
influence of opium in large quantities. But I slept not. On
the contrary, my imagination was haunted by horrible
visions. I took up strange fancies having no foundation, but
firmly believed in, notwithstanding. I thought of you, my
absent one, when all others were freed from their earthly
cares by sleep. During this time letters accumulated; and
your mother asked me one day (it appears to have been on
the 13th of February by your letter) if I would like to hear
any of them read. I told her to read yours to me, but none
others. One of yours acknowledged the receipt of the one
hundred and eighty-seven dollars, with the remark that you
would not have to call for any more for some time. Now,
although I well knew before I was taken sick that you
would want this one hundred and eighty-seven dollars by
the time you could get it from Gloucester, and although I
entertained great doubts about its sufficiency to carry you
through the session, yet, at that moment of a distempered
imagination, your remark above quoted struck me as
extraordinary. I thought you had had a great deal of
money. I confounded what I gave Christopher with what I
gave you, - that you had each received two hundred and
fifty dollars, and that you had received a like sum from
your grandmother. This fancy of a sick brain became a
fixed idea, and remained so even after my recovery; for it
never occurred to me that it was false, and, consequently, it
could need no investigation. I never knew better until I
read the statement in your letter of the 2d instant. I have
now acknowledged my fault; not esteeming it as a
degradation for a parent to acknowledge his faults to his
children. On the contrary, I should hold that parent
irretrievably disgraced who should make the futile attempt
(it must ever be futile) to conceal them by boldness or by
an affected obtuseness.
"Under all the painful circumstances of the two letters
from your mother and the one from me of the 1st of March,
I cannot blame you much for your propositions concerning
the army and navy and West Point. These propositions,
coming at the time they do, and coupled with the assurance
or remark that should you get to West Point you will not
want me to give you anything more, looks as though you
apprehended I might feel you to be burdensome. Now, my
dear child, how you have mistaken me if this is, or ever
was, for one moment your idea. You know but little of your
father, of the depth of his love for you, of the vigils he has
kept, is keeping, and expects to keep, till the last pulsation
of his heart, on your behalf if you think this of him. No, my
dear child, you never were a burden to me. The day you are
felt to be such, or the day on which any of my children are
felt to be such, will be a sad one in their poor father's
house, - for poor he will then be indeed!
"I never made any objection to your going to West
Point, because I consider it a good school, where a good,
though not a perfect, education may be acquired. I
therefore acceded to what I believed to be your wish, and
made an effort to get you in there. This I did because I am
not one of those who think that parents know everything
and children nothing. But the feature in it which would
exempt me from paying your way is a positive and very
great objection with me. It was not necessary that I should
say so at that time, and I did not, because I did not choose
to object in any way to promoting your wish. I will not
make the objection insurmountable now, but will keep a
standing application there in your behalf if you wish it. I
will make it my business to interest General Foote, one of
our Senators, in your behalf if it be possible for a Whig to
find any favor with the present administration. As to what
you say about the navy or getting a lieutenancy in the
army, I cannot think of such a thing, my dear son, as your
education would be nothing if arrested now, as it would be
in such a case. Indeed, I hope that those notions have
been put to flight by what I have already written.
"I shall not wish you to be more economical than you
have been. You might have spared the assertion that you
lost none of it at cards, as neither your mother nor myself
ever doubted your honor for the millionth part of a second.
You will not sit at cards during your college life, because I
asked you not to do it. With the degree of A. M. in your
pocket you can do as you wish in this respect.
"Unless you expect me to be more unfortunate in my
efforts than I have been, I see no reason why you should
say that you will want nothing more from me than a good
education. I expect to educate my children without
impairing my property. If I do this, they will divide what I
have and what I may hereafter acquire (if any) equally
among them.
"If you would not mortify me you will not let me find
you next summer without an ample supply of seasonable
clothing and every other thing proper for a gentleman.
Reward such servants and others as deserve
rewards at your hands. Do not leave Williamsburg
without impressing it indelibly on the recollections of all
with whom you have had associations that you are a
gentleman. It is too late now for me to make any remittance
to enable you to meet these views, but you can call upon
your grandmother for any sum that may be necessary, and
I will return it to her on the 1st of July.
"Your ever devoted father,
"PASS CHRISTIAN.
"I do want to see
you very much, but I want you to
remain a little longer with your friends, your mother
particularly, you have not seen her for such a length of
time. I know how I should feel when so long separated
from a beloved son.... I do not like to make you unhappy
one moment. I tell you all my grievances and all my joys."
On the 4th of November of this fall (1846) the seventh
son was born. It was the anniversary of the birth of Sarah,
now eight years old. She had received the name of her
father's mother, and the infant boy was called Benjamin,
after his father.
The Mexican war fever was running high now. Thomas
had given his epaulettes and his two-yards-wide silken
sash, that could pass through a lady's finger-ring, to the
captain of the Raymond Fencibles. Even the little children
in the nursery cried out that the Mexicans were firing when
the fire crackled. Charles had a leaning towards a soldier's
life, and his ardor was inflamed. His pleadings to be
allowed to follow a military career were so earnest that his
parents yielded a reluctant consent. The Mississippi
Senator, Governor Henry S. Foote, was a personal friend. Application
was made through him to the War Office, and
the appointment for West Point came in due time. Charles
knew that at heart his parents were unwilling for him to go
into the army, and after receiving the commission he felt
that he could not conscientiously act in opposition to their
known wishes. He decided to throw up the appointment,
thus sacrificing his ambition to filial obedience.
A letter written before he had made up his mind to this
sacrifice is not without interest, as it shows the enthusiasm
of the boy, and we can the better understand the effort that
it cost him to give up all hope of being a soldier:
"WILLIAMSBURG, April 9, 1847.
"According to the
most disinterested accounts I have
seen of the battle of Buena Vista, our gallant regiment has
covered itself with laurels that will never fade. Taylor, too,
has shown himself to be one of the ablest tacticians the
world has ever produced. Twelve months ago you thought
him one of the most egregious fools that ever headed an
army. I recollect saying to you at the time that there was no
officer, in my opinion, who could better represent the true
character of the American soldier. Our volunteers, too, how
much were they hooted at, and particularly their commanding
officers! The mortality among our colonels in the late
battle will show to the world that the highest compliment
that can be paid to any soldier, whether regular or
volunteer, is to say that he is equal to an American
volunteer colonel. Out of six colonels that we had on the
field five were either killed or wounded, and every one
who was not instantaneously killed fought lying
on his back. After this battle we may all be proud to say
that we are Mississippians. Look at the veteran coolness
with which they received the charge of the Mexican
cavalry. Look at the Southern impetuosity with which they
throw themselves into every dangerous position. The
killed and wounded all go to prove it. Out of four hundred,
one hundred and fifty were
either killed or wounded, a loss almost unparalleled. Her
glory has cost her much, but to have lost her honor would
have been an expense far greater The Raymond Fencibles,
from the list of her killed and wounded, has suffered greatly,
and may truly be said to have performed its duty, - nearly
half either killed or wounded, perhaps more than half. I do
not know how small it was at the battle. Judging from the
regiment, which was nine hundred and thirty when I
was at Vicksburg, and now only four hundred, I think that
more than half were killed. Downing I do not suppose was
there; perhaps for the best; he might have been killed. He
distinguished himself at Monterey, so much so that
General Taylor mentioned him in his despatches. Your
epaulettes and sash could not have been intrusted in better
hands.... Vera Cruz is related to be taken; if so, we will
certainly get to Mexico now, unless the Mexicans sue for
peace very shortly. General Scott is pushing ahead very
rapidly. We are certainly a land of soldiers....
"I have already told you, I know, my dear father, about
the war news, and told you only those things that you
knew. But you must excuse me. I know that had I been with
you I should certainly have talked in the same way. I have
no one here to talk to me about the Mississippi regiment,
and therefore I have to write you whatever I want to
say about it. Perhaps the Raymond Gazette may contain a
more detailed account of the conduct of the Raymond
Fencibles. If you have it I would be very glad for you to
send it to me. You have no idea how much interest I take in
everything connected with that company....
"I do not think that I will ever come here again. There is
too much frolicking and too much to attract one's attention.
There are three or four, or sometimes fifteen, drunken
students here a day. As far as the faculty is concerned, it is
second to no college in America, but a great deal more
depends on the student than on the professors. It matters
not how learned the professors are, if the students frolic
they will not learn much....
"I wish most seriously that I had gone as a private in
the Raymond Fencibles.... I can learn how to be a fine
soldier, which is all that I want to be."...
Our father's well-known and stanch Whig principles
clearly entitled him to take a leading part in the political
demonstrations which were here held in honor of
the victorious general; and he was, accordingly, made
chairman of the committee of reception. After meeting
him at the boat, he brought him in his private carriage
to his own house, which was at that time one of
the largest in the village, and singularly well adapted
(with its veranda stretching seventy feet along the
front and proportionally wide) to accommodate the
throng of people who were to come on the morrow to
be presented to General Taylor. The following morning
at an early hour the visitors began to arrive, of
both sexes and of all ages, - in carriages, wagons, on
horseback, on foot, and in boats. All day long as they
came, they were received by Thomas and introduced
to the general, and after a little time had been allowed
for conversation, were invited to the refreshment-tables.
With unflagging zeal throughout this summer's day
he looked after the welfare and saw to the comfort of
all who came. If he singled out any one and showed
him any special attention, it was the humblest there
- a lad, whose poor old mother dwelt in a dilapidated
hut, and whose worldly possessions could well have
been represented by zero. Him he led up to the general,
saying, "Allow me to introduce to you --, the son of my old
friend, Mrs. --. Who knows but what he, too, may not be
a candidate for the highest office within the gift of the
people?" General Taylor, after cordially shaking hands
with the lad, put his hand on his head, and in the kindest
tones said, "Yes, my son, to him who earnestly strives all
things are possible."
The hero of many a hotly-contested battle won the
hearts of us children (for most of us were children in
1848) by his guileless ways and simple, unaffected
manners.
There came with him his suite, consisting of Colonel
Craughn, a gray-headed veteran, who, when a young
officer, at the head of but forty men, had obstinately and
victoriously held a log fort against the repeated assaults of
hundreds of hostile Indians, and Major Garnett, then a
brave and handsome young soldier, who afterwards,
having risen to the rank of general, fell fighting gallantly
for his section in the late civil war. And in addition to these
two, his own son, Captain Richard Taylor, who, in the same
war, rose to eminence by reason of his gallantry and
ability. *
Thomas had all the nursery, as well as the older children,
to go to the pier to see General Taylor land. Some of the
little ones became alarmed at the crowd and the shouting
and began to cry. Thomas took a child on each arm, and,
with a third clinging to his leg, received the hero of
Mexico. The old soldier had a father's heart under his
rough exterior. He kissed the little trio amid the waving of
hats and cheers of the hundreds gathered to welcome him.
During his visit to Thomas an incident occurred that
amused him.
He served one of the little girls sitting near him at table
to butter, on which she frankly informed him that her
mamma had forbidden her to eat that butter, that it was
intended for him. The good-natured general led the laugh
that followed this little disclosure.
* The above account of General Taylor's visit
was written by
Edward.
He was reminded by this, he said, of a little scene that
he had witnessed at a house in which he was a visitor.
Happening to look out of his bedroom window before
going down to breakfast, he saw a lady explaining to her
child how she was to behave herself, "for General Taylor is
here," she said, and she was emphasizing her instructions
by shaking a switch over the youngster's head.
During the week in the Pass Christian house he said
many interesting things. One day he spoke of the
impossibility of satisfying people in this world, and
illustrated it with an incident in his own experience. Hearing
an old and favorite negro servant of his say that she would
be perfectly happy if she had a hundred dollars, he gave a
hundred dollars to her. As he left the room, he heard her
say regretfully, "I wish that I had said two hundred."
"MOUNT PROSPECT, October 5, 1848.
"That you have
been highly complimented by General
Taylor's marked attention to you there can be no doubt,
and I congratulate you on the event. But, my son, take
CARE. Flattery is an intoxicating draft: we all like it; but,
although sweet to the taste, it sometimes leaves a bitter
behind it. Cardinal Wolsey said too much honor would sink
a navy. Dryden said honor is an empty bubble. So that
too much importance should not be attached to it."
"MOUNT PROSPECT, November 25, 1848.
..."I congratulate
you and my country on General
Taylor's election, and trust and hope our halcyon
days are returning.... The longer I live the less I think
of earthly honors. General Taylor is a great man, and
I hope he will honor the Presidency. It will not honor
him, I think, after the scoundrels that preceded him.
Only think of the changes in our country! I lived in
the days that wise patriots ruled. Such men as we
have in high offices now are not fit for door-keepers for
them. In my day the suffrages of the people was a sure
sign that the person voted for was worthy the trust given
him, and now it is only a sign that the people are corrupt,
and choose one of their own sort to help them out in their
corruption.
..."I want to know the name of your daughter."
The little girl referred to was Ida, born this fall.
"UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA, All Fool's Day, 1849.
..."I think father
did precisely right in not recommending
any one to General Taylor; for to recommend a person,
however worthy he may be, to another upon whom you
have no claim is a very delicate thing. I suppose Mr.
Mayson is getting on well with the children. You have not
mentioned anything about them of late. Tell the boys if
they study hard now they will not find much difficulty at
college. Just get their minds in good training and half the
battle is accomplished. There are many young men here
who have very good minds who cannot study. It is all
owing to their not mastering their minds when young.
That is an advantage which I have over many. My mind
has always been completely under my control and well
trained, though most unprofitably and unphilosophically
employed while I was at school.... Remember me to old
Grannie Harriet. I know that it will please the old lady to
know that I often think of her."
Some time after this Mrs. Lewis Chamberlayne wrote to
Charles: "Your father has just written me of the death of
old Harriet. He wrote of it as of the death of an old friend."
The almost fatherly feeling of this young brother of
nineteen for his younger brothers and sisters is shown in
his letters at this period.
"MONTROSE, August 2, 1849.
"I promised that you
should hear from me again on the
same subject, and that I would endeavor to give some
reasons why boys should be sent to a public school a year
or two before entering college.
"First of all, confined at home as I was, and as I suppose
my younger brothers will be if they follow the same course,
they must necessarily be ignorant of the world, and also
inexperienced in resisting the many temptations which
await them when they come forth. They go immediately to
college, the worst of all places, - a place in which vice
appears in its most alluring and irresistible form. The
transition is too sudden, - from a nursery to a college
where they are treated as men, and where they feel it
incumbent on themselves to act as such. Mistaken though
in what they think becomes a man, how can it be expected
that in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred they will not be
guilty of the most foolish excesses? By what I have said I
merely intend to give you a faint conception of what my
feelings were when I went to college. I was certainly very
ignorant of many things, which the simplicity of my first
letters plainly indicates, which things I would have known
had I gone to a public school or mixed much in society.
"In the second place, boys educated at home never go
as well prepared in their studies. You can rarely find a
single person (one person) able to prepare boys in Latin,
Greek, mathematics, and French sufficiently to enter a
HIGH class in a college of HIGH STANDING. College
is no place to learn the rudiments of anything. It is
expected that the boys should know them before they go.
Consequently, they are not taught with any particular care.
I knew a good deal of Latin and Greek when I went to
college, but the inside of a mathematical or French book I
had never seen. Now, my dear father, you cannot but be
convinced of the insuperable disadvantages
under which I entered college; and you cannot fail to
pardon the warmth with which I advocate the pursuit of a
different course with regard to my brothers. However, if you
detect any error in my reasoning I hope you will not fail to
say so. I know that I am not infallible. I have often thought
wrong and done wrong, and been utterly unconscious of it
at the time. I hope you will not think that I mean to blame
any one with regard to the course that was pursued by me.
(Yes, I do blame Mr. G. for pretending to prepare me for
college when he never had seen the inside of one.) I know
that it was your overfondness for me which made you keep
me at home as long as you could. I am sensible, too, that
you spared no pains to have me prepared in the very best
way, and that you conscientiously believed that the one
you had marked out was the very best, - as it certainly was
the most expensive. The great care, then, with which you
have watched over my education, - the many hours of
solicitude which I have cost you, - all these, my dear father,
conspire to make me still more sensible of what I owe you,
and to incite me to still greater exertions; but, should the
realization of my loftiest hopes be attained, I trust that I shall
not be so narrow-minded as to believe that my debt is
wholly paid. Under these circumstances, then, you cannot
fail to pardon me for so much deploring the many
disadvantages under which I entered the grand arena of
education, and for lamenting that I cannot prove myself as
worthy as I would wish of your great confidence and
affection. I shall make the attempt to come up to your
expectations, - in such a noble cause defeat itself will be
glorious."
"UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA, September 29, 1849.
..."I am truly glad
that Sarah has been put with a
governess. I have not been as much pleased at anything
in a long time. She ought to have every advantage.
There is a magnificence, a loftiness of character about
her that I never saw in a child, and I can hardly say in
a grown person. She is bound to be a great
woman, though she may live in retirement. I think that her
traits of character are more prominent than those of any
child I ever saw. Let her, then, have every opportunity; and
do not think that because she is a woman any kind of
education will be sufficient for her to keep house. I know
you do not think this, yet there are many who constantly
say that a woman ought not to be well educated, - that any
kind of education will be enough for a housekeeper, and
that a very intelligent and accomplished woman is likely
to make a bad wife. Of course those who say this possess
the most narrow, grovelling, and contemptible souls, which
will never soar beyond their own self-importance. And if
an educated woman does not make a good wife, it is
because the man who received her hand was unworthy of
it, and because it was the hand of a slave, and not of a wife
and an equal, that was the object of his desire. My thus
defending the fair sex will be ascribed to my age. I have no
particular one in view."
"UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA, March 5, 1850.
"I was not
introduced to General Taylor. It would have
afforded me great pleasure; but he was to be there so short
a time, his presence was such a novelty, he had done so
much shaking of hands, and must have been so tired, that I
could not force myself into his presence under the belief
that there was a possibility that the addition of any
company whatsoever would be agreeable. Dr.
Chamberlayne was introduced to him on the night of the
21st inst., and the old general spoke of you, mother and
the children with enthusiasm.... I have noticed the Whig
and Democratic parties very narrowly for the last month,
and have come to this conclusion without hesitation, viz.,
that THERE IS NOT ANY DIFFERENCE at all between
them. If you ask a Democrat why he had rather Cass
should have been elected than Taylor, he will say, Because
he is safer on the Wilmot proviso. If you ask a Whig, he
will say that Taylor is the safer. The United States Bank is
dead forever. They differ, you see, only with
regard to men.... Those two men, * should there be a
dissolution, will obtain the direction of affairs in the
Southern republic. Calhoun has been at the point of death
for some time, but I believe and sincerely trust that he is
now better. He is the greatest statesman in America, and
Lord Brougham says that we can only do him justice if we
say in the world, not such an orator as Henry Clay, but as
far above him as the great orb of heaven is above the
glow-worm, - in purity resembling Washington, in intellect
Jefferson. I am so glad that you have a portrait of him."
"October, 1851.
"I shall enclose
Sarah's last letter to you. I know it will
please you, although it is not as good as some of her other
letters. You must write to her occasionally and give her
your best advice, both as to her studies and as to her
conduct in society; advice from an older brother always
seems so interesting. Sarah will highly appreciate any
advice from you, she is so much attached to you."
"January 14, 1852.
..."Busybody is
sitting by me, every now and then
putting the cork in the inkstand and begging for candy."
"BURLEIGH, May 4, 1852.
"I am truly thankful
that I am able to write to you.
...I was so unwell before the birth of my baby that
I did not think it prudent for me to write. I had
a great deal of headache, and it was increased by
* Jefferson Davis and John C. Calhoun.
writing. Often I felt a great desire to tell you what was
going on here, for I knew that none of them knew how
interesting it would be to you as well as I did. Nobody
knows you as I do. I know you as well as I know myself....
Ben says he loves his brother Charles better than all his
brothers. He says that he intends to live with you.... I must
tell you that Sarah and Sue waited on me with so much
kindness, kept everything so quiet, that enabled me to get
well so quickly. I can go to the table now. My daughters
have been great comforts to me. I do not think I shall regret
that the youngest is a daughter. I call her Lelia."
"May
27, 1852.
..."The girls and
boys have not returned from Mr. Mayson's
wedding,. No doubt they will have a great deal to write
to you, for your papa returned yesterday, and seemed
perfectly charmed with everything and everybody. He says
that Sarah and Sue looked very well, and a great deal of
attention was paid them. They were perfectly at their ease,
like young ladies, at the same time as modest as possible.
They were dressed beautifully, - that is, plain and elegant.
They had their hair dressed by the hair-dresser at the hotel.
...The bride's mother said to your papa that she hoped
Mr. Mayson would like her family as much as he did ours. I
suppose that Sarah and Sue have given you an account of
the old bachelor, Colonel Hemingway. He seems to know
everybody. Mr. Dabney says that he stuck to the 'two
misses,' as he called Sarah and Sue, and paid every
attention that was necessary.... I have been very nervous
and weak since the birth of my little daughter, but I think
I am getting better. I am driving out every day; that will
restore me very soon."
"BURLEIGH, 30th May, 1852.
..."The children
returned from Jackson yesterday in
high glee, having been sufficiently attended to even
had they been grown. They were called upon by the
governor's family, but were unfortunately at Mrs.
Saunders's boarding-house at the time. They called at the
governor's mansion, and were equally unfortunate then, for
the ladies were paying their respects to the bride at that
hour. I will mention one more circumstance in connection
with your little sisters of a very pleasant character. Mrs.
Foote said that she wished me to introduce her to my
daughters (this was at the wedding), to which I replied that
they would highly appreciate the honor; and I was about to
go after them, when she stopped me, and insisted upon
being taken to them, they being in the other room at the
time. She accordingly ran her arm through mine, and was
conducted by me to them and introduced. The governor
made me take him to them also, and he did not omit to
express his admiration of them in very marked terms.
"I am happy to say to you, also, that the brothers were
no discredit to the sisters. I had sent the boys to Vicksburg
to rig out for the occasion, and they did not fail to do it
brown.... And they conducted themselves with sufficient
ease for boys of their age."
CAMBRIDGE, June, 1852.
"The late nomination
of the Whig party is such that
it must strike the mind of every one. It shows a
disposition on the part of the Northern Whigs which I had
hoped did not exist. It was the triumph of section over
section, - of Northern majority over Southern minority It has
thrown a gloom over the face of nearly every Whig student
in college, and nine-tenths of the students, I believe, are
Whigs. All, I may say, deplore the nomination of General
Scott as the ruin of the Whig party and as the forerunner in
all probability of new internal difficulties. All that remains
now for us to do is to try our best to defeat him. I was proud
to see the South so united in her opposition to him and in
her advocacy of Mr. Fillmore. While she continues thus in
harmony the worst that can happen will be at least
unattended with dishonor. On the first ballot you remember
the South was unanimously for Mr. Fillmore with the
exception of ONE vote from Virginia for General Scott. She
held on to her favorite up to the forty-eighth ballot, when
Scott gained four from the South, - two from Virginia
(making three in all from that State) and two from Missouri.
Then it was that the nefarious game was decided. Even on
the final ballot there were only thirteen from the South that
deserted a cause which should have had no deserters.
The infamy which those men deserve who insisted in forcing
upon the country a man whom I may say one-half of it
unanimously opposed, cannot be heaped upon them
sufficiently high by one generation, but the work must be
left unfinished, and the completion of it bequeathed as a
legacy to posterity.
"It is my opinion, as well as that of many others, as I
have already stated, that the nomination of General Scott
portends evil to the country. God save us from his election!
The Northern abolitionists and Western Freesoilers
advocated him because they are in hopes that, in case he is
elected, he will be made a tool of by some of their party.
They are dissatisfied with the just administration and
unconquerable impartiality of Mr. Fillmore. For them he has
no sympathy, with him they have no influence. But hero is
a man whose individual conceit and vanity will make him
believe anything provided it is accompanied with flattery.
With him, then, there is a chance - more particularly as it
was they who supported him - of succeeding in all their
plans, of alienating one section of the Union from the other.
General Scott a compromise man! I doubt that most
considerably, notwithstanding his having accepted the
platform. And even if he is, he resembles a vast majority of
the people of the United States. It was certainly not on
account of his favoring the Compromise more than all others
that he was selected. Millard Fillmore is a compromise
man, - a strong compromise man. He has given every
evidence of it, and the South has shown its gratitude and its
high appreciation of his services by clinging to him so long
and with so much unanimity. Then it must be that the
Freesoilers and abolitionists believe at least that by means
of General Scott's weakness they can get possession of him
and take the government into their own hands. They could
not advocate the dropping a man so firmly adhering to the
compromise on any other grounds. If Mr. Fillmore is not as
popular as General Scott it must be because his cause is
not popular. If his cause is not popular, farewell to the
Union. Millard Fillmore and the Union are one. If he has
been guilty of partiality to the South, the South will always
continue to demand that partiality, let the President be who
he may. If it is not accorded, why, the South: must withdraw
that authority which it has delegated.
"The news of the nomination was received in Boston
with hisses, groans, and oaths. I shall send you a paper
containing an account of it. But with these Webster Whigs
I have no sympathy. They could at any time have thrown
the scale in Mr. Fillmore's favor. Instead of that, they were
constantly sending despatch after despatch to Boston
saying that the Fillmore men were all wavering, and that in
a short time they would unite with the Webster men; that
one hundred and thirty-three men were going to abandon
their favorite - their idol - to advocate another man who
only had twenty-nine votes! and not a single one from the
South. Did you ever hear of anything so absurd, so
preposterous, so unfounded, so unreasonable? With the
fact staring
them in the face of one hundred and thirty-nine or
thereabouts supporting Mr. Fillmore, and continuing to
support him for upwards of forty ballots, they were still
infatuated enough and foolish enough to think that the
Fillmore men were going to desert him and advocate their
man; a man who never saw the day when he was popular, - a
man who never saw the day when he could create the least
excitement or enthusiasm in the nation, unless it was when
he met and overthrew Hayne, of South Carolina, on the floor
of the Senate. I do not say that he created any excitement or
enthusiasm then, but I say that if he did not do it then, he
never has done it at all. When I say that Mr. Webster 'never
saw the day when he was popular,' I mean that he never saw
the day when he was the first choice of even a tolerable
portion of his party. Was not I right, then, in saying that
reason did not reside among the New England, and
especially among the Boston, people? Was I not right in
saying that the publication of the letter of a reasonable man,
a patriot and a Whig, would be of no avail among such a
people? I deeply regret that I proved so good a
prophet, - so far am I from congratulating myself. At the
time that I said what I did about the Boston people I was
excited, and intended acknowledging it to you as soon as
you had received that letter. The reason of my being excited
was the fact, if I remember rightly, of my having just been to
a large abolition meeting in the loyal city. Hearing
such violent disunion and disgraceful speeches, - seeing
such a tremendous and orderly audience of citizens, - and
that in the daytime, - for if a Yankee deserts his work you
may know he is interested, - I could not help being
convinced that the disaffection towards the laws and the
country was much greater than we in the South are apt to
suppose. Now I see that the opinion I formed under
excitement is the true one. You will agree with me too, I
think.
"Your letter of the 8th June was received yesterday
morning, containing your address to the Whig delegates of
Mississippi. I agree with you in everything you say. I not
only agree with you, but think that
you ought to have said what you did say and in the manner
in which you said it. The delegates from Mississippi
acted just as you wanted them to act; whether it was in
accordance with your advice, or with their own sound
judgment and patriotism, or with both, is a matter of no
consequence at all. You are satisfied, whichever way it may
be, I know. I showed your address to several of my friends,
and they liked it very much; said that it was exactly what it
should be. We could not help being amused, though, at
your comparing the Presidential candidates to a party
playing loo or set-back euchre. They all concurred that your
illustration was capital, and that you showed an intimate
acquaintance with the game.... I knew before you mentioned
it that Mr. Fillmore was the first choice of the Whigs of
Mississippi, and believed that Mr. Webster was the
second, but it was with great unwillingness that I believed
it. I had rather see him President than General Scott; but
take out the general and there is not a Whig living who
stands on the Compromise that I would not rather see
President than Daniel Webster. In making an assertion like
this I am not to be understood as meaning any Whig,
wherever you may find him, but any Whig who has
sufficient capacity to occupy the office, and sufficient
determination to act his own way, regulated by a sound
judgment. As a manufactured orator, as a man of learning,
and as a lawyer, I admire Mr. Webster; but I do say that he
is GREAT in no sense of the word, unless allusion is made to
his corporeal dimensions. He can follow when others lead,
and follow with considerable effect, but he cannot lead. He
has not that decision of character and judgment, the
necessary ingredients of all great minds. Put him under the
control of a determined man, and Daniel Webster will
appear to be great; he will make great efforts; but remove
that control, and his efforts will be like the flounderings of a
wounded whale, destitute of judgment and equally injurious
to friends and foes. With a mind capable of comprehending
anything, he can originate nothing. In other words, Daniel Webster
would have made a capital tool in the hands of a tyrant. In
my 'long letter' I said that I thought Mr. Clay looked upon
Daniel Webster as a rival. I said so because Mr. Clay has
never come out and advocated Mr. Webster's pretensions
to the Presidency, at least as far as I know. You are much
more familiar with Mr. Clay's history, and of course know
whether he has or not. I do not speak positively under
such circumstances. You say that you do not believe that
Mr. Clay has ever honored mortal man so highly as to
regard him as a rival. That is a matter of opinion, and
cannot be determined either one way or the other. I do say
this much, though, that if he has ever regarded Mr.
Webster as a rival his jealousy was misplaced. There is no
comparison between the two men. God Almighty made
Henry Clay; Daniel Webster made Daniel Webster. The
greater workman has made the greater man. I think that
Mr. Clay is the only great man now living in America.
When he is gone we will all be on a level. There cannot, in
the nature of things, be many great men at a time.
"I acknowledge myself in error in saying that 'Mr. Clay
favored General Scott in preference to Mr. Fillmore.' I do
not think that I said that exactly. As well as I remember it
was this: that 'Mr. Clay favored General Scott.' I did not
mean at all to throw out the insinuation that he was
opposed to Mr. Fillmore, but I meant that he had no
objection to General Scott. Some years ago he
recommended the general in a letter to some one or some
convention. I do not remember the occasion. He has spoken
of General Scott frequently as being a fit man for the
Presidency. In his letter, published some six or eight weeks
ago (I have not seen it), he recommends, so I am told, Mr.
Fillmore, because he has done his duty and given
satisfaction; because he thinks it right to 'let well enough
alone.' But for these circumstances I am certain, as far as a
man can be of such a thing, that General Scott would be
Mr. Clay's first choice. That letter of Mr. Clay's, to which I
have just alluded, gave mortal offence to the Webster
Whigs about here. I have heard them allude to it. They
think that it was
written to break down the Webster party, and that but for
it Webster would have been the nominee! That is another
one of the Massachusetts absurdities.
"In my last letter to you I predicted four things. Three
of them have already come to pass: First, that
Mr. Webster would have scarcely any supporters at the
convention out of New England. On the first ballot (which
is the proper one for this purpose) Mr. Webster had only
twenty-nine votes, twenty-four of which were from New
England, - eleven from Massachusetts. Second, that the
South would go for Mr. Fillmore to a man. She did so, with
the exception of one vote. Third, that General Scott would
get the nomination by means of the Western and Northern
States. The last prediction remains to be verified, viz., that
the general will be beaten, and that his defeat will be a
victory to his country. You see I am quite a prophet,
notwithstanding I do not read newspapers much.
"I was at first just as much shocked at the nomination of
the Democratic convention as I am now at that of the
Whig, but I am now entirely changed. For General Pierce I
have the highest admiration. Next to Mr. Fillmore, whom we
have tried, and whom we know, I had rather have General
Pierce. I had the pleasure of being in General Pierce's
company without knowing it. When he received the news
of his nomination he was in Boston. So many persons
called on him that the report was started that he had gone
to Baltimore, whereas he had only come out to Cambridge.
He played the incognito admirably. He went to the hotel
where I board, took a seat nearly opposite to me at table,
and, as a matter of course, we discussed him in his
presence. Not one word was spoken in his favor. All were
Whigs with the exception of two, - myself, who claim no
party, and a young fellow by the name of States Right Gist,
of South Carolina. His name reveals his politics. But I was
struck forcibly by the appearance of an elderly gentleman
who sat nearly opposite to me, a thing which has not seldom
happened to me. I thought at the time of sending a waiter
to him to attend to him -"
Charles did send his own waiter to attend to the stranger,
and did not know till he had left the table that he was
Mr. Franklin Pierce.
CAMBRIDGE, June, 1852.
..."A few days ago a
fellow in the Freshman class
was expelled for ringing some church-bell. He hired
a splendid carriage and four gray horses, and was
driven around and through the college yard, - had his
hat off like some distinguished stranger, - met all the
students as they were coming out of the chapel from
prayers, and they gave him three tremendous cheers.
That looks very much like bearding the devil. It
requires considerable audacity to do such a thing in
broad daytime and in the middle of a town.... There is one
thing of which I feel quite certain, and that is that this place
will cost you about a thousand dollars a year, including
vacations. It will require the most rigid economy not to
exceed that sum."
"An intense desire, then, to attain the end you seek is
to be the constantly impelling motive, not only to
urge you on and to solace your toil, but to strew your path
with flowers.
"For, once thoroughly embarked and speeding onward,
you will enjoy, so far as external pursuits are concerned,
the greatest happiness this world affords. I speak from
some little experience, more observation, and much
reading....
"Your affectionate uncle,
"CAMBRIDGE, July 24, 1852.
..."We, of course,
saw the risk of having our rights
challenged, but we determined to encounter it in order to
hear such a man as Winthrop. I was amply repaid for my
trouble. He delivered the finest oration I ever heard. It was
classic in the extreme. He took a masterly view of the
different systems of philosophy in the world, and their
practical effect. He showed the great influence of educated
men in forming and controlling 'public opinion,' - the great
power of an unfettered press, and its results according as it
is in the hands of good or bad men. Assembled around the
speaker were the different grandees of the land; there were
Greenleaf and Shaw, of great legal reputation; Everett,
Sparks, Quincy; Thornwell, the president of South Carolina
College, and John S. Preston, brother of William C. Preston,
of that State; the governor and staff, and a host of others,
who occupy the highest civic or educational positions in
the country.... I went close to the speaker's chair. I heard
Edward Everett. He is the most graceful and elegant man I
ever saw in my life. His gesticulation and pronunciation of
language excelled even my ideal of what it should be. With
a tall and commanding figure, light complexion, and brown hair,
inclined to curl, his movements were as graceful, as smooth, and
as noiseless as the rolling of an ocean after a storm. After
Mr. Everett spoke Chief-Justice Shaw, of Massachusetts.
His speech was legal in its nature. He eulogized his calling
and demonstrated the great benefits which resulted
to society from hanging a man. After Judge Shaw
spoke Dr. Fuller, a preacher of Baltimore. He fired away at
the chief-justice's speech, and showed that hanging a man
was not the best use to which he could be put, - that it was
the object of society to prevent and not to punish crime.
Then came the South Carolinians, Thornwell and Preston.
Both delivered good and patriotic speeches, and the
audience gave six hearty cheers for South Carolina. There
were several other speeches delivered, - good enough in
their way, but not worthy of my taking notice of them here.
Old Quincy delivered a very witty and amusing speech. As
he is one of the distinguished men of Massachusetts, it
would not do to pass over him."
"BURLEIGH, 29th October, 1852.
"The papers received
last night bring the appalling
intelligence of the death of Mr. Webster. Thus has the
country lost its two giants in one year, - within four
months, indeed. When Mr. Clay died, great as was the
nation's grief, there was yet a consolation in the reflection
that Mr. Webster was left to us. But who is left now? Truly,
no one. There is not a living man who is capable of half
filling the shoes of him of Marshfield. I cannot conjecture
who Mr. Fillmore will appoint to the State Department, but
have no doubt he will do his best.
"You cannot appreciate the force or truth of my
expression that 'no one' is left to us, now that Mr. Webster is
dead, unless you will look into the Democratic Review
occasionally, and especially the number for this month
(October). You will find there that 'Young America,' the 'Party
of Progress,' is summoned to the polls to vindicate the
principles that would not have discredited a French Jacobin
of the last century. The Whigs are stigmatized as small men
with limited ideas. Pierce, as the standard-bearer of
'American progress,' will, they are assured, bring these matters
right. The matters to be brought right are not left for
conjecture. They are the seizure of Cuba, the
Sandwich Islands, the Northern fisheries, Australia,
Grenada, Central America, Mexico, and the West Indies!
Young America is assured that nothing more is necessary
than that they elect Pierce, and all of these fair possessions
will be theirs. The editor says, by way of making the thing
more interesting, I suppose that we shall first have to whip
(his term is that we shall be involved with) England,
France, Spain, and Mexico; but he says that 'private
enterprise' and 'a free people will do it.' It will be nothing
but a wholesome exercise, it seems. The Whigs are small
men with limited ideas because they cannot see their way
out of such enterprises, and would not go into them if they
could, may be added. These are but a few of the
astounding propositions of this journal, and it is the
leading Democratic journal of the Union.
"Who can lash this man and this party with scorpions,
now that Mr. Clay and Mr. Webster are dead? They could
make 'Young America' tremble, even when Young America
held the helm. I should not fear these men much if Mr.
Webster lived, because, in power or out of power, his
words were listened to by the whole country as words of
wisdom, and heeded as such. Whose words will weigh as
much now?"
"BURLEIGH, 10th December, 1852.
..."We had a fair
hunt under all the circumstances,
having killed sixty-seven deer. I think they obviously
diminish each year.... Sophy sends you a 'book-marker,'
having worked it for you herself."...
"CAMBRIDGE, December 12, 1852.
"Your letter of the
26th ult. reached me the day before
yesterday, containing the painful intelligence that my
father was sick. I am now most anxious to hear from you
again, and have felt sad ever since the arrival of your
letter. I hope that his sickness is nothing more than the
result of exposure, and that his wonted good health will,
long before this reaches you,
have been entirely restored. I am glad, though, that you
mentioned it, as I never desire anything of that kind
concealed from me, for if it was I should never know when
to repose confidence in the letters which I receive. I feel
homesick to-night. I would give worlds to be with you
now. But I must drag myself along through time until next
summer, and have no companion to cheer me up in the
arduous task save hope. I feel as if I could not possibly
love you enough, but I feel that you know how much I
do love you. But my heart bleeds when I think that my
conduct towards you has not always been in accordance
with the depth of my affection. My consolation consists,
however, in knowing that you know me well enough to
perceive when my conduct is at variance with my
affection, and that you would not judge of the latter,
which is infinite and eternal, by an act sudden and
momentary.
"And my father, who, I trust, is now pursuing his
wonted occupation, can I ever do enough to justify the
confidence which I know he has always reposed in me?
Can I ever approach anything like the realization of the
expectations which he has associated with me? I am
afraid not. When I think of this my heart almost bursts;
and though from experience and study I have for the
most part acquired the habit of controlling my feelings
and emotions, yet tears will often fill my eyes when I am
alone when I think of those to whom I owe so much, - whom
I love so much, yea, love to distraction. As it is
said that the chief happiness of parents when they
become old consists in the contemplation of the welfare
and affection of their children and as you and he are
now getting old, the main object of my future life shall
be whatever will most conduce to bring about that
happiness; and fortune, ambition, glory, shall all be
neglected to attain it. I know that it is painful to you for
me to be away from you, - to me it is utter wretchedness.
I feel as if I would never be willing to endure another
separation. There is more happiness to be found around
the domestic fireside, in the conversation of those whom
we love, than in gilded houses, exalted stations, the
attentions and applauses
of the multitude. You must forgive me for sometimes
feeling lonely and desolate, considering I am so far from
you, and for burdening you with a portion of my
melancholy."
"BURLEIGH, 19th December, 1852.
"Your mother and the
girls are employed in making
mince-pies and other good things, held to be appropriate
for the approaching Christmas festival. And this reminds
me that my whole family participated with me in this
celebration last year. When will they do it again? Never, is
the probable answer. Not that any of us are likely to die
within the compass of a year, but the position or
employments of some will, most probably, forbid it. Should
we all live to see the sun make his next annual circuit, I
suppose that all will be here except Virginius. How of the
next? Virginius should not be here then. And the next? But
we will pursue this theme no further.
"We expect a larger company than we had last
Christmas, although something like half of our last year's
company will be absent. Virginius and yourself, for
example. -- -- will be here certainly. He will bring, Colonel Vick
with him, whom I specially invited. I also expect Mr. Wm.
Moncure, having invited him a month ago, and Dr. Latimer,
E. Lott, J. Shelton, O. V. and Wm. Shearer, Jennings, Lyles,
Hal Smith, Hal's father, and Vernon. Edward will be here with
one of his school-fellows, and it is probable that some will
be here unexpectedly, as Summers has a friend with him,
for example."
"CAMBRIDGE, December 21, 1852.
"Tell Sophy that I
thank her very much for the 'book-marker'
which she made for me, and that it afforded me the
greatest pleasure to see that she thought of me. I am glad
also to see the progress she has made in needle-work, and
to hear such flattering accounts of the studious habits of
all of them. I shall indeed 'remember' her."
*
"BURLEIGH, 18th January, 1853.
..."I have ordered
one thousand dollars to be forwarded
to you immediately by the Bank of Louisiana, which
will give you a little surplus over your estimates; a
thing well enough to provide, as it will enable you to bring
some little presents to your sisters, which I always approve
of, as the affections are cultivated in this manner as
successfully perhaps as in any other single mode.
"You need not make yourself so uneasy about your
expenses. I am perfectly satisfied with them myself and it
is lucky that I am, for I do not anticipate any reduction in
them for some time to come. I hope you do not expect to
support yourself from the start. I say I HOPE you do not,
for I should be sorry to see you disappointed, and perhaps
mortified. Immediate success does not depend on merit, but
most frequently on the lack of it. But all this you know. Be
satisfied, then, to bide your time, with but little fear of my
becoming fatigued....
"P. S. - There is not the least objection to your
accepting Olivia's present, and I am gratified at her
proposition. It would be impossible for me to accept any
such thing of her, but it is very different with my children. I
would not consent to her making them costly presents, but
such as are merely complimentary, as in your case, gratify
me very much."
* The motto of the little marker was,
"Remember Me."
"BURLEIGH, 30th January, 1853.
..."I am very glad
that you called my attention to
Alexander Hamilton. Whether he was a greater man than
either of the Adamses would be a very difficult point (but
an unnecessary one) to determine. It may be enough that he
ranks with Madison as a contributor to the Federalist, and
with him also, and with Adams and Jefferson, as a
statesman and patriot of the Revolution. Do you not
remember the speech of John Adams upon the adoption of
the Declaration of Independence? If a greater amount of
patriotism, heroism, and eloquence is to be found in the
same number of English words elsewhere than in that
speech, I know not where to look for them. But still, it would
be difficult to ascribe to me too high an admiration of and
veneration for the genius and character of General Hamilton.
I therefore write you to purchase for the Burleigh library all
of his writings, the Federalist COMPLETE included. I also
wish you to purchase Sparks's 'Life of Washington,' as a
suitable companion for the other books. These are
American works, and yet, in my poor judgment, they may
safely be reckoned the classics of future ages. Entertaining
these views of the great value of the principles inculcated
by the writings of Washington and the Adamses and
Hamilton and Webster, I think you had better procure them
all in very substantial bindings: calf if you choose, but that
may not be necessary.
"If you think it judicious, you may purchase books for
yourself, during the year, to the amount of one
thousand dollars. I do not name that sum as your our limit
by any means, but only as your present limit. It may be that
it would be injudicious to purchase so many at once, but
you will judge of that, and let me know, whenever you have
made up your mind what sum you prefer to have for this
object."
CAMBRIDGE, February 15, 1853.
"Last evening I
received yours of 30th January. Parts of
it greatly moved me, and upon those parts I will touch first
and somewhat at length.
"When I came to that portion in which you authorize me
to purchase books to the amount or one thousand dollars
my head felt giddy, my heart swelled. That is an outlay, that
is a favor far beyond anything I had hoped. But you
correctly suggest that it might be injudicious in me to buy as
many books at one time and so early in life. The law books
that I will want will be such as will suit the kind and the
extent of practice which I have a right to expect, for I have
not the right to think that I am going to get any very difficult
cases, or any great number of them, for some time. It would
be a useless expenditure therefore to buy a large number of
law books unless I expected to enter immediately into a large
practice, for law books are of that nature that as soon as a
new book, or a new edition of an old one, comes out, those
which preceded it are rendered almost entirely worthless.
This last remark is of course general in its nature, and does
not apply to 'reports,' for they are always good and
necessary, but to treatises on legal subjects, text-books, etc.
And, besides all this, I wish to buy my law books - that is,
those that will not be immediately necessary to me as a
capital to start on - with my own earnings. I am unwilling to
put you to a greater expense than my prospects will justify,
and of them I can only judge after I have entered upon the
practice. Nor do I wish to bear more heavily on you
than there is any need that I should.... But as I hope and
expect to be something else than a mere lawyer, I will want
some books of a historical, literary, and philosophical
character, a moderate number of which, though enough to
supply my wants for many years, will cost about two
hundred and fifty dollars. But even this expense I would be
unwilling to encounter all at once but for the likelihood
there is that, after entering into business, I may be so
engaged as not to have an opportunity for many years to
come, perhaps, of getting books on as good terms and of
making selections where there are so many to select from.
"Another reason is that I will have some time to read
before I get involved in business (if I ever should
become so fortunate) than I will ever have afterwards.
Without the books I might be comparatively idle. My mind
would rust, dimness would take the place of what is now
freshness, and the wheels of intellect would roll backward.
Although there is more to be learned in my profession than
I ever will know did I study it exclusively every hour during
the day, yet I do not wish it to be the only ladder upon
which I am to climb hereafter. No lawyer pretends to know
everything, about law. If a lawyer wishes to be anything
else than a bore to the jury he addresses, he must gather
flowers and perfume in a poetic land. If he wishes to give
anything more than a mere legal argument, he must gather
wisdom and acuteness from metaphysics. If he wishes to be
learned, he must rob history of its contents. It is on this
account that I wish to possess somewhat of a
miscellaneous library. Without it, as you know, I would be
contracted in mind, uninteresting as a companion, and dull
and disagreeable as a lawyer, and the groundwork which I
have laid in my academic career, and the great expense to
which I have been put to lay it, would all result in nothing
except as far as it operated as a mental training. If you have
any suggestion to make on this subject, or if you differ in
your views from anything that I have here written, of course
you will not fail to make known your opinions at length. It is
needless for me to say that the older I get, and the more I
learn, the more I am satisfied of the correctness of your
views with regard to education and the method of attaining
it....
"I have, my dear fattier, written coolly on the generous
and affectionate offer you have made me, but my heart has
been filled to overflowing. To say that I thank you, that I
am grateful, would be acting so coldly as to chill you. I am
at a loss what to say, and it is therefore that my letter has
somewhat the appearance of abruptness and disconnection.
To say little, but to resolve high, will, then, be the best way
by which I can show my high appreciation of it. You have
thus indirectly shown me what you expect of me. My
hopes and my efforts will all be enlisted on the side of your
expectations. But do not rear them too high. Wait and see
me fairly engaged in the contest of life before you assign
them any definite proportions. I have hopes, yea, high
hopes, but I never like to breathe them even to any one.
"There was one thing in your letter which hurt me; not
because I thought that you intended it to do so, but
because it showed me that, under excitement, I might have
written foolishly and rashly on a former occasion. In
speaking of the books which you wish me to procure for the
Burleigh library you say, 'These are American works, and
yet, in my poor judgment, they may safely be reckoned the
classics,' etc. It was the word POOR. This word hurt me, not
so much because it might be construed into a very mild and
kind reproof, but because it has suggested to me that I did
not address myself with that courtesy and respect which I
owe you, not only from the relation, but also from the love
and affection you bear to me. I know that I deserved it all,
and I hope that you will think no more of it, and say no
more about it. The lesson and the kindness with which it
was given I will remember. I don't know that I ever told you
that I confided in your judgment; that would have been as
unnecessary as telling people that I loved you; but, I know
this, that no excitement could ever make me either act or
write in a manner intentionally disrespectful towards you.
Could I be capable of such a thing, so far from meriting your
love, I would taint the very atmosphere in which I breathe."
"CAMBRIDGE, MASS., 13th February, 1853.
..."Yes, Mr. Clay
was the Golconda of the Whig party,
in whom the rough diamonds wore quarried, and Daniel
Webster was the skilful artificer who polished them; but,
like the artificer to whom King Hiero of Syracuse gave his
gold that he might make him a crown, he robbed him of
nearly all of it, and gave him in return an adulterated and
worthless bauble. So has Mr. Clay fared in the hands of
Mr. Webster, not in your
day, for you know all about the two men, but in those
days in which posterity shall live."
"CAMBRIDGE, MASS., February 27, 1853.
..."But it has been
a still longer time since I have received
a letter from you. But I know how many cares and duties
you have, how many interruptions you ale liable to, and I
therefore feel thankful and happy if I receive a letter from
you once in six weeks... I send a little handkerchief to
Sophy."
"CAMBRIDGE, MASS., February, 1853.
"In my last I
promised that my next should have a
continuation of the subject then under discussion; and
accordingly I will now proceed to give my views upon the
American mind. I will begin by saying that I never had a
contempt for the American mind, and, so far as I can
remember, I never intentionally expressed any; but, on the
contrary, I have the highest admiration for it, and believe
that it will attain an eminence equal, if not above, that of
any other nation. But I do say, and think too, that since our
separation from England we have not attained any height
worthy the excessive praises lavished by our people upon
their writers. It is a fact, which I think cannot be
contradicted, that our greatest men and best educated men
(public men, I mean, for of private men we know nothing)
were born and raised subjects of the British throne. And all,
or nearly all, had given evidence of their intellect before the
Revolution had systematically broken out. Washington,
Franklin, Jefferson, Adams, Henry, Hamilton, etc., were as
much subjects of the king of Great Britain, up to 1776, as I
am a citizen of the United States. In addition to these being
the greatest men this country ever had, three of them,
Franklin, Jefferson, and Adams, were the most learned.
Franklin must have been near his seventieth year when he
signed the Declaration of Independence. Mr. Jefferson, at
thirty-three years of age, wrote the Declaration,
which is of itself sufficient to satisfy any man of his
learning and ability. Mr. Adams, about that time, made some
speeches, which, in the opinion of many equal anything in
the English language. Now, I think the greatness of these
men, up to the period of the Revolution, was no more owing
to American (what is now meant by American) institutions
than to the Chinese; but they were brought forth and
matured under British institutions. It is true they differed
somewhat from the institutions in the island of Great
Britain itself; but, nevertheless, they were regulated by
British laws, and governed by men appointed by the
British throne.
"In point of respect and admiration for our Revolutionary
patriots and sages I yield to no one.
"But the class of literary men and philosophers to whom
I wish my remarks to apply are those who are essentially
'American,' those who have been born and reared since the
birth of America. I think that this class is not only vastly
inferior to our sages of the Revolution, but also very
much inferior to the men of England and France produced
during the same period. It may be said that great crises
are necessary to bring forth great men. Great crises bring
forth great heroes and great patriots; but, in my judgment,
great scholars and great philosophers can be produced
quite as well in the quiet monotony and stillness of the cell
as amidst the turmoil of war and the upturning of the
moral and poetical world. War gives occasion for the
display of greatness of soul and readiness in meeting
emergencies; but Peace is the mother of the Arts, - of
those things which adorn society and make it more
comfortable for its dwellers.
"The question will here arise, Have we done nothing? Yes,
we have done a great deal, - vastly more than any other
nation of the earth could have done. In 1776 civilization was
bounded by the Alleghanies. All the territory beyond them
was inhabited by the most worthless and determined of
enemies. Since that time all of these enemies have been
overthrown, - all of that territory put into cultivation. We have laid many
thousands of miles of railroad, cut many long canals, built
innumerable cities. Our steam marine exceeds that (I
believe) of the whole world. And, what is more, we have put
into practice the theories of liberty and government which
heretofore only found existence in the brains of
philosophers. Well may it be said of us, that, like the infant
Hercules, we have strangled dragons in our cradle. But our
destiny, I thank heaven, is higher: we have yet to slay the
Lernean hydra and the Nemean lion and to lifts rivers from
their beds, which are the labors of manhood in full vigor.
Looking, then, at what we have done, it is plain that our
powers and energies have been directed to securing the
comforts of life, - to the conquest of the asperities of
nature, - that we have had no time to devote to the
cultivation of the arts and refinements of life. We have
manifested no backwardness in making application of those
principles of mechanics which aid at all in taking obstacles
from our path. We have put science to use wherever it
could possibly have been done. In fact, in this we are
superior to the rest of the world.
"Besides, we were born to the inheritance of a
literature. The English literature, philosophy, and science,
up to the period of the Revolution, belongs as much to
us as to the English themselves. We never, therefore,
felt the want of such things, and what people do not
want they are not likely to strive hard to attain. But
now we are a nation ourselves; and though we are
capable of using whatever the English mind produces,
yet it is not ours. Since our birth as a nation we have
had so many obstacles in the physical world to contend
with, that no time has been left us for anything else.
Now that they have been removed, we may look for
the dawn of a brighter day. The great encouragement
given by our people to newspapers and periodicals of
every kind is a happy omen. Our writers will not need
the condescending patronage of crowned heads
and conceited courtiers; but the honest approval and
liberal rewards conferred by freemen's hearts and
freemen's hands will amply supply their every want. I
am glad that the government at Washington has held out
so many encouragements to Lieutenant Maury."
"BURLEIGH, May 6, 1853.
..."I entirely
concur in your proposition, that to
slight a letter is to do an unpardonable thing."
"CAMBRIDGE, MASS., July 3, 1853.
"I will embark on
the first ship that sails for New
Orleans after the 8th. The diplomas are not given out till the
20th. At that time the academic honors are conferred. I will,
of course, leave mine behind me, to be brought on by a
friend....
"I am quite bothered as to what sort of presents to buy
for my little sisters, but I hope before I leave to think of
something."
the master of the house beating his half of the eggs in the
great china bowl, made it a pleasant scene for those who
cared nothing for the eggnog.
During the holidays there were refreshments, in the old
Virginia style, of more sorts than one. The oysters were
roasted on the coals on the dining-room hearth, under the
eyes of the guests.
Great bunches of holly and magnolia, of pine and
mistletoe, were suspended from the ceiling of hall and
dining-room and drawing-room.
Sometimes, not often, there was a Christmas-tree, - on
one occasion one for the colored Sunday-school. One
Christmas everybody hung up a sock or stocking; a long
line, on the hall staircase. There were twenty-two of them,
white silk stockings, black silk stockings, thread and
cotton and woollen socks and stockings. And at the end
of the line was, side by side with the old-fashioned
home-spun and home-knit sock of the head of the house,
the dainty pink sock of the three-weeks-old baby.
Who of that company does not remember the morning
scramble over the stockings and the notes in prose and
poetry that tumbled out!
The children's nurses modestly hung their stockings up
by the nursery fireplace.
Music and dancing and cards and games of all sorts
filled up a large share of the days and half the nights. The
plantation was as gay as the house. The negroes in their
holiday clothes were enjoying themselves in their own
houses and in the "great house" too. A visit of a day to
one of the neighboring towns was considered by them
necessary to the complete enjoyments of the holidays.
They had their music and dancing too. The sound of
the fiddles and banjos, and the steady rhythm of their
dancing feet, floated on the air by day and night to the
Burleigh house. But a time came when this was to
cease. The whole plantation joined the Baptist church.
Henceforth not a musical note nor the joyful motion of
a negro's foot was ever again heard on the plantation.
"I done buss' my fiddle an' my banjo, an'
done fling 'em 'way," the most music-loving fellow on the
place said to the preacher, when asked for his religious
experience. It was surely the greatest sacrifice of feeling that
such a race could make. Although it was a sin to have music
and dancing of their own, it was none to enjoy that at the
"great house." They filled the porches and doors, and in
serried ranks stood men, women, and children, gazing as
long as the music and dancing went on. Frequently they
stood there till the night was more than half gone. In the
crowd of faces could be recognized the venerable ones of
the aged preachers, surrounded by their flocks.
Christmas was incomplete until the master of the house
had sung his songs. He was full of action and gesture. His
family used to say that although he was in character and
general bearing an Englishman, his French blood asserted
itself in his manner. In his motions he was quick, and at
times, when he chose to make them so, very amusing, yet
too full of grace to be undignified. He was fond of dancing,
and put fresh interest in it, as he did in everything that he
joined in.
On Christmas mornings the servants delighted in
catching the family with "Christmas giff!" "Christmas
giff!" betimes in the morning. They would spring out of
unexpected corners and from behind doors on the young
masters and mistresses. At such times there was an
affectionate throwing off of the reserve and decorum of
every-day life.
"Hi! ain't dis Chris'mus?" one of the quietest and most
low-voiced of the maid-servants asked, in a voice as loud
as a sea-captain's. One of the ladies of the house had
heard an unfamiliar and astonishingly loud laugh under her
window, and had ventured to put an inquiring head out.
In times of sorrow, when no Christmas or other
festivities gladdened the Mississippi home, the negroes
felt it sensibly. "It 'pears so lonesome; it mak' me
feel bad not to see no comp'ny comin'," our faithful
Aunt Abby said on one of these occasions. Her post
as the head maid rendered her duties onerous when
the house was full of guests. We had thought that
she would be glad to have a quiet Christmas, which she
could spend by her own fireside, instead of attending to
the wants of a houseful of young people.
In the presence of the guests, unless they were old
friends, the dignity of the family required that no light
behavior should be indulged in, even though it were
Christmas. In no hands was the dignity of the family so
safe as with negro slaves. A negro was as proud of the
"blood" of his master and mistress as if it had been his
own. Indeed, they greatly magnified the importance of their
owners, and were readily affronted if aspersion of any sort
were cast on their master's family. It was very humiliating
to them, for they are all aristocrats by nature, to belong to
what they call "poor white trash."
Our steady Lewis was often sent to take us to evening,
entertainments, on account of his being so quiet and nice
in his ways. On one of these occasions he became so
incensed that he refused to set his foot on that plantation
again. Mammy Maria informed us of the cause of Lewis's
anger. One of the maids in the house in which we were
spending the evening had insulted him by saying that her
mistress wore more trimming on her clothes than his young
ladies did!
Hog-killing was one of the plantation frolics. It began at
daybreak. Every man, woman, and child seemed to take a
part. Even the one or two or three or four fat dogs that came
along with each family seemed to know that the early bustle
was the presage of boundless enjoyment, such as could only
be brought about by unlimited fresh pork.
The servants made fires in every direction all over the
frozen ground, and round each fire was a merry group.
They made more jokes and laughed more gayly than on
other days; for not only did they fry great pans of liver,
and bake hoe-cake after ash-cake, and ash-cake after
hoe-cake, and eat them the livelong day, but when the
day was over there was the great bag for each man's
shoulder, filled with tenderloin and liver, heads, an
lights, and spare-ribs; and all these good things were
not counted in the "'lowance," either.
The only night-work done on the place was the
semi-monthly corn-shelling, in preparation for the
Saturday's grinding. The mellow songs of the corn-shellers
floated on the air during the hour required for this work.
When they found an ear of red or blue corn, or a double
ear, it was often laid aside to be given in the morning to
one of the white children.
The church at Pass Christian was the first Episcopal
church that we had seen. The organ up in the gallery and
the singing up there behind us seemed mysterious and
heavenly. The tall pines and the giant live-oak on the great
Indian mound in front and the cedars that stood round it,
made the church seem a place where the world and its
thoughts could not enter. One day we were told that we
were to be taken to the beautiful little church to be
christened; all, from Edward down to the baby, Thomas, in
the nurse's arms, - the eight Mississippi children.
We were baptized by the rector, the Rev. Thomas
Staughton Savage, Mrs. Savage standing by our
mother's side as godmother for the whole flock. Dr. and
Mrs. Savage had both been missionaries to Africa, and
only returned to America when his health had been
shattered by the deadly climate. During his residence
there he became known to the scientific world as the
discoverer of the gorilla. *
Thomas was a man of strong prejudices. Later in life,
when his character was softened by age, sorrow and
religion, he yielded readily to influence. There had been
opportunities for the baptism of the children before, but
because the characters of the clergymen were not
altogether to his taste, he had refused to allow his children
to be christened by them.
Dr. Savage was a man whose unaffected piety, joined to
his many gifts, won his esteem, and the long deferred
christening was arranged. An envelope containing a
handsome sum for each child's name was put into the
rector's hand when it was over. The church, he was
* See Huxley's "Evidence as to Man's Place
in Nature," p.
33.
told, made no charge for admission into her folds. But he
made his offering; it could be used in some way, any way
that the minister thought best.
There was no Episcopal church in Raymond. He gave
aid to the Methodists there, because he felt that he must
help the cause of religion in his neighborhood.
He was always a strong believer in the doctrines of
Christianity, and had great reverence for religion. But he
was not a religious man. It was long years after this that he
became a communicant and a true Christian.
Yet through all these years he did the deeds of a
Christian. He was the most liberal of contributors to every
enterprise that was gotten up to build up Sunday-schools
or churches, or to support the clergy. His house was the
resort and resting-place not only of the bishop and clergy
of the Episcopal Church, but of the ministers of all
denominations.
A Baptist preacher, who spent a day or so at Burleigh
every time that his monthly Sunday came around to preach
in the neighborhood, was so fond of staying there as to
rouse the jealousy of his own congregation. He was a
worthy old man, but unsuccessful, as far as earthly eyes
could see, in his ministrations. When he was bidding his
congregation good-by in a farewell sermon, he mentioned
by name his friend, Colonel Dabney. "I have preached
twenty years here," he said, "and have converted no one,
not even Colonel Dabney."
Thomas once had an Episcopal clergyman and his family,
consisting of his wife, five children, and two servants, to
spend six weeks at Burleigh. At another time he had an
Episcopal clergyman and his family of six in his house for
two months. Other occasions might be mentioned when he
had the care of clergymen's families during the absence of
the parents.
Thomas was more than once spoken of as an
"incomparable host." When a Louisiana gentleman
expressed a desire to establish a school near Raymond,
he received the family into his house, and they were
entertained there for two months. This family consisted
of the father and mother, their eight children
and an adopted child, four Irish servants, and two
horses. The gray-haired Creole negro had been
strict in his observance of Friday as a fast day. But
the mutton was tempting, and, as one of the Burleigh
negroes expressed it, "Uncle Felix done tu'n, 'cause
the mutton is too good.
In September it began to be rumored that the disease
had broken out at the Pass Christian hotel, and that
the victims were buried every night, lest people might
be deterred from going there.
It was all too true. But scarcely any one believed it.
Charles Dabney had come home after two years of
study at the Law School of Harvard University, having
graduated there with honor. His mother feared that
his having been so long in a Northern climate made
him peculiarly susceptible to the fever. She urged on
him this danger, and begged her husband to take the
family away from the Pass. But he did not believe it
possible that the fever could spread in that air. Charles
was full of youthful spirits, and so happy to be in the
home circle once more. that he could not be made
to apprehend any danger. When the last week in
September came, the fever was more deadly than ever in
New Orleans. This decided Thomas to take his whole family
to Burleigh by the overland route. As before mentioned, he
and the mother and the little ones and the servants had
always gone by this way. His wagons were commodious,
and he invited a number of friends to become his guests in
this journey, and to remain at Burleigh until it should be
safe for them to return to their homes in New Orleans. Quite
a party accepted the invitation, and it was looked forward
to as a delightful and novel excursion. But different things
interfered, and all but one young lady found it impossible
to accompany the family on the seven days' journey
through the country. On the afternoon of the first day's
travel she got out of the wagon to take a long walk. Charles
was on his riding-horse. He felt ill at the time, as he
afterwards told his mother, but he could not see a young
lady, his guest, walk unattended by himself. He walked two
and a half miles with her, when he found himself near
fainting. They had now reached the house where the
travellers were to spend the night. The next morning it was
decided that he was as not able to continue the journey
that day; but no special anxiety was felt. Yellow fever was
not thought of. It had been maintained that it could not be
contracted on the Mississippi coast of the Gulf of Mexico.
One of the children held back to say good-by to brother
Charley, but the father said that there was no use in that;
he had only a bilious attack, and would be up in a day or
two. So Edward was sent forward with the charge of the
children and wagons, and the rest of the household,
amounting to twenty-one persons.
Thomas and Sophia, with the baby and nurse and a
man-servant, remained behind with Charles. Thomas was
not long in finding that the sickness that he had hoped
was so slight was baffling his knowledge of disease. The
symptoms wore unlike any that he had seen. The situation
was agonizing. Neither physician nor medicine was to be
had in that country, not even a cupping-glass to relieve
the throbbing temples.
Still, no thought of the yellow fever crossed the
mind of any one. Even if it had, the result, under circumstances
so disastrous, could hardly have been other than it was.
They were not much longer to be in doubt as to the enemy
that was battling with that young life.
A gush of black vomit let them know that their boy was dying
of the yellow fever. He asked his mother to hand a looking-glass
to him. She held it before his face, and he was shocked to see the
blood on his mouth. At once he prepared himself for the death
that could be but a few hours off. "Lord, have mercy on me," his
mother heard him whisper. "Tell Virginius," he said, "to set a
good example to his younger brothers and sisters; much depends
on him, now that he is to be the eldest. No one knows how I have
felt the responsibility of being the eldest, and how I have been
weighed down by it. I have tried hard to set a good example. I
felt the responsibility." Turning to his father, he said, "Do not
expect so much of your other children as you expected of me. I
was injured by that. I tried too hard not to disappoint you. I
broke myself down. I am willing to die. But I am sorry not to be
the eldest."
He spoke lovingly of each brother and sister by name. To
his partial eyes they were all dear and good. Only that summer
he had said that he would like to marry a wife like any one of his
six sisters.
Then he sent a message of love and good-by to the nine absent
ones, and kissed and caressed the baby sister, stroking her curls
and admiring the "pretty head." Then he called his father to him
and said, "Kiss me for Virginius, for Edward, for Sarah, for Sue,
for Sophy, for Emmy, for Ben, for Ida, for Tommy," and at each
name the kiss was given. "Now kiss me for yourself."
The last kiss was given, and the poor distracted father rushed
from the house and into the woods. It was more than an hour
before he had regained self-control and could trust himself to go
back to that bedside. Death seemed slow in coming. Unmindful
of himself, even in death, the dying, son sought by his last
act to do what yet lay in his power to help his parents. He
stretched himself straight and close to the side of the wretched
room, and kept the position for more than an hour. "It is too
hard," he said at last. "I cannot stand it. I tried to lie there straight,
that you might not have any trouble in composing my limbs.
Bury me here now, in these woods. But do not leave me here. In
the winter take me up and put me by the side of my brothers."
When the sun rose on Wednesday, the 28th of September,
it was all over. The father who, but a few days ago, knew
that he had a son ready to take his place as the worthy
head of the family now felt that his staff had been taken
from him. The mother's grief was quiet but crushing. Her
health received a shock from which it never recovered.
His favorite place was at her feet, and no companionship
was so sweet as him to hers. They laughed together like
two happy children, and talked the long summer mornings
through in the Pass Christian house. "Oh, smile again," he
said to her in that last summer, his own joyous face
beaming as he spoke. "You look so beautiful when you
smile."
The poor, ignorant people in whose houses they were
staying were kind and sympathizing, and did all that
they could to help my dear father and mother. They
had a number of children, and Thomas Dabney spoke
with regret to the father of the family at having brought
a dangerous and contagious disease under his roof.
The man answered that he was not afraid, and that
even if there were danger he could not have turned a
sick man from his door.
They laid their son there to rest among the pines
till January. Then he was carried to Raymond , where
he now sleeps beside his brothers.
He was twenty-three years old. Thirty-three years
have passed since that time. But his birthday, the 3d
of May, and the day of his death, the 28th of
September, are tenderly observed each year by his
favorite sister, Sarah.
The father and mother bowed their heads in submission
to the blow. Sympathy came from all sides, - from
the old professors at William and Mary and the college
friends there, and from the professors and students at the
Universities of Virginia and Harvard. He had warm
personal friends among them all. Not the least gratifying
message that came to them was from a poor and humble
family living near the University of Virginia, whom he had
helped. They did not know how to write to his family to
express their sympathy, but friends of the Dabneys heard
of their grief.
The winter of '53 and '54 was spent quietly among the
home and plantation duties at Burleigh The father's elastic
disposition, joined to a strong sense of duty to others,
prevented any outward show of grief. In the presence of
her family our mother, too, was cheerful, and the smile
was still on her face. It seemed a part of herself. But it
was not the bright look that we had known before, and
whenever she was found after being alone for even a
few minutes it was seen that she bad been bathed in
tears.
In July a daughter was born, the last of a long line of
sixteen children to whom she had given birth, nine sons
and seven daughters. It was seen from the first that the
child was too frail to live. Her young sisters named her
Rosalie. She lived but two months. The weary mother,
seeing one of the children in the nursery crying over the
cradle, said, "Do not shed a tear for the baby. She is
better off. I am thankful that she is gone. I was not able
to take care of her."
It was as now time to go to the summer-house on the
sea-shore. But Sophia found that she could not bring
herself to go to Pass Christian again; and in a year or two,
as her aversion to the thought of ever going there seemed
to increase, Thomas sold the place.
He had not thought it safe to keep his wife and children
on the plantation during the hot months. The eighteen
summers spent in Mississippi had all been passed either
at Sophia's father's in Raymond, or in Virginia, or at the
sea-shore. But this summer he decided to stay at Burleigh,
as she wished it.
But the health of our mother was becoming more and
more undermined. Two years after the great bereavement
had come to her Thomas decided to take her to Virginia,
among their relations and old friends, and to the White
Sulphur and other springs, hoping that a complete change
would benefit her. He kept her for two weeks in Baltimore
that he might get the advice of Dr. Thomas Buckler on her
case. Dr. Buckler could find no disease. There was none
except that to which no earthly physician can minister, - the
rooted sorrow that could not be plucked from the memory.
But she was not without comfort. She found consolation in
her religion. She had not forgotten her heavenly Father in
her days of prosperity, and now in her time of adversity
she leaned more and more heavily on that strong arm.
The Dabneys spent six months among the familiar
scenes of Gloucester and at Montrose, and with other
relatives and friends, and in the Virginia mountains.
Montrose - that charming, old-fashioned place with its
smooth lawn and quaint box-bordered flower-beds - was
the home of my father's sister, our dear "Aunt
Martha." We had been taught from childhood to love
and admire her, not without a little awe, too. We had
not seen her, and she was only known to us as the
writer of very beautiful and touching letters, which
were read to us by our father with affectionate pride.
He thought they possessed great literary merit, and
often urged her to use her pen for the magazines. She
was a woman of remarkable gifts and attainments, and
charmed the young nephews and nieces by her delightful
talk on a wide range of subjects. They became greatly
attached to her, and her house was henceforth regarded
by some of them as a second home.
The six eldest children were with their parents. The four
little ones were left under the sheltering care of their good
aunt, Mrs. Augustine Dabney, that the mother might have
complete rest. She tried to enjoy it all and to get well. At
times she did much enjoy the society of those whom she
had loved and had not seen for many years. In Gloucester
County the Exchange now owned by Thomas's cousin,
Mr. James Dabney, the only surviving son of Dr. James
Dabney, was the house in which the large family of
Burleigh Dabneys were entertained. The beloved uncle,
Dr. James Dabney, had passed away years before.
James had married Miss Emory Tabb, the daughter of
Mr. Thomas Tabb of the old estate of Toddsbury,
Gloucester County. She was but a child when Thomas had
moved from Gloucester, but she was ready to welcome her
husband's cousins as her own. When he drove up with the
carriages from the steamboat-landing, where he had gone
to meet his kinsmen, his young wife was standing on the
portico of the Exchange with both hands held out.
My mother's maid, Aunt Abby, brought our number up
to nine, and a distant connection of my mother's, whom
she had picked up in Baltimore, made our party ten in
number.
The whole-souled mistress of the Exchange took no
count of numbers, and made us feel that we were to be
happy there as long as we chose to stay. The memory of
that visit is among the brightest in the lives of many of
that party. From the Exchange the Burleigh Dabneys
visited in the old neighborhood. The style of living in
Gloucester, which the younger generation had often
heard described, was not changed. The six weeks
spent there were passed in driving about the country,
sailing and rowing on the river, and in attending dinner- and
evening-parties. Music and dancing were in
order, not only in the evenings, but in the forenoons as
well. The sight of her children's enjoyment and the change
of scene brightened up my mother. She thought that she
could now enjoy the Virginia springs. But after going to
several of the fashionable resorts she felt that they did not
suit her taste. Her husband, who watched every look and
feeling, at once looked out for a quiet spot. This he found
at "Old Crow's," the breakfast house not far from the
White Sulphur Springs. Here we spent some happy weeks
rambling over the mountains and enjoying the delicious
air. My father had keen relish for it all, - the visits to his
old friends, the life at the Springs, and the weeks at Old
Crow's. He used to say that when he set out to enjoy
himself, even if it were only at a very poor circus, he always
tried to see the pleasant things, and did not look out for
faults. This bright way of going through the world made
him a charming travelling companion. He wished our party
to have the full enjoyment of the mountain scenery, and he
chartered stages to take his family from one place to
another. In this way we were never crowded, and the
company in the stage was such as he selected. He
frequently invited friends to go with us as his guests. An
incident happened one day that amused the party. My
mother's maid, Aunt Abby, and I (then in my fifteenth
year) were sitting together on the front seat. We both got
sleepy at about the same time, and her head fell on my
shoulder, and my head rested on the top of hers. By and
by I woke up and raised my head, but she was still
sleeping. Papa was laughing heartily at the scene when I
opened my eyes, and so was M. Pierre Soulé, our guest for
the day. Aunt Abby was too dear an old friend to be
disturbed, and she had her nap out. The good soul was
quite embarrassed when she awoke to find how she had
been violating the proprieties, - that was her view of it.
The father had no plan for that summer, except to
follow the pleasure that seemed to present itself. One day
we got off the train to dine at Staunton. The hotel was new
and clean, the scenery lovely, and the dinner all that
could be desired. We were in the humor
to enjoy everything, and were eager in our expressions of
admiration. "Shall I have the trunks taken off the train and
stay here a week?" my dear father asked in his delightful
impulsive way. The motion was carried by acclamation. I
do not know what arguments he used, but he ran from the
dinner-table to the baggage-car, and he got the luggage
taken off. No one could easily refuse him anything, he was
so good-natured, - it seemed contagious.
Some one has said that the name of one old Virginian to
another old Virginian is as a trumpet to a war-horse. Our
experience at Staunton and elsewhere that summer went far
to prove the truth of this statement. Thomas met friends at
Staunton, old and new. Some were friends whom he had
lost sight of in the passing years.
The younger members made excursions about the
country, and explored Weir's Cave, and filled up the week
as they pleased.
One day we were going from Washington City to the
White Sulphur Springs, and President Pierce and his wife
and several members of his household got on the train. The
conductor asked Mr. Dabney to bring his family to join the
Presidential party in the car where Mr. Pierce and his family
sat. So we went in. Poor Mrs. Pierce was a sweet-looking
lady. She had lately lost her only child, a son, and was clad
in the deepest mourning. She seemed overwhelmed with
her grief, and we did not see her smile that day. Mr. Pierce
was sad, too, and very tender in his manner to her. His
manner to every one was kind and subdued and very
attractive.
During the day one of Mr. Dabney's children became ill
with a chill. Mr. Pierce showed his kind heart by trying
to relieve her. He asked her father not to let her ride
backwards, and in many little solicitous ways showed his
sympathy. Thomas Dabney had been prejudiced against
Mr. Pierce. This kind attention to his child removed the
unpleasant impressions, which, after all, referred only to
politics. The kindness reminded him of Charles's admiration
of Mr. Pierce, and he never criticised him harshly again.
At all the towns through which the trains passed the
people were gathered in crowds to see the President But he
sat in the corner of his seat in his quiet, simple fashion, and
most of them went away without having been able to find
out which was he. At one station, the eager face of a little
boy attracted Thomas's attention. "Where is the President?"
he was asking in an excited voice. Thomas put his hand
out of the window and beckoned to the child. "Come here,
my little fellow," he said, "I will show the President to
you." But the crowd of men as well as the boy saw the
hand waved from the window, and at once several of these
rushed up and thrust their heads into Thomas's window.
The lad had no chance. As he turned, and walked
disconsolately away, he said, with a burst of tears, "I ain't
going to lose my dinner again to see no more Presidents."
We had an ex-Presidential party at the Warm Springs, - the --. Mrs. --, for
a reason which could only be conjectured,
as it was neither useful nor becoming, wore a tiara of
diamonds, curiously suggestive of a queen's crown. It was
said that she never appeared in company without it. She
certainly had it on when she alighted from the dusty stage
at the Warm Springs. She spoke of - always as "the
President."
In travelling through Ohio that summer, the children of
the party informed Aunt Abby that she was free, and
that of course she was going to leave them, and they
proceeded to seize her hand with loud good-byes. This was
amusing to them, but Aunt Abby looked at it as anything
but amusing. She burst into floods of tears, and her
mistress put a stop to the teasing of the children. The
master had to reassure her, by telling her what to say
if any one should try to carry her off. In Cincinnati
two men got on the train and went at once to her,
asking if she were free. True to her master's
instructions, she answered yes. "You are free as
long as you are in Ohio," he had said. "You will only
be saying what is true." She looked so frightened
and wretched that the men did not believe her, and
plied her with more questions, but nothing could be got out
of her. She thought that they really meant to drag her out
and make her free whether she wished it or not, as the
children had said they would. She got down on the floor of
the car, and squeezed herself under the seat on which her
master and mistress sat, and could not be persuaded for
some hours to leave her hiding-place. Another Mississippi
family, Mr. and Mrs. Hinton, were on the same train, and
they also had a servant with them. This servant and Aunt
Abby had formed quite a friendship on the journey, and sat
together on the car. She answered the abolitionists as Aunt
Abby did, and the men left the train without accomplishing
any other object than to give amusement to the Southern
travellers and to frighten the two servants.
Friends and acquaintances attached themselves to our
party as we journeyed about the country, till we got to be
seventeen in number. One day my father was marshalling
us out of a dining-room, where the train had stopped for
dinner. He told the man at the door that he had seventeen
eating dinner, and he proceeded to count us as we filed
out. As mamma came, "There's my wife," he cried, "she
counts for two." The door-keeper, who up to this time
had kept a close eye on us, cried out, laughing, "Oh, sir,
do not count any more. It is all right, I know. I am
satisfied." And he took the money that my father put in
his hand without looking longer at the advancing column.
The mother seemed benefited by the long absence from
home and home cares. She wrote to one of her absent
children, after they were settled once more at Burleigh, -
"I know that you will be glad to hear I am better than
when you saw me. I take a good deal of interest in my
housekeeping now."
It had been a grief to her that she took no interest in
anything.
The main interest in the life of the parents in this winter
(1855-1856) was the education of the children The
father's ambition for his children was great. He
wished them to excel in everything, and was proportionally
disappointed when they failed. The mother was not less in
earnest about their education, but she did not expect
impossibilities as he did. To her thirteen-year-old Emmy
the mother wrote:
"I am making a wadded wrapper for you to study hard
in.... I trust you and Sophy will go hard to work. You must
always be at the head of your class. Let me hear from you
frequently, and tell me exactly how you stand in your
classes."
She had no ear for music, and understood that her
children could hardly be expected to be very proficient
in that. But Thomas desired and expected his daughters
to perform like professionals. He was excessively fond
of music, although he never learned to play on any
instrument except the flute, on which he played very
poorly, and he gave that up as soon as he heard better
music from his children's fingers. He filled the house with
musical instruments, - two pianos, and a harp, and a flute
or so, and, later on, a melodeon for sacred music.
The daughters tried hard to come up to his ideal, and
studied music and practised many hours for years. But
only one, Sophy, realized his dream. Her music was a great
delight to him and a source of almost unbounded pride.
Music with Virginius was a passion from his cradle. At
the time that the Belgian violinist was at Burleigh he
showed such a love for it, that his mother became
seriously uneasy lest he should be unfitted for life by
giving himself up to the study of the violin. He was
allowed to buy a violin from the young musician, but he
received no encouragement to apply himself to the study
of it, and did not till he went to Europe, after his course at
the University was over. It was a very uncommon thing in
those days for the sons of American parents to be taught
music.
The father expected all his sons to take the degree of
Master of Arts at the University of Virginia. They might
give themselves as many years as they chose to get it in,
but they must bring that home eventually
They found mathematics the great obstacle, and gave
up trying to get through on that. They had diplomas to
show to him after each commencement, but he was never
satisfied because they had not taken the whole course.
He was not a man to go by halves in anything. He could
hate and detest as well as love and admire. His belief in
human nature made him see the good in every man at first,
and he thought well of even the most unprepossessing
until forced to believe ill of the them. When once he had
seen anything mean or untrue in a man, it was wellnigh
useless to try to make him see any good in that man
afterwards. His prejudices carried him away as far in the
opposite direction as his good nature had carried him in
the man's favor. He was strong in all his feelings, and it
was difficult for him to overlook or forgive such faults as
arose from narrowness and dishonesty of purpose. His
wife's influence was great, and she used it unceasingly to
soften this disposition in him. She tried, too, to prevent him
from expressing his adverse opinions of men and things as
openly and imprudently as he did. He was incapable of
dissembling or even concealing a feeling if he saw
anything going on that he thought wrong. He could not
even be made to see any virtue in restraining the
expression of his disapprobation at such times. But he
yielded his judgment to hers in many instances, because
he could not bear to differ with her in anything, however
insignificant.
He spoke as openly to people as behind their backs. It
was often a subject of marvel that he was allowed to say
what another man could hardly have done with impunity.
As an instance of this, he one day spoke sharply to
Colonel McClung, the famous duellist of Mississippi. It
was said that Colonel McClung had killed five men, and
had grown reckless and bad-tempered and easy to take
offence, especially when he was drinking. One day
Thomas went up to Cooper's Wells, and on alighting
saw Colonel McClung. He saw at once that he was
intoxicated, and tried to avoid him, but Colonel McClung
was fond of whist and fond of Thomas as a partner, and
followed him, insisting on a game. There was no getting
out of it, as the part of prudence dictated. Colonel
McClung played carelessly, a thing annoying to his
partner, and he spoke sharply. "Do you speak so to me,
sir?" Colonel McClung asked, raising his eyes of fire, his
whole frame quivering with suppressed passion. But his
eyes of fire met the eyes of a lion. "I do, sir."
Colonel McClung saw that he could not daunt that man.
He gazed at him a moment. "I thought that he meant to
challenge me," Thomas said, in speaking of it afterwards.
"Every gentleman there thought that he would challenge
me. But he calmed down in a moment and, to the surprise
of everybody, said, 'You are right, Colonel Dabney; I did
revoke and play carelessly. I shall do better, sir.'"
"Did you ever have the feeling of fear in your life, papa?"
one of his children asked one day. "I cannot remember,
my dear, that I ever did," he said, in a musing way, as if he
had not more than half heard the question and took no
interest in it.
The summers grew to be the gayest season at Burleigh
The house was nearly always crowded with guests.
Everybody in the neighborhood kept open house.
Friends from towns and cities found it the pleasant time to
visit the country, and there were other reasons for their
coming too. It was safe from the yellow fever. In yellow
fever summers entire households, including, of course,
servants and children of all ages, were entertained.
Sometimes for weeks, and even months, the white family
numbered from twenty to twenty-five persons, and
sometimes more. Music and dancing, charades and games,
cards, riding on horseback, and wagon- and carriage-driving
were the diversions. One yellow fever summer we
got up a history class, and everybody had every morning to
sit in a long line in the hall and answer in his or her turn a
question or two in English history. Blunders gave more
universal satisfaction than accurate knowledge, and it
ceased to be a disgrace to be unable to answer very simple
questions. One summer a church fair absorbed a great deal
of time and thought. One winter we young people and our
guests took up English poetry. It became a rage to study
the best English poetry and recite it to each other on long
walks. We learned several thousand lines before the
enthusiasm died out. A lady who spent many weeks and
months there in these years used to say that she had
learned more at the "Burleigh Academy" than at any other
that she had ever attended. A well-selected library of
thirteen hundred volumes put all the standard authors
within reach.
One of the best actors in the charades was our father.
The only objection to him was that he was so amusing
to the other actors that they could scarcely get through
with their parts. Any one who excelled in anything
that could entertain the company was called on to do
it. There were few who did not catch the spirit of the
house and join in whatever was on foot. One young
friend, who danced the Fisher's Hornpipe and the
Cachuca very gracefully, was dressed in fancy costume
and made to dance her pas seul every time that she
made a visit. In the garret were trunks of fancy
costumes, masks, etc., for such occasions, - some were
bought, but most of them were fabricated out of old finery.
Poetry and speeches were declaimed, and songs sung by
people who had not dreamed that they had so much in
them before.
An English gentleman, an Oxford man, who spent a
summer there under these happy conditions, said that the
entertainment at Burleigh was like that in English houses.
Sufficient attention was paid to visitors to make them
comfortable, and to make them understand that their
society was desired, but they were allowed to follow their
own bent in disposing of their time. Mrs. Dabney's quiet
dignity and her husband's high spirits and vivacious
temperament were just the complementary qualities
needed for a delightful home atmosphere.
Burleigh was loved almost like a home by some of the
coming and going guests, and by one or two young boys
who had lived there as members of the family, - the sons
of friends or relations.
The summer of 1858 was one of the gayest known at
Burleigh. During the summers of 1859 and 1860 some of
the young members of the family travelled in the North.
Among the guests at Burleigh in these years none were
oftener shore, or contributed more to the happiness of the
house, than the Raymond Dabneys. The brilliant band of
sisters in the Raymond household were the most welcome
visitors who came to Burleigh, and the brothers were
looked on almost as sons of the house.
Thomas and Sophia felt a just pride in this charming
family of four nephews and five nieces. In their turn they
honored Thomas almost as a second father, and Sophia
was the dearest of their aunts.
Thomas was the friend of young men, and encouraged
and assisted all who applied to him. During their
University days two of his sons, Charles and Virginius,
wrote to him of worthy young men who were struggling
to educate themselves and were in need of money. In
both cases he sent a check for five hundred dollars to
his sons, to hand to their friends as a gift. The following
letter from a young friend will throw light on this
side of his character:
..."Aunt S. told me the other day of something which I
was glad to hear, because it makes me feel nearer than ever
to you all. It was simply an act of generosity on the part of
your father, which would stand without a parallel in the
experience of those greatly older and more acquainted with
life and human nature than I am. I suppose you have heard
it, but may I repeat it?
"At the time of a commercial crisis in New Orleans, when
three of my uncles, --, --, and --, were thought to be
embarrassed, your father heard of it and sent to them a
blank check stating the amount he had in bank (fifty
thousand dollars or more, I think), and instructing them to
draw upon it to the whole amount, if necessary to prevent
their name from going to protest. I do not think the check
was used, but the generous friendship of the deed
remains."
The incident is true, except as regards the amount
offered. It was not over twenty-five thousand dollars or,
at most, thirty thousand dollars, as he never had in bank
more than the proceeds of the sale of a single crop, and
his largest cotton crop brought thirty thousand dollars.
He sent a check for fifty dollars to every church that
applied to him for aid, without regard to its creed.
He was so lavish in providing for his family that his wife
and daughters learned not to trust him to make purchases,
because he got so much more than was needed.
A few illustrations of this will show his ideas on such
matters. Sophia asked him one day to buy a brooch for
the eldest girl. He was so pleased with the commission
that he bought six, two apiece for the three eldest.
Another day she asked for two diamond rings; the two
eldest daughters had practiced their music faithfully and
this was to be a reward. The next two she thought too
young for diamond rings. He bought
four, - it would not do to make a difference, he said. When
one watch was sent for he bought three.
Sometimes his shopping experiences were really
ludicrous. On his return from New Orleans one winter he
brought in the place of a pink silk-tissue dress, that had
been on his memorandum for one of the daughters, a
quantity of some costly stuff for the entire family. It had
struck his fancy, and he had gotten enough of it to make
dresses for Sophia and each of her daughters. It was
neither tasteful nor suitable.
But the dear mother, with that rare unworldliness and
lack of ostentation that sometimes brought a smile to the
faces of her friends, had the dresses made up - five or six
of them - all alike.
And the dear father admired, and thought that we would
always be willing to trust to his taste in the future.
He looked on it as a great sin in parents to show a
preference for one child over another. It was unpardonable
to feel it, he said, unworthy of a true father or mother. He
said that he loved all his children alike, and he should feel
like tearing his heart from his bosom if he did not. I never
saw any one feel so strongly on this subject, - the cruel
injustice of it struck him afresh when some instance came
to his knowledge of some parent who felt otherwise than
himself.
His children can testify, from full hearts, the unspeakable
comfort of the impartial love of father and mother.
During all these years, since Charles's death, the mother's
health had been failing. Her husband did everything
that devoted love could prompt. They went on trips
to pleasant places. and on visits to pleasant houses. Still,
as time passed, she grew no better. It was now seven
years since her great sorrow, but it seemed to bear her
down more than ever before. She began to say that she
was tired of bringing up her young children. "I do not bring
them up as I did the others," she said. "I am not able to do
it. My daughters could take better care of them." And when
she was ill, and we worked to save her, she said, "Oh,
why did you not let me die?" When she thought that she
was dying her lips moved and a daughter's ear caught the
humble prayer, "Bless my children. Make them useful
members of society." She was spared to us some months
after this.
The land began to be full of the talk of the coming war.
Thomas was an Old-Line Whig, and that is as much as to
say he was a Union man. He despised the "Blue-Cockade
Men," as he called the secessionists on account of the
badge that many wore before hostilities began. He felt sure
that they would not be the men to shoulder their rifles
when real work had to be done. He did all that he could,
in his neighborhood and through the press, to calm the
excited feelings that the demagogues were lashing to a
frenzy. He believed that the leaders were getting the war
up to further their own ambitious schemes. From the first
he doubted not that it would be a terrible conflict; it had
been blowing too many years to be other than terrible.
He foresaw that in any event, whether conquered or
victorious, the South would be ruined.
"If the South succeeds," he said, "this will be but the
beginning of secessions."
He decided to sell everything that he owned and to
move, before it was too late, to England with all his
family.
When his plans were fully made, he spoke to Sophia
one night, -
"My dear, I have made up my mind to sell our property
and to get out of this country at once. We shall go to
England. We have enough to enable us to live there with
our children."
"Yes, my dear; but what will you do with Abby?"
The question was unanswerable. It opened up a whole
vista of similar ones. "What will you do with Maria,
with Harriet, with their children and husbands?" He could
set one or two free and provide annuities, but if he tried to
make all his servants comfortable whom he could not make
up his mind to sell, it would be quite impossible for him to
take his family to live in England.
That question of my good mother's settled forever his
mind and the destiny of her house.
Thomas Dabney and his wife deliberately chose to go
down with their country.
Has not their daughter, then, the right to say, as was
said at the beginning of these memorials, that the tie
between this master and his slaves was as sacred and
binding, if not as near, as the tie of blood?
But the mother who almost forgot her own children that
night on her pillow to stand up for her slaves, was not to
see the desolation that was even now at her doors.
We did not know it then, but on the 9th of January,
1861, Mississippi was to throw off her allegiance to the
United States government.
Three weeks before that 9th of January, one week
before that last Christmas before the war, Thomas was
standing in the dining-room, near Sophia, when she called
to him suddenly. He threw out his arms just in time to
catch her, and she sank on his breast.
She never spoke afterwards to him or to any one else.
She fell asleep as he held her in his arms, and he took her
to her bed.
She slept for nearly four days, while her physicians and
her large family and many relations and friends gathered
around her.
Thomas was with her day and night, sitting or lying by
her side, - his fingers on her pulse, - scarcely hearing his
children when they begged him to take some care of
himself.
He felt the last pulsation of that loved heart. The breath
had come more and more faintly, and at longer intervals,
and he knew that the end was at hand.
"It is over," he said, as he rose to go towards his
children.
Five daughters and two sons were there, the youngest
child seven years of age. The two oldest sons only were
absent, and one daughter.
Two of the children were married, and two others grown
men and women, but to him they were all to be from this
day his motherless children.
During our mother's lifetime he was sometimes a stern
father. But from the day on which his lonely
widowhood began he was never again other than the tenderest
mother could have been. His whole nature seemed changed. He
was father and mother in one. The wise, strong judgment and
counsel of the man were there, but blended now with a pitying
compassion and sympathy that wore more than womanly. It was
such tenderness as only the strong and brave can feel.
He missed so sorely the loving and congenial and ennobling
companionship that for thirty-four years had been his, that he
could not bear to see his children suffer any approach to what he
felt. The constraint that he put upon himself to appear cheerful
was the most touching part of his grief, and we feared at times
that his heart would break. During that perfect union there had
been not one jar or disagreement.
The only large wedding that took place in the Burleigh house
was on the occasion of the marriage of Susan to Lyell Smedes.
She had been engaged to him for two years, and her parents, who
were much attached to him, warmly approved her choice. The
servants long remembered the wedding-feast on this happy event;
every man, woman, and child on the plantation was remembered
in the wedding-cakes and other good things.
It was during the short married life that followed this event
that our mother passed away. Lyell's presence was especially
comforting to our father. His own children could not cheer him
as the son-in-law did. But the dear father was unselfish in his
grief as in everything else.
"Do not stay with me," he said; "go and take your young
wife in your arms and comfort her as I comforted her
mother when she was young and when she was old." In
a few weeks the household was plunged into a new and
deep sorrow by the death of this husband of eleven weeks.
The following extract is
taken from his father's * meditations
on the morning's lesson for Sexagesima Sunday. It will
throw light on a character of singular
* Rev. Aldert Smedes.
beauty and guilelessness, and on a life which passed so quickly
from the home-circle at Burleigh:
..."We shall deduce but one lesson from this interesting
story: it is, the honor in which God holds filial obedience!...
Let the true moral, then, of the story of the Rechabites sink into
every heart. It was their obedience to their father for which God
held them in honor. 'Thus saith the Lord of Hosts, the God of
Israel, Because ye have obeyed the commandment of Jonadab,
your father, and kept his precepts, and done according to all that
he hath commanded you: therefore, thus saith the Lord of Hosts,
Jonadab, the son of Rechab, shall not want a man to stand before
me forever.'
"In what precise sense this promise was fulfilled to the father
of the Rechabites it is not our purpose to inquire. But to every
Christian father of an obedient son the words assume a meaning
as true as it is full of encouragement and blessing.
"That son may grow up before his father, the delight of his eyes,
the pride of his heart, with all the innocence and graces of a
childhood baptized into Christ, gradually developing under
parental culture, blessed of heaven, into the traits and virtues of
a boyhood and youth, eager and joyous in every active sport,
sedulous in every appropriate duty, and restrained from every
excess of riot. Having won in this incipient stage, by amiability,
docility, and a habitual preference of others to himself, the good
will and esteem of preceptors, companions, and parents, he may
be sent with trembling, but with trust, to the ordeal of life. Amid
the temptations which there beset the young he may be enabled
to hold fast his integrity. Every letter from himself, every report
from the authorities, every testimony of his many friends may
cheer the anxious hearts of the circle at home, with evidence that
he has not forgotten the precepts of his father's house nor
forsaken the law of his mother's lips. At length, carrying with
him the honors of his college and the hearts of all who shared
his labors in its halls, he is launched upon the business of the
world.
An independent and successful career opens almost
immediately upon him, but it is one exposed to many and
great dangers. Yet, though now of age to choose his own
path, he does not forsake the paths in which he has been
trained. He obeys a father's wishes by becoming an aid
to his pastor in the Sunday-school and in the choir; he is
regularly present when the sanctuary opens its doors; on
all occasions and in every company he evinces his
reverence for religion and for sacred things. A stranger in
the place where his business has led him, he soon makes in
every one of its inhabitants a friend.
"At length the time arrives when, after years of absence,
he is to be held once more to the bosom which pillowed
his infancy. He brings back to his home a form matured,
indeed, into the fullest and firmest expression of manly
vigor, but a countenance flushed with the same rosy
innocence and beaming with the same sweet smile which
rendered his infancy attractive.
"It was impossible to see his expanded chest, his elastic
but firm step, his appearance of health and manly vigor
without the conviction that his body was a temple which
no foul excess had defiled. While the cheerfulness,
amiability, and kindness that made his face shine almost as
an angel's and were expressed in every gesture towards
those with whom he conversed, were the same tokens of a
heart as loving and guileless as a child's.
"But his brief reprieve from business expires, and he
hurries to his adopted home to claim the dearest prize this
earth contains for man. God has crowned the mercies of a
life unusually blessed by giving to him the bride whom his
heart had chosen. One brother performs the sacred service,
another assists as his nearest friend. A crowd of relatives
and friends, with tears and smiles and warm congratulations,
attest their sympathy and joy. The bride and groom in the
bloom of health and youth and beauty stand, happiest of the
happy, in the midst of a circle as full of kindness, gayety
love, and hope as ever such an occasion assembled.
Surely the father of a son so placed, though realizing
the scene only from a great way off, might be excused if,
amid other thoughts it suggested, this one should stand
prominently out, 'that he should not want a man to stand
before God forever.'
"But a cloud soon passed over this cheerful sky! It was
shrouded in the blackness of night! In his mysterious
wisdom and goodness it pleased the Almighty Being, who
had made this young man so lovely and given him so much
to love, to remove him by a swift disease from all that he
held dear, from all who held him dear. His manly form lies
low in the dust. His beauty is withered like the flowers
which, from many hands, were scattered profusely over his
bier. And now what remains for the afflicted ones he has
left behind? For the widow in her speechless, tearless grief?
For the mother, who goes mourning all the day long and
waters her couch with her tears? Shall no light rise upon
their darkness? Nay, rather in the recollection with which
their memory is stored, of the Christian graces of his
childhood, youth, and manhood, in the testimony which
comes to them from so many quarters, even from the
companions of his gayest hours, from young and old, from
man and woman, from high and low, of his generosity, his
disinterestedness, his purity of thought, and word, and
deed; shall they not hear the whisper of 'the voice from
heaven,' saying, 'Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord,'
and shall not his father feel in a sense, highest, holiest, and
most blessed of all, that 'he shall not want a man to stand
before God forever!' "
We placed him by the side of our mother, among her
children. On the simple slab of Italian marble that marks the
spot are his name and age - twenty-five years - and the
words:
"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God."
When one hires servants and they do not give some sort
of satisfaction, redress is at hand. The servant is
dismissed. But with slaves, at Burleigh, and with all the
good masters and mistresses in the South, - and I have
known very few who were not good, - there was no
redress.
It may be thought that Southerners could punish their
servants, and so have everything go on just as they
pleased. But he who says this knows little of human
nature. "I cannot punish people with whom I associate
every day," Thomas Dabney said, and he expressed the
sentiment of thousands of other slave-owners. It was true
that discipline had sometimes to be used, but not often, in
very many instances only once in a lifetime, and in many
more, never. George Page, who in his youth, and in his
middle age, was about his master's person and knew him
well, said, "Master is a heap more strict with his children
than he is with his servants. He does not overlook things
in his children like he does in his people."
Apart from the humane point of view, common sense,
joined with that great instructor, responsibility, taught
slave-owners that very little can be effected by fear of
punishment.
Fear and punishment only tend to harden the rebellious
heart. What, then, was to be done with a grown servant
who was too lazy or too ill-tempered to do half work, with
abundant and comfortable support insured whether the
work was done or not? It is clear that unless the moral
nature could be appealed to, that servant had to be
endured. It would not have answered to set that one free;
that would have made dissatisfaction among the others.
Very many slave-owners looked on slavery as an incubus,
and longed to be rid of it, but they were not able to give up
their young and valuable negroes, nor were they willing to
set adrift the aged and helpless. To have provided for this
class, without any compensation for the loss of the other,
would have reduced them to penury.
Now that the institution is swept away, I venture to
express the conviction that there is not an intelligent white
man or woman in the South who would have it recalled,
if a wish could do it. Those who suffered and lost most - those
who were reduced from a life of affluence to one
of grinding poverty - are content to pay the price.
Good masters saw the evil that bad masters could do. It
is true, a bad master was universally execrated, and no
vocation was held so debasing as the negro trader's.
Every conscientious proprietor felt that those were
helpless creatures, whose life and limb we were, in a
certain sense, under his control. There were others who
felt that slavery was a yoke upon the white man's neck
almost as galling as on the slaves; and it was a saying that
the mistress of a plantation was the most complete slave
on it. I can testify to the truth of this in my mother's life
and experience. There was no hour of the day that she
was not called upon to minister to their real or imaginary
wants. Who can wonder that we longed for a lifting of
the incubus, and that in the family of Thomas Dabney the
first feeling, when the war ended, was of joy that one
dreadful responsibility, at least, was removed? Gradual
emancipation had been a hope and a dream not to be
realized.
It may not be out of place to give an illustration of how
one of the Burleigh servants carried her point over the
heads of the white family.
After the mistress had passed away, Alcey resolved that
she would not cook any more, and she took her own
way of getting assigned to field work. She systematically
disobeyed orders and stole or destroyed the greater part of
the provisions given to her for the table. No special notice
was taken, so she resolved to show more plainly that she
was tired of the kitchen. Instead of getting the chickens for
dinner from the coop, as usual, she unearthed from some
corner an old hen that had been sitting for six weeks, and
served her up as a fricassee! We had company to dinner
that day; that would have deterred most of the servants,
but not Alcey. She achieved her object, for she was sent to
the field the next day, without so much as a reprimand, if I
remember rightly. We were very sorry, for she was the most
accomplished cook whom we had had in Mississippi. But
what was to be done? No master could have made her
cook unless by making a brute of himself, and using such
measures as would lower him in his own eyes. Her master
merely said, "Choose any one whom you like as your
cook, and let Alcey go out to the field."
Those were days of trial and perplexity to the young
mistresses. The old house-servants, though having at
heart an affection for them, considered or pretended to
consider them too young to know what they wanted.
Besides, had they not known these young ladies ever
since they were born? And did not they call them mammy
or aunt in consideration of superior age?
If complaint were made to the master, his answer was,
"If you cannot get along with the servants, and they will
not recognize your authority, choose any others that you
think will do better." Several had to be sent to the fields
before some of the old trained servants, who had never
worked out of the "great house" in their lives, saw that
there was to be a head to the house, even though that
head was set on young shoulders.
In this time of change and discouragement Mammy
Maria's strong, true love for the house showed itself, and
was indeed a help and support. She had never in her life
received what could be called an order from any younger
member of the family. To her everything was put in the
form of a request. She was too much beloved for any one
of her "white children" to wish to alter this relationship
now. But mammy decided herself on changing her manner
to us. Instead of her independent way of letting us know
her views, and expecting us to follow her advice, she
addressed her young mistresses in a manner marked by
the most studied deference. The slightest expressed wish,
though couched as ever in the form of a request, was a
command to mammy, and was obeyed with more
punctilious exactness than if it had come from the father or
mother. She and they had been bons camarades many a year
together, and understood each other, - there was no need to
obey strictly, or to obey at all, if she saw a better way. But
here was a different state of things, - here was upheaval
and rebellion. The servants hardly meant it so; most of it
was thoughtlessness on their part, but the result was
discomfort and perplexity to mammy's "white children."
Her loyal heart showed her this way of giving comfort to
us.
After the war actually began, Thomas Dabney espoused
the side of the South with all the enthusiasm of his nature.
As has been said, he did nothing by halves. He at once
organized his household on a more economical footing
that he might have the more to aid in carrying on the war.
He said that we at home ought not to live more luxuriously
than our soldiers in camp, and he himself set the example
of giving up many luxuries which were yet abundant in
the land. It was considered unpatriotic to plant cotton,
and he urged his neighbors to turn all their energies
towards sustaining the Southern soldiers. They planted
half crops of cotton; but not a cotton-seed was allowed
to be put in the ground on the Burleigh plantation. Every
acre was planted in corn, that the army should not lack
food for man and beast. He gave his money
with both hands, and his sons as freely. He was most
restive at not being in the army himself. He was on the
point of enlisting many times, and did enlist once, when
special troops were called for to go to Columbus,
Kentucky, where heavy fighting was expected.
His daughters were in despair at seeing him at the age of
sixty-two preparing to go into the trenches. No argument
on the subject of his age could move him when this
uncontrollable longing to go into the army got possession
of him, as it did from time to time. His daughters came
around him and reminded him that all their brothers who
were old enough to handle a musket were at the front, and
he ought not to run the risk of leaving them without a
natural protector. Perhaps the strongest argument used
was that he could best serve his country by remaining at
home and giving his personal supervision to the fields
which were to feed the armies. He finally yielded to their
wishes and stayed at home.
His fourteen-year-old son, Benjamin, caught the war
fever, and his father gave his consent for him to go into
the ranks. He sent a trusted body-servant with his sons.
"William," he said, "I wish you to stand by your young
masters, and to look after them as well as you can. And if
they are killed, I want you to bring them home to me."
"Yes, marster."
"And here is my sword, William. I give it to you to take
to the war. You can fight with it, too, if you see a chance."
"Yes, marster, I will show them the English of it."
And William, who was about six feet two inches in
height, threw his head back and looked proud of the
trust.
William was armed with the master's own sword, which
he had had sharpened before handing it to him. It had
been his when, at the age of fourteen years, he had gone
to Old Point Comfort, where the British were expected
to land. The edge had been ground off when peace was
declared after the war of 1812, and it had
not been sharpened till the Confederate war broke out.
Thomas wrote much for the papers in these days, urging
every Southerner to take care of the soldiers in the field.
Five young men, who were guests at Burleigh in the first
spring of the war, were fitted out by him and sent off with
one hundred dollars apiece, and directions to have their
bills charged to him. Gray cloth was ordered up from New
Orleans, and uniforms cut out and made by the dozen in
the house and sent to the camps. Blankets were not to be
bought in any Southern market, and he decided to give
every one that he owned, but his daughters begged to be
allowed to keep some, and he compromised on giving away
nineteen of the largest size, about half. He wished us to cut
up the carpets to put on the beds. Great boxes of food and
wine were sent off to the hospitals. He sent his carriage for
sick soldiers, and took care of them as long as they were
allowed to stay, treating each private as if he were the
commander-in-chief of the army.
He greatly enjoyed a dinner that he gave to General John
C. Breckenridge and a brilliant party of officers and friends
in September of 1862. It was the last entertainment given at
Burleigh before the tide of war swept over it. There were
about eighteen guests, among them some friends from New
Orleans, - Mr. Needler Jennings, Mr. George W. Ward,
and Mr. Violet, Andrew Jackson Polk, of Tennessee, and
the Hon. Senator Gwynn, of California. Two of our own
soldier boys were there on furlough, Edward Dabney and
Augustine Dabney's son, Thomas Gregory Dabney.
Everybody was full of hope. None then realized the true
state of things, that Vicksburg would fall and all our part of
the country be overrun. Vicksburg had stood two sieges,
and we thought that little city impregnable, and the gay
company assured the ladies that they should be defended,
and should never see the war more near-by.
General Breckenridge had been called the handsomest
man in the United States when he was a candidate for
the Vice-Presidency a few years before. It would be
impossible to exaggerate the beauty of his person or the
grace and courtesy of his bearing. His face was one of
classic beauty, and his figure worthy in its proportions to
bear the massive head, so superbly set upon the shoulders;
but to see him mounted on his war-horse, riding as if he and
the charger were one, the long black plumes of his hat
nodding, with every movement, his eye fired with
enthusiasm, this was the most impressive picture that had
met our eyes. As we stood on the porch the next morning
watching the receding cavalcade, they waved their hats
and saluted till the bend in the road shut them from our
view.
The Burleigh family had cause to remember the second
siege of Vicksburg. One of the daughters, Sophy, lay
halting between life and death. Her physician informed the
family that any excitement would probably be fatal, and
on no account must the impending siege of Vicksburg be
alluded to in the sick-room. We had heard every gun of the
first siege, and this one was expected to begin every hour.
Presently a dull, booming sound was heard; it announced
that the siege had opened. The watchers hoped that the
patient slept. A moment more and another and another
gun broke the stillness.
"What is that?" she asked.
"Isn't it thunder?" somebody suggested.
"Thunder does not sound at regular intervals. The siege
of Vicksburg has begun."
But it did not excite her, as we had feared it would, and
though every shot seemed to go through the loud-beating
hearts of the father and sisters during those long days
of suspense, she did not seem to attend, and got well
as fast as if there had been no siege of Vicksburg.
The plantation life went on as usual. The servants went
about their duties, we thought, more conscientiously
than before. They seemed to do better when there was
trouble in the white family, and they knew that there
was trouble enough when all the young men in the
family were off at the wars. They sewed on the
soldiers' clothes and knit socks for the army, and packed
the boxes with as much alacrity as the white people did.
They were our greatest comfort during the war.
When hostilities began, the younger children were taught
by a tutor who had been in the family for several years. Mr.
Dabney had not thought of sending him away, though he was
a Northern man, and, it was to be supposed, with Northern
sympathies. He was so quiet that we at Burleigh rarely
thought of his sympathies, for he never seemed to speak if
he could avoid it. But the neighbors had a report that he was
a spy, and Mr. Dabney was informed of it, with a request that
Mr. T-- should be dismissed. This was communicated to the
tutor in the kindest manner, and the man was moved to tears
as Thomas talked with him.
Thomas Dabney originated the scheme for the Confederate
government to raise money by getting out bonds on the
basis of the cotton then in the hands of the planters. The
cotton bonds supplied the sinews of war during the early
part of the struggle.
At a trial of strength between himself and five young
men who were guests in his house for a month or two
before they went off to the war, he held out at arm's
length a weight that was too heavy for them to hold out.
One day after his beloved wife had been dead about a
year, Thomas was lying on his bed in his chamber, one of
his daughters and a niece sitting by him. He began to sing
the song that had so often been begged for in vain by their
children, - the song that had won their mother's heart.
He sang it from beginning to end. As he came to the last
line, he struck with his clinched fist upon his breast, -
"Do they think that I can forget you! Do they think that
I can forgot you!" he cried.
Some one, little knowing the man, had spoken to him
jestingly of marrying again in this early stage of his grief.
The Episcopal Church of St. Mark's at Raymond,
had been built years before the war, and had been the
parish church of Thomas and his family. The drive of ten
miles did not seem inconvenient then. But it became
impossible to get so far afterwards. The family fell into a
way of reading the service at home, and the neighbors
liked to attend, and the large household was frequently
swelled to quite a congregation. Occasionally the bishop
or one of the clergy were there, and were surprised to
see the number that could be gathered together, almost
without giving out any notice. In the afternoon the
daughters held a service and Sunday-school for the
negroes, and the large library was well filled by them. They
delighted in the chants and hymns, and knew much of the
service and the catechism by heart.
Many years after they were free, a brawny blacksmith
sent a message to his teachers of these days, "Tell de
ladies I ain't forgit what dey teach me in de
Sunday-school."
Thomas never allowed anything to interfere with his
attending the services. Oftentimes friends came in, or other
things happened that made it an effort to break off. But
when the hour came, he would say, quietly, "We always
have the service at eleven o'clock on Sundays," and the
guests were invited to join him. It was a surprise to many
who knew him only as a charming companion, always
ready for any sort of amusement that was not really
wicked. Some persons who had not been in a church for
years felt constrained to go in to those services. The quiet
dignity of the head of the house made it difficult to
approach him with a light excuse.
He did not himself lead the daily family prayers in his
house, or conduct the church services on Sundays. His
deep humility made him feel unworthy to take this part.
He loved to hear his daughters read the service and the
prayers. If for any reason they were omitted, he would
ask for them. When he was sick, we always had the
services around his bed. He was not one to express his
religious feelings, but no one felt more deeply
or reverently. His faith was that of a little child, without a
doubt, or shadow of one. He did not seem even to know
what was meant by religious doubts. I do not believe that
in the course of his life he ever questioned the truth of
revealed religion for five consecutive minutes. The subject
did not interest him, and he never took part in any
conversation bearing on it.
And yet he was not a communicant, and he was passing
through life with that error fixed in his mind, that one must
feel worthy before one can without hypocrisy become a
communicant. It was a happiness to him to see his children
go up to be confirmed as they grew up. In his humility, he
thought them better than himself.
One Sunday only himself and a daughter were left in the
house; everybody else was away. She had not thought of
going through with the services under the circumstances.
But her father asked, -
"Will you not have the services, my child?"
"I had not meant to do it. I thought that we could read
to ourselves."
"I want you to read the services, my dear," he said, in
his humble, gentle way that always came when he spoke
of these things. So they two went through the full service
together.
When they were not far from the end, there came a
knock at the door; a neighbor had come to spend the day.
His daughter thought that Thomas would not ask her to
go on, as the visitor was one who was not a religious man.
But he said at once, -
"My daughter and I are having prayers."
And the visitor joined in with a very earnest face. He
had not before seen this side of my father's character.
In the spring of 1863 Thomas Dabney began to feel
that his children were in one of the worst places in the
world for non-combatants, the neighborhood of a
beleaguered city. He lamented that all his children
were not sons. He longed more and more to go into
the army as the fighting drew closer to us. He ordered
an army uniform to be made for himself, and we feared
that we should not be able to keep him with us. His intense
sufferings from loneliness urged him, no less than his love
for the military life, to plunge into the excitement now so
near at hand. In his grief he said not infrequently in these
days that it would have been better for him if he had had
no children left him to take care of. All the men in the land
who were men indeed were off in the army; the whole
country seemed forsaken, except by the old men and the
boys and the women and children. He envied every soldier
in the ranks, and felt like a chained lion. Not to go into the
army cost him, without a doubt, the greatest struggle of his
life.
The rumor came that the whole country around Vicksburg
was to be abandoned to the enemy. Already General
Grant's troops were moving on Vicksburg, and that
place would soon be in a state of siege. The citizens were
fleeing in every direction. Thomas Dabney, feeling that he
had a home and food to offer to these homeless ones,
caused to be inserted in one of the Vicksburg papers an
invitation to any and all citizens desirous of leaving the
city to take refuge at Burleigh.
One family of Louisiana refugees had come to us before
this. This invitation brought out an Englishwoman, Mrs.
Allen, and her two children, and later on her husband.
At this juncture our hopes were raised by the arrival of
an officer, sent out by General Pemberton, with orders to
seize every pleasure horse in the country. A large body of
men were to be mounted, we were told, and this body of
cavalry was to patrol the country lying around Vicksburg;
and even to relieve that place when the time came. The
officer was astonished when he was hailed as the bringer
of joyful tidings. Many ladies, he said, had shed tears
when their carriage and other favorite horses had been
carried off by him. He had gotten nervous, and hated to
come among the women of the country with that dreadful
order in his hand. Every horse in the Burleigh stables was
brought out freely. One riding horse was exempted from
the draft as a necessary part of the plantation equipment.
My father preferred to retain his buggy horse, Gold Dust,
and he was allowed to do so.
Alas! in a few weeks Gold Dust was to be in the service
of the enemy and pitted against his own master's son, and
against the Burleigh carriage horses and other equine
acquaintances of the stables and pastures. When last seen
our carriage horses, powerful young roans, were on the
battle-field of Big Black in the artillery service.
We now set to work to bury the money and silver. Some
of our friends had buried their watches, and so destroyed
them. We sewed up our watches and such valuables as
would be spoiled by dampness in the form of a bustle,
and gave it to our trusted Aunt Abby to wear. Mammy
Maria was too nervous and cried too much to have any
responsibility put on her. Large hoops were in fashion at
this time, and we tied our silver in bags and put those under
our hoops, and went out one May day a mile from the
house to a rock-quarry. Here we dug a hole with the
dinner-knives that we had secreted about our persons
for the purpose, and in this hole we placed our valuables.
Then we put over them the largest stone that six or seven
girls could move.
As we were not in the habit of walking out in the hot
sun, some one proposed that we should dig up a
young holly, or something of the kind, and set it out on
our return to the house. This would account, it was
thought, to the servants for our walk. So we pulled up a
shrub or two and set them out as soon as we got home.
Mammy Maria watched these proceedings in silence,
and then said in her brusque way, and in her capacity of a
privileged servant, "You needn't think you is foolin' me. I
know you don't go out in de hot sun in May to set out
trees an' 'spect 'em to live."
The children buried their treasures too. Tom, a powder-can,
as the most prized of his possessions. It was of a brilliant
red, and a late acquisition, and might be coveted by the
enemy. Little Lelia buried her dolls and their wardrobes
securely in a hole dug in the greenhouse. Lelia's nurse,
who helped at the frequent exhumings
and re-interments, as rumors of the war were cheering
or alarming, - for we had a fresh rumor nearly every
day, - was true to her, but Tom was less fortunate in
his confidant, and that red powder-can was near costing
the thirteen-year-old boy his life. Ida buried her chief
treasure, a pair of cheap china vases, a quarter of a mile
from the house, down the spring hill
In the midst of all this Mrs. Allen's baby died. One of
the plantation carpenters made a coffin, and the Burleigh
family buried the little child. No clergyman was to be had.
Many of them were gone as chaplains in the army. Our
pastor led his company into the first battle of Manassas.
The baby was buried in the park under a small oak-tree.
The deer, seeing the procession of the family and the
coffin borne by the negro men come in, with the curiosity
of their species drew near. The gentler ones mingled with
the group around the open grave, one special pet licking
the hands of her human friends and stretching out her
beautiful neck to reach the flowers that the young children
had brought to strew on the little coffin.
The rude coffin and the absence of the minister, and of
any white man save one silvery-haired one, spoke of war.
But it was a beautiful and peaceful scene The setting sun
threw its slanting rays on the deer as they stood in the
background near the forest-trees, and on the little group
gathered close to the grave.
A woman's voice was repeating the solemn ritual of the
Episcopal Church for the burial of the dead.
take the best care that he could of his family, both white
and black. But his daughters became nervous and alarmed
about his personal safety under such circumstances. He
had been conspicuous in helping the Southern cause in
every way in his power, by money and hospitality, and
through the public journals of the State. We had heard of
rough treatment of aged men found in their homes by the
Northern soldiery. We heard later of the murder of two
unarmed old gentlemen, Mr. Sam Smith, of Mathews
County, Virginia, and Mr. Hyde, of Louisiana. Mr. Sam
Smith was hanged near his place, and Mr. Hyde was
burned up in his own house.
We made up our minds that our father should not risk
his life if we could prevent it. The Federal troops might
now be looked for at any hour. We wept and entreated him
to leave us, and finally told him that if he did not we should
go out of the house ourselves and seek a place of safety,
knowing well that he would not allow us to go unattended
by himself. We represented to him that we should be far
safer without him, and cited to him many instances where
the Northern troops had been kind to the women who had
no men to protect them, and very rough with those who
had one of their own sex in the house. We entreated him
by day and by night until he could no longer resist our
tears and prayers. With a heavy heart he bade us good-by.
The neighbors were carrying their servants to the east
side of Pearl River, within the Confederate lines. We urged
him to take a part of his there. He was opposed to this, and
justly so. It would show a lack of trust in them, he said.
Besides, it would be too great a strain of their obedience to
him if he ordered his able-bodied men and women to leave
their families behind and follow him. But he yielded his
own judgment in this case also.
Most reluctantly he called for his young men and
women, and told them that they must prepare to go
with him twenty-seven miles into the Pearl River
swamp. They obeyed cheerfully, and he kept them
there against their inclination and against his, under
uncomfortable conditions, for a week.
Meanwhile, at Burleigh we breathed freely when we saw
our dear father ride off. The overseer was an easy-going
man, who had not, like him, helped to carry on the war,
and he expected to pass unnoticed as an obscure person
and a non-combatant. He was to have control of things in
the master's absence.
It was not long before the news came that a company of
eighty Federals, from General Grant's army, had reached the
plantation, and had encamped in a field on the Tallahala
Creek, only a half-mile from the house. They were near
enough for us to hear the reveille in the morning and the
tattoo at night.
Very soon some of them rode up, by twos and threes
and came into the house. At first they were civil, but each
day they grew more and more rough, and finally they
became violent. They went into every room from the garret
to the cellar, and through every closet, wardrobe, bureau,
and trunk, and carried off everything that struck their
fancy. They found several hundred dollars in the iron safe,
and thought it a fortune. They looked like the dregs of
some city. We have thought they must have been the
camp-followers of General Grant's army, and not his regularly
enlisted men. They were scarcely in uniform; perhaps a
blue jacket on one and trousers on another, the rest of the
garb being of any hue or cut other than a military one.
When keys were not produced at once, they forced the
locks. Lelia's doll-trunk, only a few inches long, caught the
eye of one of them.
"Do not break the child's doll-trunk. It has nothing in it
but doll-clothes," one of her sisters said, when the key
could not be found.
"It is big enough to hold a pistol," he said, as he burst
the top of the toy off.
A broken-open desk revealed the love-letters of one of
the girls, and the perusal of these seemed amusing work.
They found the wine-cellar, and drank until they
were intoxicated. Then they called to the negroes to
come up into the porch to join them, as they struck
the necks off the bottles of wine. The negroes stood
around the porch, but only one accepted the invitation.
The others looked on silently while a loud-voiced drunken
fellow, who seemed to be the leader, announced that he
had come to hang the old gray-haired scoundrel to whom
all this belonged.
"I will hang your father on the nearest tree, under your
eyes," he said to the daughters. "He is well known. I have
long known him as an aider and abetter in this rebellion. I
mean to get him yet. I hear that he is coming home in a few
days." And then he cursed and swore dreadful oaths.
One of them shook a whip over Emmy's head because
she said, "Sister, do not be frightened. Only cowards try
to scare women and children."
"You had better not exasperate me," he cried, shaking a
whip passionately over her. He was drunk enough to go
to any lengths. In the midst of all they called up Tom and
ordered him to produce the large quantity of powder that
he had buried. He denied all knowledge of any buried
powder, not recollecting at the moment that he had buried a
powder-can. Being inflamed with drink, they became very
angry at his supposed obstinacy and falsehood. Holding a
pistol to his head, they commanded him to bring the
powder or his brains should be shot out. They marched the
boy across the yard and down the declivity of the hill in
this way. We expected every minute to see the pistol go
off, whether the man willed it or not. It came to Tom, or to
somebody, that the men must refer to the powder-can, and
he took them to the spot. They dug it up, and were
disgusted to find it empty. Our little black boy, Peter, had
told the soldiers of this powder-can. He was with Tom
when he buried it.
We did not see Peter for many years after this occurrence.
A few years ago an enunciated and prematurely aged
negro man came to the kitchen door to beg. He was ill,
he said, and starving for something good to eat, - would
we give him some pickle?
--- was our Peter. We could not see a trace of his former
self in him. He spent the day by the kitchen fire, and said
that he should come often to see us, but it was evident that
his days were numbered, and we saw him no more. He
died a few weeks after.
One of the soldiers said that Lelia was just the age of his girl,
and asked for a kiss, much to her alarm, for the children looked on
the Federal soldiers as little less than fiends. She escaped without
the kiss, but Letty did not. Letty was Augustine's youngest
child, just Lelia's age, and they were the dearest of friends and
playfellows. One of the men on seeing the three little girls, Ida,
Lelia, and Letty, said something about "putty little gals," and
asked if "sissy" would not give him a kiss, puckering up his
mouth with a smacking sound as he made the proposal. The three
fled precipitately behind the bed. He pursued, and Letty being
the hindermost of the little women, and with the face of a cherub,
suffered the penalty of her position, and got the detested kiss. He
must have been discouraged by her reception of it, for he did not
attempt to kiss the other two. It so chanced that the father's
valued sword had been thrown behind that bed, with the idea of
getting it out of sight. The children in their haste rushed over it,
and it fell with a clatter. But the men did not find it, though they
looked under every bed in their search through the house.
"There's a heap o' pretty tricks in this house," one of them
remarked, "not to be any silver."
They asked the servants about the silver, but none of them
gave a satisfactory answer. Aunt Abby's girl, Hannah, had helped
to pour peas over the plated-ware in a barrel in the cellar. She
was alarmed at their questions, and told us that they said they
were determined to get the family silver. "I tole 'em I thought
you had sent it to Georgia or somewhyar a long time ago," she
said. The silver and plate had been in Hannah's charge for years,
and she did not wish to see it go out of the family. We had kept
out a few forks and spoons for use, and had quite forgotten them,
when all this searching was going on. But Hannah had them
on her mind and took care to hide them, and they were not found
by the soldiers.
One day they announced their intention of staying to dinner.
When we went into the dining-room not a vestige of a silver
spoon or fork was to be seen. Hannah had found a set of steel
forks that had been stowed away somewhere, and she had got
together an array of iron spoons, - one was at each plate, and
a number were in the middle of the table.
The sight of these iron spoons, of all sizes and ages, created a
revulsion, and we did not dare to look up at Hannah or at each
other lest we should laugh outright.
Hannah walked around with such an air, as much as to say
that she had not heard us talk and read the papers for nothing!
The cook, Maria Reeves, whom my father had bought at her
own request, was always devoted to him. "Please, marster,
buy me. You is so good to your people," she had said. She and
Hannah must have got that dinner up between them. In our
experience of Maria we never knew her to serve so wretched a
dinner as she sent up on that day. A small dish of fried meat was
at one end of the long table, and a plate of corn bread at the other,
if I remember correctly, and a very insufficient quantity of either.
Our guests ate very little, and did not again stay to a meal.
The cook, good, simple soul, thought they would want her
pots and kettles. One day she secreted herself and all her cooking
utensils in a gully, and she and we had no dinner that day. When
she came to tell us about it that night, she looked woe-begone
enough, and we told her that it was not necessary to take such
precautions in future.
Papa had taken off his two fine imported rifles. He left a
number of others of less value behind, the sporting guns of his
sons. There were eleven of them in the hall. The Federals took
them all out and broke them against two young water-oaks that
had been set out that spring. It killed the two trees.
One day they got more angry than usual, and swore
with many oaths that they meant to shoot the overseer.
They were drunk enough to do it. They gave him five
minutes to prepare for death. The man was no coward. He
said simply, "God will be merciful to my soul. He knows
that I am taken suddenly in my sins. My poor wife and
children!" He closed his eyes for a few minutes in prayer,
and then said, "I am ready."
But we had called the two little girls up, - Letty and Lelia.
We told them that they might save this man's life by their
tears and prayers. We had argued and entreated in
vain, - children might be listened to when grown people's
prayers could avail nothing. The children burst out crying,
wailing, as we knew they would, and threw their arms
around Mr. Scarborough. Their innocent, childish grief
made a scene that was more than the men had bargained
for. One of the sisters threw herself between the pistol and
Mr. Scarborough's body, saying that he had stayed there
to protect us, and he should not be murdered.
Debased as the men were, they decided to release Mr.
Scarborough and end this scene.
We then begged Mr. Scarborough to go home to his
family. He had been cursed and dragged about the yard by
his collar, and finally came near losing his life at the hands
of a squad of irresponsible camp-followers, as we
supposed they were. No one could protect us, and the
sight of him seemed to exasperate the men. So Mr.
Scarborough went home, and only women and children
remained in the house, about twelve of us perhaps.
The men called up the negroes and asked if it were true
that all the horses had been carried off the place by the
Southern army, or ridden off by the owners. All knew that
Gold Dust was hidden in the woods, under the charge of
Uncle Harrison, and was fed and watered by him every
morning and night. But not one answered.
One of the ladies became alarmed lest Uncle Harrison's
fidelity to the family should be betrayed, which might get
him into trouble with the men. She answered that a horse
was hidden in the woods.
"Who can take me to him?" one of them said.
"Uncle Harrison," she replied.
The man ordered Uncle Harrison to show the way to the
horse.
He did not move, but, instead, looked at his mistress.
"Go, Uncle Harrison," she said.
"Must I, missis?" and the old man moved off reluctantly.
He had hidden him away off in the deep woods, where they
could never have found him, he explained afterwards.
When the horse was brought up, one of these rough
fellows leaped on his back and struck him with his great
whip. The fine creature, that had been trained to go by the
word and the reins, and did not know the meaning of a
whip, reared and danced with pain.
The man Edmund who had drunk a glass of wine in the
porch had always been a bad negro. He was set as a
sentinel to prevent our leaving the house. We saw him
standing on the quarters' hill about a quarter of a mile off
watching the house. * Perhaps it was believed that we
would attempt to carry off valuables. All night long the
cavalry galloped around the house, sometimes under the
very windows. We could not sleep for the noise of their
horses' hoofs.
The servants were as respectful and kind as ever, more
so indeed. Aunt Abby crept in the house and handed back
the package containing, watches and other trinkets. "I
cyarn't keep it any longer," she sobbed, while the tears
poured down her venerable face. "Dey tells me dey has a
wand, and dat wand will pint to anything dey tell it. I gave
up all I had. I had a tumbler glass full o' money, presents,
an' things dat de ladies had give to me, - half-dollars an'
things. I give 'em all up. But I couldn't give up your things.
But de wand will pint an' dey will git 'em, an' I bring 'em
back to you now."
* When the war was over, "Edmund
Dabney," as he signed
himself,
wrote to his old master begging to be allowed to return to Burleigh.
He sent messages of humble apology by all passing negroes. He was
never allowed to return.
They had taken all the money from every negro on the
plantation. Uncle Isaac had buried eighty dollars in
gold, - the savings of years. This he was made to unearth.
He had lately bought a new silver watch, for which he had
paid forty dollars. This was taken from him. Uncle Isaac
was not a special favorite with his master, but he had been
his playfellow in babyhood and boyhood. Partly for this
reason, and partly because he was the master's own age,
sixty-three years, and had been for years afflicted with
incurable lameness, Thomas Dabney made him a present
of a pair of his old carriage horses. Uncle Isaac was a
preacher, and the horses were intended to give him ease
and comfort in going about and in ploughing his own little
patch. These horses he sold to a stage-driver for fifty
dollars. His master was disgusted, as he had not wished
the horses to do hard work.
When Uncle Isaac was robbed he came to the house to
pour out his full heart to us. He went over again his old
story of being a child of the same year as master, and of
his getting a share of the nourishment that nature had
provided for the white baby "in your grandma's arms, an'
I called her ma an' your pa brother till I knowed better
myself. She never tole me to stop."
It will be remembered that my father was during this
period about forty miles from home within our lines. Every
morning when he woke up his body-servant, George Page,
told him of the number of his servants who had slipped
away, back to the plantation, in the darkness of the
preceding night. They were homesick, and doubtless
suspected that their master was as homesick as they were,
and only half-hearted in keeping them in the swamp.
As the numbers of the servants diminished day by day,
George Page, like Caleb Osbaldistone, tried to make up
in himself for what he looked on as the lack of loyalty on
the part of the other servants. They were field negroes;
he belonged to the house, and his manner to his master,
during these days in the swamp, was touching in its
blending of affection with respect.
He had left his wife and a houseful of children of all ages,
to whom be was tenderly attached, on the plantation. He
let his master know in every way that he was ready to stay
by his side as long as he wished him.
At Burleigh we heard every day of the arrival of the
different negroes. We knew that our father yearned to
follow them, and that he would do so soon. Each hour we
trembled lest we should see him ride up.
It was at this time that we resolved to get to him before
he could reach us. We had been living within the lines for
a week, and we felt that we could no longer stay in our
home under the increasing anxieties.
We packed a few necessary things in two trunks to be
taken off by Uncle Isaac in a cart, and we prepared to get
away on foot at daylight, before the soldiers came from the
camp. They had said on leaving us the evening before that
they were coming back in the morning for the silver and to
send pickets in every direction to search for papa, and to
burn up the house and us in it, too.
Heavy firing had been going on towards the north for
some days. The Federal soldiers had told us with loud
boasts that they were whipping our Southern soldiers from
the battle-fields. Fortunately, we did not know that
Edward was in these fights. We were as completely cut off
from the outer world as if we had been ourselves in a state
of siege, and knew nothing except what they told us. We
tried not to believe their stories of our disasters. But they
were true. We heard the battle of Raymond on the 12th, on
the 14th the battle of Jackson, and on the morning of the
16th the heaviest firing that we had yet heard came from
the battle-field of Baker's Creek, - Champion Hill General
Grant called it. Fifteen thousand Union soldiers and
twenty-three thousand Southern soldiers were present at
that battle; but six thousand six hundred and sixty-six
Southern muskets were not fired, owing to some
disagreement between the commanders it was said.
When the sound of these guns reached our ears we
were speeding away from home as fast as our feet
could carry us. We were belated the morning of the 16th,
and did not get off till near sunrise, and then so hurriedly
that one was bareheaded.
We had not a moment to lose. In point of fact, we were
pursued eight miles by two soldiers. They did not overtake
us, but were themselves overtaken and hanged by
Southern soldiers. They had about their persons the
money and jewelry that they had taken from us and our
neighbors. They had gone out too far from their lines in
their eager chase.
They did not reach the house till we had been gone
about two hours. They were angry that we had gotten off
without giving up the silver and other valuables, which
they felt sure we had secreted. They threatened to burn the
house and then pursue us. Mrs. Allen, who was making
her home at Burleigh, claimed her right to protection as a
British subject, and they went off cursing, as they hurried
after us.
Two miles from the house we met our father, with
George Page riding close by his side, and the other
negroes following. He was coming to us, as we knew that
he would do. He hired a wagon and put us in it, and in this
we travelled for a week across the country to the Mobile
and Ohio Railroad. A little negro girl had accompanied us,
running out of the woods to join us, just as we were
turning out of sight of the Burleigh house.
"I want to go wid de white ladies," she said. "I didn't tell
nobody, 'cus I was 'feared dey wouldn't lemme go. I was so
'feared de white ladies would git away 'fore I wake up."
So the plantation had known of our intention of leaving,
and we had not been betrayed to the soldiers!
Papa had but twenty dollars in his pocket. We had run
off without money; all that we had was buried within the
enemy's lines. Everything was dear in the country through
which we passed. We lived on a few square inches of corn
bread and a few square inches of bacon a day during that
week.
We could not see that little shiny-faced black child
hungry after such trust in us. Each of the grown people
cut off one-third of the allotted pittance of bread and of
meat for Amy. The children seeing this did the same with
their portions, and Amy was the only soul in that wagon
who was not hungry during that week. She had no clothes,
either, but the things that she had on. Her dress was of
white cotton, clean and spotless during the first day only.
We were wearing black for our dearest mother. Very soon
we had to dress Amy up in one of our black dresses from
the scant contents of the two trunks. She was the best and
most useful of little maids, and happy to the end of her
short life. She died of pneumonia a year from this time,
mourned by all the family. She could never be made to
admit that she was homesick or sorry for having cast her
fortunes in with the "white ladies."
We spent a week in a wretched house near Enterprise,
Mississippi. At the end of this time J. R. Eggleston, who
had lately married Sarah Dabney, came up from Mobile
with money to relieve present embarrassments and to take
the family to Mobile.
Two of us were bareheaded as we travelled on the train
and through the streets of Mobile. Three houses were
thrown open to us, - Dr. Frank Ross's, Major William
Ross's, and General Zachariah Deas's.
We rested for one week under the roof of Dr. Frank
Ross and his dear wife, and then took possession, free
of rent of the house of General Zachariah Deas. The
hospitable Mobile people said that they were happy to
do anything in their power for soldiers or refugees.
We lived for six months in the Deas house. But two
months of wretched anxiety and suspense were ahead
of us when we reached Mobile on that lovely day in
May. We heard then for the first time that General
Pemberton's command had fallen back into Vicksburg
after the engagement at Baker's Creek. Edward was
in this division, and we did not hear of his safety till
two weeks after the surrender of Vicksburg. He rode
to Mobile on horseback after his parole, and his
appearance at the door was our first tidings of him. In the
torn-up condition of the country it was often impossible
to get letters through.
One of Thomas Dabney's friends, Adam Giffen, of New
Orleans, himself a refugee in Mobile at this time, came to
offer his purse to the family of his friend. Thomas was
absent and his daughters refused to accept the money,
fearing that they would not be able to repay it. "I do not
care if I never see it again," Mr. Giffen said, as he thrust
two thousand dollars into her hand. "Your father will pay
me some day if he can, and if he cannot, I shall not
consider it a debt."
She then tried to give to Mr. Giffen a receipt for the
money, but he refused to receive it.
"A receipt from your father's daughter! No, indeed, and
no thanks either." In a few weeks Thomas was able to
return the two thousand dollars to his generous friend.
The cavalry company had withdrawn from their camp on
the Tallahala Creek. Soon after the negroes were brought
down to Mobile, - the one hundred who had not left the
plantation. The money and silver and wearing apparel also
of the family were brought down, and a good many books
and a few other things that were valued as mementos.
Then a sale was held at Burleigh, and not only were the
furniture, etc. sold out of the house, but the stock and
plantation implements of all sorts were disposed of. Our
father was opposed to giving up the accumulations of
years in this manner, but he yielded to his daughters, and
the plantation and home were stripped bare. A handful of
Confederate money was all that was brought by the sale.
we had been able still to keep, ho handed us out, saying in
his bright way, "Welcome to Burleigh No. 2."
He could not make his servants as comfortable as he
wished, and this was a source of regret to him. Many of
them were hired in good homes, near enough to come to
him if they were in trouble; but some of them he preferred
not to hire out, as they were not strong, and these, he
said, were too much crowded for their health. They did
not complain of this specially, and they seemed really to
enjoy the novelty of town life.
Mammy Maria, who had left two husbands in
Mississippi, came out in the new country as "Miss
Dabney," and attracted, as she informed her "white
children," as much admiration as any of the young girls,
and had offers of marriage too. But she meant to enjoy her
liberty, she said, and should not think of marrying any of
them.
In that small cottage in Macon the rooms were little more
than closets, and we were much thrown together. We were
strangers too in Georgia, although we had some very good
friends there; then the times were sad. We never felt the
family ties stronger than we did in that year in Macon, in a
house that was built for the humblest class of factory
people. It was near the railroad station, and in the midst of
the factories, and we had to stop talking at the train hours
and when the factory whistles blew.
But the dear father had no plantation to attend to, and
not much to feel interest in besides his little fireside and
his absent children. So he sat with us, and he grew
interested in everything that we said and did, and we
talked to him as freely as if he had been another sister. At
night he left the door of his sleeping cabinet open, and we
left ours open. We had never been so intimate with him
before. One cannot be in a large house, with rooms on
different floors. He joined in all our talks, as we sisters lay
in bed in our room and he in his room, and shared all our
jokes. Ever since our mother's death he had been in the
habit of singing in the middle of the night. We found out
that it was because he was lonely, with no one to talk to.
In this cottage, when he sang his funny songs in the night,
we laughed out, and he would be delighted to hear us.
Then always a talk sprang up, and we talked till we were all
sleepy. The calling from bed to bed of anything that was
interesting or amusing, and many things that would hardly
have seemed amusing at other times, brought out shouts
of laughter and applause in our midnight gossipings. He
enjoyed it like a boy on a lark, as the whole party did.
During our year in Macon he had the pleasure of
meeting General Joseph E. Johnston, for whom he had
a high admiration. An amusing incident occurred one
day when General Johnston came to call on him. Lelia
had wished much to see the hero of whom everybody was
talking. Her nurse was fired with the same desire, and
they planned a way of getting a sight of him through a
transom over the parlor door. Accordingly chairs and
boxes were piled up, and she and Lelia mounted to the
top of the pile. But an unlucky movement caused the
structure to totter, and it fell with a crash on the
floor of the little back gallery. As a matter of course,
the unusual noise made papa open the door to see what
was the matter, and this revealed Lelia and poor Milly
overcome with confusion and shame at having brought
disgrace on the house at such a time. Papa was struck
with the ridiculous aspect of the wreck and the culprits,
and when General Johnston had heard the explanation he
laughed heartily, and insisted on having the child
brought in. He doubtless looked on the thing as a
compliment to himself, as he had good right to do. But
the child in her faded Confederate homespun frock, and
Milly, the aider and abettor in the misdemeanor, were
very uncomfortable as to their share in the adventure.
Milly had a right to special indulgence, and the whole
thing was laughed off.
Milly was in Raymond at the time the battle was fought
two miles from that place, having been sent thither to learn
dress-making. She was dreadfully frightened by the guns,
and ran about crying, "Oh, I am 'feared dey will kill de
ladies at Burleigh."
When General Stoneman made his raid on Macon,
Thomas and his son were among the troops who went
out to meet him. The following are Thomas Dabney,
Jr's., recollections of this event:
"In the latter part of July, 1864, General Stoneman was
sent by General Sherman to capture Macon, Georgia, to
liberate the United States prisoners there confined, and
to destroy the arsenal and ordnance department of the
Confederate States of America.
"General Stoneman, accompanied by several brigades
of picked men, eluded General Hood's army, and reached
Macon about an hour before daybreak. But, unfortunately
for him, a severe freshet, which occurred a day or two
previous to his arrival, had washed the bridge over the
Ocmulgee River away. The railroad bridge, about a mile
lower down, was still intact, but before General Stoneman
could recover from his surprise the market gardeners and
butchers on their way to the city discovered his presence,
hurried across the railroad bridge and gave the alarm. Soon
the streets rang with the cry of heralds from the mayor
calling upon every one who could shoulder a gun to run to
the railroad bridge to defend it at all hazards.
"Father and I ran to the arsenal and got forty rounds of
ammunition apiece, and then ran all the way to the bridge,
over a mile distant. We were among the first to arrive,
but soon old men and boys began to pour in from all
quarters. A considerable number of convalescents from the
numerous hospitals located in Macon joined us. We were
none too soon, for already could be seen the long lines of
the enemy not over a half-mile from the bridge, and every
few moments shot and shell whistled over the heads of the
defenders of that bridge.
"Father's company was Company A, Findley's battalion,
but it generally went by the name of the 'Silver Grays,'
from the color of the hair of the members. I was the
only member in it without a gray head.
"Finally the enemy moved his position farther down
the river, and General Johnston ordered most of his
men across the river, leaving Company A to defend the
bridge.
"A furious cannonade was opened upon this point, but
as we, according to orders, were lying behind the railroad
embankment, none of the Silver Grays were touched until
Major Taliaferro placed two cannon on our side of the
river and proposed returning the enemy's fire. Volunteers
to man the guns were called for. In an instant father
and many other old gentlemen were busy loading the two
twenty-pounders that were to commit such havoc in those
serried blue lines just on the crest of yonder hill. Our
shot flew wide of the mark and the blue lines wavered not.
Suddenly the enemy ceased firing, and horsemen were seen
galloping, up and down the long line. We were beginning
to feel much encouraged, when suddenly an old soldier
cried out, 'Look, the enemy is massing his batteries!' It
was only too true. Cannon seemed to come from everywhere,
and a perfect storm of shot and shell burst upon our
devoted heads. In a few minutes our guns were silenced,
but not until several of the Silver Grays lay dead beside the
little brazen guns which brought us nothing but death.
"We were ordered to lie down again. The battle scene
shifted, and finally General Stoneman and most of his men
were outwitted and captured. A small brigade of Texans
under the gallant General Gregg, I think, coming up in the
enemy's rear decided the day in our favor.
"Father and I did not fire a gun during the entire day."
One night while we were in Macon papa was taking us
to the theatre and we happened to meet Mammy Maria
on the way. Hearing where we were going, she said,
"Why don't you take me too, master? I never been to
the theatre in my life." So he told her to come along.
When we got there, mammy was quite disgusted at
being told by the door-keeper that she was to sit in
the gallery, instead of with her white people. When
the play was over - it was "Taming the Shrew" -
and mammy rejoined us at the door, she was in a state of
excitement. She had been dreadfully scared by the fighting
on the stage, and feared that Petruchio might go up in the
gallery and fight there too.
After the battle of Resaca and New Hope Church, the
wounded were sent to Macon, and they were laid out on
the floor of the railroad station in long rows. Their
wounds had been dressed on the field two days before, but
not since, and they had had no food during those days.
Thomas Dabney took every available thing in the house to
nourish them, and his daughters, under his direction, made
lint and tore up linen into long strips. They accompanied
him, and helped to minister to the suffering men, binding
up wounds, giving them hot tea, milk, and other
refreshment.
The surgeons soon discovered that he understood dressing
wounds, as he went from one soldier to another, putting
on fresh bandages and helping his daughters in cases
that they could not manage.
Years after, as he was getting on a railroad train, a man
seized his hand, and said, "I can never forget you, sir.
You dressed my wound at Macon." Thomas could not recall
the man's face, he had dressed the wounds of so many.
But the man was not satisfied till he made him recollect
which one he was.
"I asked your daughter to dress my wound, and she
said that she could not, but she brought you to do
it for me." And this recalled the circumstance to
his memory.
The only groans heard from those wounded men came
from two sweet-faced young boys. They were shot
through the head, and were delirious, and both were
dying. One of them said, "Kiss me, mother."
As they left this scene, Thomas's daughter said to
him, "I could not get to the boy. I begged the lady
standing near him to kiss him."
"Yes, I heard you," Thomas replied, in a husky voice.
The lady had passed her hand over the lips of the
dying lad, and said, "That seems to satisfy him."
"MACON, GEORGIA, 16th August, 1864.
..."Tommy and I
belong to an organization composed of
citizens exempt by age, - a fine looking body of
gentlemen. Tommy, I think, is the only member under fifty
years of age." *
"MACON, GEORGIA, 18th September, 1864.
..."I write now to
say, as you may well imagine, that our
troubles are not ended, the Yankees still struggling to
reach our abode, poor as it now is. We cannot now pretend
to know the immediate objects of Sherman, but think it
prudent to suppose that, either immediately or ultimately,
Macon will become an object of interest with him. Under
this view of the subject I have concluded to leave here on
Wednesday, the 21st inst. I will take the family and the
establishment of servants to Burleigh.... Nothing could be
more injudicious than an attempt on your part to reach us.
The trains are all in the hands of the government, private
travel excluded, except by freight boxes, on freight
trains. Occasionally a few beg themselves into the express
car, a close box, and this was the manner of my getting
Mrs. Governor Brown off. We will have to go by the freight
train, if at all, and I believe I shall succeed in this."
He had never liked Jefferson Davis, and now he was
confirmed in his view of his character, that he would
brook no rival to his face. He believed that the President
of the Confederacy would prefer to sacrifice his country
rather than have it owe its independence to
* He was fourteen.
General Johnston. Thomas Dabney had never been
introduced to Mr. Davis, although he had been several
times in his company. When friends proposed to introduce
him he refused. It was a great blow to him when Mr. Davis
was made the President of the Confederacy. He tried to
overcome his prejudice and to hope for the best, but
still adhered to his resolution of not meeting him. He
allowed his daughters to attend the receptions given to
the President at Mobile and Macon, in his progress through
the Confederate States, and laughed when he heard from
them, after each reception, that Mr. Davis had said in
shaking hands, "Ah, Colonel Dabney's daughters. Your
father is a good friend of mine, and I am happy to see
you."
He admired the gallant soldier who was put in General
Johnston's place, but felt, with most other people, that
General Hood's love of fighting would lead him to take too
great risks.
By paying several thousand dollars in Confederate money
Thomas was able to charter two cars, and in these he took
his family from Macon, Georgia, to Jackson, Mississippi;
the white family in one and the servants in the other. We
were two weeks on the journey, and so well had everything
been planned that we found it the most comfortable long
journey that we had ever undertaken. The furniture was
placed in our car, the beds made up, a table or two, with
books and writing materials, set about, and the chairs
placed as if we had been at home in our own house. Even
the pet cat, whose mother and brothers and sisters had
been on board the "Gaines" in the naval engagement in
Mobile Bay, was in that car with us. She had been taken to
Macon from Mobile, and on her arrival had promptly run
away. A reward of twenty dollars, offered through the
morning paper, had brought her back. When somebody
laughed at the advertisement and thought it a joke, papa
answered, "It is no joke. I offer it in earnest. My
daughter is a refugee and has little enough to amuse her,
and shall not lose the kitten if I can help it."
On our long journey we did not travel at night.
The servants cooked a hot supper and breakfast for us and
for themselves every day, getting out and making a fire by
the side of the car-track. Sometimes, most of the time
indeed, they held big religious meetings in their car. We
could hear the preaching and the hymns above the sound
of the running cars. As we ran very slowly and irregularly,
this was not strange. At several towns we spent a whole
day, and on such occasions we got off and called on
friends and shopped a little.
Our father's sister, Mrs. Chamberlayne, had joined him
in Georgia, and accompanied us to our Mississippi home. A
more delightful companion could not be imagined. Her rare
mental gifts, disciplined and brightened by a lifetime of
steady and judicious reading, inspired the most profound
admiration in the circle of young people who gathered
around her. She was practical, too, and made many happy
suggestions to promote the comfort of the party.
Papa was singularly simple and unobservant in some of his
ways. This peculiarity led him into an amusing contretemps on this journey.
A sudden shower had caught several of us as we were
out walking while laying up for the night at Columbus,
Georgia. One of the daughters was drenched to the skin,
and had no dress to make a change. Our good neat Hannah
had a blue homespun which she had just washed and ironed
in the nicest fashion, and it was decided to borrow her
dress rather than run the risk of getting a cold. It was
late in September and chilly. We had a family laugh over the
ridiculous appearance of Hannah's long-waisted, ill-fitting
dress. It was novel and very amusing until a visitor's voice
was heard at the car door.
At the first note the blue homespun whisked under one
of the tables. The gentleman was ushered in by papa and
introduced, and he was so well entertained that he sat
there during the greater part of the evening. By and by
he remarked that he had had the pleasure of meeting one
of the young ladies some time before. But she did not
seem to be present, as he remembered
that she had very black eyes, while those whom he now
saw had blue eyes.
"Where is your sister?" papa asked at once. It was in
vain to hint to him that she preferred not making her
appearance, that she had been caught in the shower, etc.
"Mr. -- wishes to see her," he said. "Sue must be the one.
She has black eyes, you know. My dear, where are you?
Mr. -- is inquiring for you."
There was no getting out of it. Papa never could
understand a hint or a wink in his life. So the head was
thrust from under the table.
"Ah, there she is," said papa, not seeing the ridiculous
aspect of the thing. And he performed the introduction
formally, as he always did such courtesies, ending with,
"She is the one. You see her eyes are black."
"Yes," said the visitor, as the two exchanged bows.
"But there must be another. This is not the one whom I
met."
"Ah, you mean my daughter Emmy, then. Yes, her eyes are
black too. She is in Virginia, on a visit to some of
her schoolmates."
And papa was so dignified throughout that there
seemed no occasion to be amused. Perhaps the visitor
concluded that as his host saw nothing peculiar in that
under-the-table introduction, it was an every-day
occurrence. The dark-eyed one drew her head back under
the table, and was not again interrupted in her seclusion.
happy months together at Burleigh. We frequently numbered
twenty-five or even more at the table during this time, and a
gayer, merrier circle could not well be imagined. Flour was almost
unknown in that part of the Confederacy, coffee and sugar were
about as scarce as flour. We had coffee made of peanuts or
potatoes, black tea made of blackberry-leaves, and green tea
made of holly-leaves. We gave "war" names to all the varieties of
corn-bread that appeared on the table. We had rebel bread,
Beauregard cakes, etc. It was so delightful to be in the old home
again, that the younger members of the family almost threw off
the depressing feeling of the war for a time. Privations had
almost ceased to be felt. We had scarcely any clothes. A percale
apiece at fifteen dollars a yard had been bought as a great
bargain; three hundred and fifty dollars had been given for a
purple calico dress for Sophy, a pair of coarse shoes cost forty
dollars, a pound of tea twenty-five dollars, and it rose to fifty
dollars in two days. Our roasts of beef in Macon cost fifty
dollars apiece. The only bridal present bought for one of our
brides during the war was a pair of green kid gloves, - white
could not be bought, - they cost fifty dollars, and were both for
the left hand! Our shoes were made of the skins of oxen, roughly
tanned by the plantation shoemaker, and manufactured into
coverings for the feet by him. Some idea of the appearance and
fit of his handiwork may be formed when it is known that his
boast was that it was unnecessary for him to take measurements
of the feet of the ladies. "I jes' have to glarnce at your
foot, missis, an' I ken fit it."
It may be said of these prices that they were only Confederate
money, but it must be borne in mind that each Confederate dollar
represented to this family what had been a dollar in specie. The
income in Confederate money was no larger than the income had
been in gold. But people tried not to think of these things, and
laughed as they saw the amusing substitutes contrived out of
unsuitable and incongruous material.
The young people got up amusements in the house. The
longest to be remembered with pride and pleasure
was the acting of two plays, - "She Stoops to Conquer" and
"Taming the Shrew." We had fourteen actors in our plays. The
Raymond Dabneys had a natural taste for acting, and, though the
cousins had less, the plays passed off to the satisfaction of
all. Thomas Dabney said in his enthusiastic way that the star
companies that he had seen in New York did not entertain him
better.
But he could not stay at home with us. He had hired out some
of his servants in Montgomery, and he felt it a duty to stay
there. It was a great trial to him, at his age, to undertake
this desolate life away from his family. The following
letters were written at this period:
"EXCHANGE HOTEL, MONTGOMERY, ALABAMA,
"MY BELOVED CHILDREN, - ...You must not trouble yourselves
about my discomforts, for they are not to be avoided.
They are doubtless sufficient, but how many others have to
endure more! Just think of Sheridan's proceedings in the
Valley of Virginia, burning every house, barn, mill, and
every stack of hay, and killing or driving off every negro,
horse, mule, ox, cow, and every other animated thing,
leaving the entire white population without shelter or food."
"MONTGOMERY, 4th November, 1864.
"MY BELOVED
CHILDREN, - My last was addressed to Sophy,
although under the above caption. This, in rotation, will
be to Emmy, but all and each will be considered as addressed,
as I have nothing to say that may not interest all equally. I
have heard from none of you since Sophy's letter, but, out of
sheer loneliness, have to write to you and imagine that I am
talking with you. I wrote to Sarah several days ago, and have
been inquiring at the post-office for letters, without
getting any, until I begin to feel ashamed to trouble the
clerk so much for nothing. In some respects this place
is better than Macon, but in others not so good, and especially to
me It is much better for the negroes, they are all fed to the extent
of their desires, both at the government establishments and by
private individuals who hire them. And yet, meat is as high here
as in Macon. I have to pay three dollars and fifty cents per pound
for bacon, and two dollars to two dollars and fifty cents per
pound for beef. Meal is not so high, nor are potatoes. For the
latter I give six dollars per bushel, instead of twelve dollars to
fifteen dollars as in Macon. Wood is dearer here, being fifty
dollars per cord. The hotels here have raised their rates to thirty
dollars a day, but that does not affect me, as I am keeping house,
or rather rooms, and having my own cooking done. It is a poor
thing, however, and monotonous, as I have fried beefsteak for
each meal, with a pone of corn-bread and a potato or two. When I
become tired of that I will vary it to pork or mutton. The fish here
are out of the question, nothing but buffalo, catfish, and jumpers.
Such as these I cannot eat, unless reduced to extremity, of which
there is no fear. This place, to me, is not so good as Macon,
because I have not as yet made the right sort of acquaintances, or
not many of them. I find living here a Dr. Semple, a son of Judge
Semple, of Williamsburg.... I also dined the other day with Mr.
Woodleaf, refugee from New Orleans, whom some of you may
remember having seen at Cooper's Well.... They gave me a fine
dinner, good for any time, and some extra fine music afterwards,
according to the Italian, Spanish, and French books, for we had
some of each sort, done up in true operatic fashion, I suppose. It
was a leetle too foreign for my ear, but that was my fault, and not
the fault of the music.
"If I fail to get a letter from some of you within a day or two
I shall go crazy, to use a favorite expression of Sarah's."
"MONTGOMERY, 5th November, 1864.
"MY BELOVED
CHILDREN, - ...I really believe that I wrote to
you on yesterday, and dumpsily at that, for
I was in the dumps and feeling badly, - lonely. But I have
recovered of that and feel very well, and not lonely at all,
especially now that I am writing to you all. I feel finely,
in fact, and do not expect to feel otherwise again."
The condition of the country during the war interrupted my
father's life-long correspondence. His correspondence was very
large for a private gentleman. His business letters were
necessarily many, and his friendly letters occupied him during a
part of every day. Unfortunately, scarcely any letters written by
him previous to the war were preserved. It is especially
unfortunate that his letters to his brother should have been
destroyed. During nearly his whole life he wrote to him several
times a week, at times he wrote to him every day, and even
several times a day. He consulted Augustine on nearly all
subjects, and wrote to him unreservedly of all that interested him,
not only with regard to family matters, but his views and
opinions on politics and all the questions of the day. These
letters would give the best life of the two brothers that could be
written.
At this time of his life he was often said to resemble General
Lee in appearance. The Mississippi soldiers, coming home on
furlough, often spoke of it. When General Lee reviewed the
Eighteenth Mississippi Regiment, many of whom went from our
part of the State, the men threw up their hats and shouted,
"Three cheers for Colonel Dabney!"
In January, 1865, much to the regret of both households, the
Raymond Dabneys left Burleigh. They moved to a house in the
neighborhood, and almost daily intercourse was kept up during
this year. Then they returned to the home in Raymond.
From this time the intercourse between the two families
became less frequent. The ties seemed as binding as ever, but
circumstances were changed. Many of the younger members of
both households began to leave the home-nests.
The war ended in April. The news of Lincoln's
assassination came a short time previous to this, and was
received with deep regret by Thomas. "He was the best
friend that we had," he said, "and his death was the
greatest calamity that could have befallen the South."
It was no longer Thomas's duty to spend a part of his
time in Montgomery, Alabama. He was at Burleigh when he
heard of General Lee's surrender. On the day that the
news reached him, he called his son Thomas to him, and
they rode together to the field where the negroes were at
work. He informed them of the news that had reached him,
and that they were now free. His advice was that they
should continue to work the crop as they had been doing.
At the end of the year they should receive such
compensation for their labor as he thought just.
From this time till January 1, 1866, no apparent change
took place among the Burleigh negroes. Those who
worked in the fields went out as usual, and cultivated and
gathered in the crops. In the house, they went about their
customary duties. We expected them to go away, or to
demand wages, or at least to give some sign that they knew
they were free. But, except that they were very quiet and
serious, and more obedient and kind than they had ever
been known to be for more than a few weeks, at a time of
sickness or other affliction, we saw no change in them.
At Christmas such compensation was made them for their
services as seemed just. Afterwards fixed wages were
offered and accepted. Thomas called them up now and told
them that as they no longer belonged to him they must
discontinue calling him "master."
"Yes, marster," "yes, marster," was the answer to this.
"They seem to bring in 'master' and say it oftener than
they ever did," was his comment, as he related the
occurrence to his children. This was true. The name
seemed to grow into a term of endearment. As time went
on, and under the changed order of things, negroes whom
he had never known became tenants on his plantation;
these new people called him master also.
This was unprecedented in the South, I think. They were
proud of living on his place, on account of the good name
that he had won for himself as a master. Not infrequently
they were heard to express a regret that they had not
belonged to him when they saw the feeling that existed
between himself and his former slaves. Sometimes he came
to us with a puzzled look to ask who those negroes were
who had just called him old master and shaken hands with
him.
"I cannot recall their faces," he would say; "surely, I
never owned them?"
Finally the negroes on the neighboring plantations, and
wherever he went, came to call him old master. They
seemed to take pride in thus claiming a relationship with
him, as it were; and he grew accustomed to the voluntary
homage.
He had come home to a house denuded of nearly every
article of furniture, and to a plantation stripped of the
means of cultivating any but a small proportion of it. A
few mules and one cow comprised the stock. We had brought
a few pieces of common furniture from Georgia, and a very
few necessary articles were bought. In the course of time
some home-made contrivances and comforts relieved the
desolate appearance of the rooms, but no attempt was ever
made to refurnish the house.
He owned nothing that could be turned into money without
great sacrifice but five bales of cotton. There were
yet two sons and two daughters to be educated. He decided
to get a tutor for them, and to receive several other pupils
in his house in order to make up the salary. The household
was put on an economical footing. The plantation negroes
were hired to work in the fields, and things seemed to
promise more prosperous days. So the first year was passed.
Of this time Mammy Harriet says, "When he come from Georgia
he say, 'Harriet, I cannot do as I used to do. You know I
used to send whiskey to you all the time. But I cannot do
that now.'
" 'Yes, marster, I understan'. I don't expec' it.'
Ah, you don't know de good dat did me! We was
down de cellar, an' he had call me to ask ef I didn't want
a piece o' de veal dat was hangin' up dyar. An' he cut it
for me himself."
Here mammy's thoughts went back to the war-times,
and she went on:
"Dat big man Edmund come to me an' he say, 'Ole 'oman,
do you want me to box up your things? I have packed up a
heap o' things for de udder people.' He had he saw an'
hammer in he hand. I said, 'No, I don't want anything boxed
up. I am not goin' anywhere.' He said I was foolish, - that
all de people were goin' because dere was a ship-load o'
money at Grand Gulf for 'em. I tole him dat it could stay
there then. I would not leave. He was very mad and say,
'Yes, you an' ole sis Kitty are jes' alike. You are 'feared
o' losin' some o' your plunder here.' I tole him to go out
o' my door, an' he went out, an' I hab never seen him since.
He come to a bad end after all. He was shot.
"After marster come from Georgia, he come to me one
day an' say, -
" 'Harriet, what made Becky leave me?'
"I tole him that Becky
was forced off. *
"He say, 'Why did Major leave me?'
"I say, 'Marster, I will tell you de truth. You yourself
did wrong. You leff your people. Two white men, Mr. -- and
Mr. -- , tole us dat you leff dem to take us to Leaf River.
We would have died before we would have followed dem!'
Marster hadn't nebber tole dem! He was 'stonished. 'Yes,' I
said, 'an' dey went in de field an' shot guns at our people
to skeer 'em.' They wanted to force 'em to go wid 'em.
"Dey shot at my gal Mary as she was comin' home to
her baby at night, an' she run an' fall in a gully,
* Becky was one of his greatest favorites. She
was subject to
violent illnesses, and at such times he bathed her head with
his own hands, and he and his wife and children held her head
and sat by her till the crisis was passed. Cakes that she
specially fancied were made by the ladies themselves for her.
A few days after her husband, Edmund, forced her off, she was
dying, where many of the Hinds County negroes died, on the
banks of the Big Black. As she lay dying, she cried out,
"If I could only get back to my marster! If I could only
get back to my marster!"
an' stayed out all night, away from her chile. An' I had to
hold dat chile all night an' to feed it. When Mary got home
she could hardly walk, an' she is lame in dat ankle to dis
day in cloudy weather. Mary tole me dat dose men were
goin' to whip her de nex' day, an' she say, 'Mammy, dey
shall not whip me. I will run away before dey do dat.'
"Then God did something. I know that he did it.
"Young Mars Edward heard dat pistol go off dat was
aimed at Mary, an' he an' his body-servant, William, come
back home. An' dey stayed in de house dat night. I say,
'Mary, de young marster is here. He will protect us. Go
straight to him; to no one else. Tell him all about it.'
She went to him, an' de nex' day Mr. -- was sent off. God
did it, I know.
"I always shall believe dat Mr. -- was one sent to 'seek
out.' * He was not fightin' wid our people, who was so
kind
to him." **
My father had been troubled by the conflicting duties
to his children and to his servants.
When he heard that mammy's last good boy, Major, had
run away to escape being killed by these men, he said,
"Harriet, I ought to have died ten years ago."
His faithful servant burst into tears at these words of
her master.
* A spy.
nature saw no danger, and he put his name to the papers.
Loving this man, and confiding in his honor as in a son's,
he thought no more of the transaction.
It was now the autumn of 1866. One night he walked
up-stairs to the room where his children were sitting with
a paper in his hand. "My children," he said, "I am a ruined
man. The sheriff is down-stairs. He has served this writ on
me. It is for a security debt. I do not even know how
many more such papers have my name to them." His face
was white as he said these words. He was sixty-eight years
of age with a large and helpless family on his hands, and
the country in such a condition that young men scarcely
knew how to make a livelihood.
The sheriff came with more writs. Thomas roused
himself to meet them all. He determined to pay every
dollar.
But to do this he must have time. The sale of everything
that he owned would not pay all these claims. He put the
business in the hands of his lawyer, Mr. John Shelton, of
Raymond, who was also his intimate friend. Mr. Shelton
contested the claims, and this delayed things till Thomas
could decide on some way of paying the debts.
A gentleman to whom he owed personally several thousand
dollars courteously forbore to send in his claim. Thomas
was determined that he should not on this account fail
to get his money, and wrote urging him to bring a
friendly suit, that, if the worst came, he should at
least get his proportion. Thus urged, the friendly suit
was brought, the man deprecating the proceeding, as
looking like pressing a gentleman.
And now the judgments, as he knew they would, went against
him one by one. On the 27th of November, 1866, the
Burleigh plantation was put up at auction and sold, but
the privilege of buying it in a certain time reserved to
Thomas. At this time incendiary fires were common. There
was not much law in the land. We heard of the gin-houses
and cotton-houses that were burned in all directions. One
day as Thomas came back from a business journey the smouldering
ruins of his gin-house met his eye. The building was itself
valuable and necessary. All the cotton that he owned was
consumed in it. He had not a dollar. He had to borrow the
money to buy a postage stamp, not only during this year,
but during many years to come. It was a time of deepest
gloom. Thomas had been wounded to the bottom of his
affectionate heart by the perfidy of the man who had
brought this on his house. In the midst of the grinding
poverty that now fell in full force on him, he heard of
the reckless extravagance of this man on the money that
should have been used to meet these debts.
Many honorable men in the South were taking the benefit
of the bankrupt law. Thomas's relations and friends urged
him to take the law. It was madness, they said, for a man
of his age, in the condition the country was then in, to
talk of settling the immense debts that were against him.
He refused with scorn to listen to such proposals. But his
heart was well-nigh broken. He called his children around
him, as he lay in bed, not eating and scarcely sleeping.
"My children," he said, "I shall have nothing to leave
you but a fair name. But you may depend that I shall leave
you that. I shall, if I live, pay every dollar that I owe.
If I die, I leave these debts to you to discharge. Do not
let my name be dishonored. Some men would kill themselves
for this. I shall not do that. But I shall die."
The grief of betrayed trust was the bitterest drop in his
cup of suffering. But he soon roused himself from this
depression and set about arranging to raise the money
needed to buy in the plantation. It could only be done by
giving up all the money brought in by the cotton crop for
many years. This means rigid self denial for himself and
his children. He could not bear the thought of seeing his
daughters deprived of comforts. He was ready to stand
unflinchingly any fate that might be in store for him. But
his tenderest feelings were stirred for them. His chivalrous
nature had always revolted from the sight of a woman doing
hard work. He determined to spare his daughters all such
labor as he could perform. General Sherman had said that
he would like to bring every Southern woman to the
wash-tub. * "He shall never bring my daughters to
the
wash-tub," Thomas Dabney said. "I will do the washing
myself." And he did it for two years. He was in his
seventieth year when he began to do it.
This may give some idea of the labors, the privations,
the hardships, of those terrible years. The most intimate
friends of Thomas, nay, his own children, who were not
in the daily life at Burleigh, have never known the
unprecedented self-denial, carried to the extent of
acutest bodily sufferings, which he practised during this
time. A curtain must be drawn over this part of the life
of my lion-hearted father!
When he grew white and thin, and his frightened daughters
prepared a special dish for him, he refused to eat the
delicacy. It would choke him, he said, to eat better food
than they had, and he yielded only to their earnest
solicitations. He would have died rather than ask for it.
When the living was so coarse and so ill-prepared that he
could scarcely eat it, he never failed, on rising from the
table, to say earnestly and reverently, as he stood by his
chair, "Thank the Lord for this much."
During a period of eighteen months no light in summer,
and none but a fire in winter, except in some case of
necessity, was seen in the house. He was fourteen years in
paying these debts that fell on him in his sixty-ninth year.
He lived but three years after the last dollar was paid.
When he was seventy years of age he determined to learn
to cultivate a garden. He had never performed manual
labor, but he now applied himself to learn to hoe as a
means of supplying his family with vegetables. With the
labor of those aged hands he made a garden that was the
best ordered that we had ever seen at Burleigh. He made
his garden, as he did everything
* Thomas had read this in one of the papers
published
during the famous march to the sea. Whether General
Sherman was correctly reported I know not. - S. D. S.
that he undertook, in the most painstaking manner,
neglecting nothing that could insure success. The boas and
rows and walks in that garden were models of exactness and
neatness. It was a quarter of a mile from the house and from
water, on the top of a long, high hill, and three-quarters of
an acre in extent. In a time of drought, or if he had set out
anything that needed, watering, he toiled up that long
precipitous hill with bucket after bucket of water. "I never
look at the clouds" had been a saying of his in cultivating
his plantation, and he carried it out now. That garden
supplied the daily food of his family nearly all the year
round. He planted vegetables in such quantities that it was
impossible to consume all on the table, and he sold barrels
of vegetables of different kinds in New Orleans.
Oftentimes he was so exhausted when he came in to
dinner that he could not eat for a while. He had his old
bright way of making every one take an interest in his
pursuits, - sympathy was as necessary and sweet to him
as to a child, - and he showed with pride what he had
done by his personal labor in gardening and in washing.
He placed the clothes on the line as carefully as if
they were meant to hang there always, and they must be
admired, too! He said, and truly, that he had never seen
snowier ones.
Oh, thou heroic old man! Thou hast a right to thy pride
in those exact strokes of the hoe and in those superb
potatoes, "the best ever seen in the New Orleans market,"
and in those long lines of snowy drapery! But those to
whom thou art showing these things are looking beyond
them, at the man! They are gazing reverently, and with
scarce suppressed tears, on the hands that have been in
this world for three-score and ten years, and are beginning
to-day to support a houseful of children!
At the end of the hard day's work he would say,
sometimes, "General Sherman has not brought my
daughters to the wash-tub. I could not stand that."
General Sherman's words were as a cruel spur in the side
of a noble steed that needed no spur, and was already
running beyond his strength.
He urged some of his old friends to follow his example,
and was quite disgusted at the answer of one, that he had
no "turn" for working in a garden. "No turn!" he repeated,
indignantly, in speaking of it to his children. "I hear that
he allows the ladies to do all this work. I wonder what turn
for it they have! I have no toleration for such big Indian
talk."
His hands were much bent with age and gout. No glove
could be drawn over them. They had been so soft that a
bridle-rein, unless he had his gloves on, chafed them
unpleasantly. He expressed thankfulness that the bent
fingers and palms did not interfere with his holding either
his hoe-handle or his pen. He wrote as many letters as
ever, and an article for a State newspaper or a Virginia or
New Orleans paper occasionally, if interested in anything
that was going on. But he said that politics were getting to
the state that only disgusted him, and he took no active
part or interest even in State government till he saw a hope
of throwing off "carpet-bag" rule. When he spoke of the
expense of the postage on his correspondence, he said
that he could not maintain himself in his station if he wrote
fewer letters.
He tried hard to learn to plough, but he could not do it.
It was a real disappointment. He tried to learn to cut wood,
but complained that he could not strike twice in the same
spot. It was with great labor that he got a stick cut in two.
His failure in this filled him with a dogged determination to
succeed, and he persisted in cutting wood in the most
painful manner, often till he was exhausted Some one told
him of a handsaw for sawing wood, and he was delighted
and felt independent when he got one. He enjoyed it like a
new toy, it was so much better in his hands than the axe.
He sawed wood by the hour in the cold and in the heat. It
seemed to be his rule never to stop any work till he was
exhausted.
His son Edward lived with him during these years. He
tried to lessen his father's labors. But Thomas Dabney
was not a man to sit down while his children worked.
Besides, there was work enough for these
two men, and more than enough. The arrangement of both
house and plantation had been planned to employ many
servants, as was the custom in the South. Everything was
at a long distance from everything else. As time went on,
an effort was made to concentrate things. But, without
money, it was impossible to arrange the place like a
Northern farm, with every convenience near at hand.
One fall, in putting down the dining-room carpet,
Thomas heard his daughter say that she meant to turn
the carpet, because it looked new on the other side.
"Do not turn it, then," he said. "I do not wish any one
to suppose that I would buy a new carpet, owing money
as I do."
In these years he was preparing once for a business
visit to New Orleans. His daughter asked him to buy a
new suit, as he spoke of calling on his friends in the city.
"No," he answered; "I should be ashamed to wear new
clothes. What hope would my creditors have of ever
getting their money if they saw me in New Orleans in new
clothes ? No; I am going in this suit that you say looks so
shabby and faded. I shall call on all my creditors in this
suit. I have not a dollar to take to them, but I shall let
them see that I am not shunning them for that. I shall
show myself to them, and tell them that I am doing my
very best to pay them, and that they shall have every
dollar if they will have patience. You see, my child,
this is the only assurance I can give them that I mean to
pay them. Now, could I expect to be believed if I were
handsomely dressed?"
His merchants, Giquel & Jamison, were among the
creditors whom he saw during this visit. They informed
him that all their books had been burned during the war,
and that they had no bill against him. They said also that
they had accounts amounting to one hundred and fifty
thousand dollars set down in those books, and that he was
the only man who had come forward to pay them. He was
not to be turned from paying his debt.
An humble neighbor had said years ago that he hated
Colonel Dabney because he acted as if he considered himself
a prince. In these later days he admired Thomas as much
as he had before disliked him. "I thought him a haughty man
because he was rich; now I see that he is the same man poor
that he was rich. Now I know that he is a prince."
One of his daughters had occasion to offer a draft of his to an
ignorant man in a distant county of Mississippi. She felt a natural
diffidence, as she was not sure that it would be accepted in
payment of her indebtedness. She asked the man if he had ever
heard of Thomas Dabney.
"Heard of him?" he said. "Every letter in his name is pure
gold. I would as soon have that draft as the gold in my hand."
Seeing one of his daughters look sad and quiet, Thomas said to
her, "My child, it seems to me that you look coldly on me. I
cannot bear that. You are the very core of my heart. If I have
done anything that you do not like, tell me."
Oh, what heart would not bound out to the father who
could say that to his own child!
And the tender, satisfied look when he was embraced and
kissed, and the real trouble confided to his sympathizing bosom!
His cousins in New York, Augustine and Mary Smith, the
children of his uncle, endeavored to help Thomas at this time,
and sent a large check to him. This he promptly returned, but
when their kindness was offered to his children he could not
wish to see it refused; and the first gleam of light and hope
came to the family when these generous kinspeople gave them
substantial aid.
The following letter is from one who visited Burleigh many
times, our friend, Miss Marianne P. Eggleston:
"NEW ORLEANS.
"My first
recollection is of a figure firmly knit and erect, with
white hair and smooth-shaven chin, always clad in a suit of dark
blue cloth, with brass buttons on the dress-coat. Riding back
and forth twice a day over
the sawdust-covered road, and both horse and rider thrown out
in bold relief by a background of dancing blue water. The dress
has a suspicion of the military about it, while the 'speech' as
plainly 'bewrayeth' the Virginian. As a child, I was rather awed
by the decided manner and tones, and the eyes flashing so
brightly under the bushy brows. He seemed a man full of chivalry
and action, to whom one, especially a woman, might turn for
protection always, and for help in a real trouble, sooner than for
sympathy in a small one. I wonder if the tenderness of after-years
was latent there then, or if it only came with the need for it!
Surely it was deep enough.
"The old house on the lake-shore seems to come back before
my eyes again as it was, and I stand once more among the
people who filled it thirty-five years ago. Many have fallen
asleep, and those whose forms are still with us are as utterly
changed to our eyes as if the grave had closed over those we
then knew. There were but vague impressions of character
made then; they are mostly recollections of form and color, and
prominent among these is the dear old red silk handkerchief.
"Later on come recollections of Burleigh, and much better
defined impressions of its master. How well I remember the day
I saw it for the first time!
"After dinner we walked (or stood) in that little garden of pinks
you had in the front yard, near the 'big gate.' There your father
joined us, and standing outside, leaning on the low fence, he
told us of an article he had read on the 'Genius of Shakespeare.'
The author regarded the 'Tempest' as Shakespeare's greatest
work, and Caliban as his most perfect creation of fancy. 'I
cannot agree with him about the "Tempest," ' he said, 'but he
may be right about Caliban.' As we returned to the house, we
all stopped under the mimosa-tree, where a table was placed,
and your father presided over an immense waiter of cantaloupes.
I remember how he put back his cuffs and flourished his knife.
I so often recall the Burleigh of those days, - the ready and
apparently boundless hospitality, the abundant supply of all
the necessaries of life (and much of what we call
the luxuries now), the fruit in summer, the roaring fires and
the 'hog-killings' in winter, and those delicious sweet
potatoes!
"I remember how often we danced in the hall in summer,
but I have no recollection of any music. We must have
needed some. Your father was always ready to take his
place with us, and I can see him now as he walked around
the card-table, looking into the hand of each one, drawing
his red silk handkerchief through his fingers as a bad play
was made, regarding it as a serious business, and being by
far too honorable to 'tell.' He never seemed to think we
were doing it for fun, and enjoyed a bad play as much as a
good one. *
"The first time I saw the white beard was on the day of
the memorable barbecue at Terry. I recall so well your
father's appearance that day, as be took his place on
the stand among the Democrats. His bearing was a
compromise between the respect he felt for 'these
gentlemen' individually, and a protest against that vile
thing known as Democracy. The red silk handkerchief was
often brought into requisition that day, like a Whig banner
flaunted in the face of Democracy, - as if to say, 'We two
old Whigs are as stanch and true as ever, although we
allow you Democrats to approach us today on terms of
familiarity. We make no concession, nor do we propose to
make any.'
"You remember the introductions we had to pass through?
A group of us (myself included) would be presented as 'my
daughters;' then, out would spring the old 'bandanna,' and
after a clearing of his throat, he would give a little sketch
of each, as we were
* "I should not have said that everybody
laughed, for my
grandfather did not even smile.... He was totally absorbed
in contemplation of the enormity of playing out one's ace of
trumps second in hand. And that Charley, - Charley, whom
he had trained from a boy to the rigor of the game according
to Hoyle, - that he should seem to defend such - so - so
horrible a solecism! It was too much. He was a picture to
look at, as he stood erect, the nostrils of his patrician nose
dilated with a noble indignation, his snowy hair contrasting
with his dark and glowing eyes, that swept from group to
group of mirthful faces, and back again, sternly wondering
at their untimely merriment." - Don Miff, page 239.
brought to the front in rotation. It was as good as a
tooth-drawing!
"I can recall so many movements and gestures, - that
way he had of throwing his leg out, - I often try to do that,
but have never succeeded to my satisfaction. I think it
must be some 'Old-Line Whig' sign, and no one but one of
them can achieve it.
"This is the bright side of the picture, and I turn with
reluctance to the other, the one which looks like a dark one,
but is far more beautiful than the former, and is bright with
an inner radiance which is not seen in the earlier time.
"My first visit to Burleigh after the war seemed like an
evil dream. The old nursery, where the long line of
'knitters' were ranged on rainy days, is a kitchen now
with all the necessary appointments; the well-furnished
apartments look almost bare now; not a servant appears
about the premises. I find the same warm greeting, but the
hands extended to welcome me are no longer the soft ones
of a gentleman. Instead of them I seem to grasp the toil-hardened ones of a laboring man, and such they are. The
man born and bred in all the comfort of a Virginia home, in
manhood saying to his servant 'do this, and he doeth it,'
has in advancing years found himself bereft of the faithful
wife who for so many years shared his life, and deprived of
nearly all his possessions. How does he bear himself now?
The time formerly devoted to the care of his estate, to the
exercise of hospitality, to enjoyment, is now given to
manual labor. A few faithful servants still linger around the
old home and cling to 'ole marster;' but times are changed
with them too, and they must toil for their daily bread,
formerly dealt out to them without stint from 'ole marster's'
table. So I see that dear 'ole marster' cutting with his own
hands the wood for the fires, toiling with it up the long
flight of stairs, making fires, doing the family washing,, and
after a hard day's work, seeing you make the starch over
the dining-room fire he said, so regretfully, 'I wish I could
make the starch too.' I recall how he insisted on washing
my clothes also, and how I let him believe he was doing it.
"Not a word of complaint was heard, no matter how
coarse the fare was; if he could eat it, he did so. I remember
once he handed his cup for tea the second time, saying to
me as I passed it, 'With some people it is an evidence that
the tea is good when they take a second cup, but with me it
is the reverse. I must have a certain quantity of tea, no
matter how much water I drink to get it.' Late one cold
evening we heard a tramping of many feet as we sat
around the dining-room fire. Soon the door to the kitchen
opened wide, and your father ushered in as many as five
forlorn-looking females in thin calico dresses and long
sunbonnets, some with babies in their arms. I can see him
now, seating them as if they had been the greatest ladies in
the land, and telling them to stay there until the fires were
made in the cabins he had given them permission to
occupy for the night. I suspect each one had a beating
from her husband that night because she did not make a
fire for him.
"When the old place was deserted, and your father
came down here for the winter, I took the same train at
Brookhaven. He was quite sick all day and seemed pleased
to have me near him. I saw him frequently during the winter
at Tom's and at Emmy's rooms; and no matter where I was,
he never thought it too much trouble to find me. It is very
gratifying that one you love and revere should feel
confidence in your affection and value it. So, I am
confident, he felt towards me. When I went to bid him
good-by I found him out and waited for him. I can see now
the smile on his face when he came in. He insisted on
seeing me down-stairs, but I succeeded in effecting a
compromise, and we parted at the landing. He said good-by
and kissed me as if he thought it was for the last time,
then took my hand again and said, earnestly, 'God bless
you.' I love to remember that when his voice fell on my ear
for the last time, it was to call down a blessing on my
head."
church. The deprivation of a parish church was much felt,
and it was resolved by Emmy Dabney to try to build a
church nearer to Burleigh. She begged her father to allow
her to go out as a governess that she might use the money
made in this way to build a simple wooden church. He gave
a reluctant consent, as he disliked to see women work. The
year's salary was insufficient for the purpose, and very
little was contributed in the neighborhood. There was but
one communicant outside of the Burleigh house, - the
country people who cared for religion belonged to other
religious bodies. All the sisters and a family of cousins
went to work with their needles to make up the deficiency
in funds. Although they made a great deal in this way the
desired end seemed a long way off, and they set to work to
make appeals to the church people of the North, asking for
one dollar from each one. A generous response came at
once; money came by dollars and hundreds of dollars. In a
short time, instead of the one thousand dollars that was
asked for, about five thousand had been received. The
letters that came were as much prized as the money. Of the
many hundred received but one was unkind in its tone,
and a few months later the writer of that letter sent a large
sum of money, accompanied by words of Christian
sympathy. Our father had never felt other than kindly
towards the North. His long residence in New York as a
child, and his broad sympathies with them as a part of the
nation, had made him, as already stated, a stanch Union
man as long as there seemed to be any hope of keeping
the Union unbroken. He enjoyed these overflowing
Christian letters with his children. Warm friendships were
formed with some of the writers, and were among the most
lasting and prized of our lives. The large amount of money
received enabled us not only to complete the little church,
but to purchase a plebe and rectory. The work connected
with this church and Sunday-school became a part of the
life at Burleigh.
With tears and kisses and every endearing epithet, and
with arms around his neck, they hung about him. He was
completely overcome. He seemed scarcely able to control
his voice as he said, "My children, you are right. I see the
justice of what you say. I will be confirmed when the
bishop comes. But you came near killing your father. I
thought that you had killed me. My heart stopped beating
when you said all those sweet things to me. I do not
deserve all those good things that you believe of me."
His son Thomas knelt by his side and was confirmed
with him in St. Mark's Church, Raymond, when the
bishop came. Bishop Green was a child of the same
year as our father, and but four months younger than
himself. As he placed his hands on the venerable head
bent before him, and bent his own snowy one over it,
he was visibly affected, and many tears fell in the
church. It was said that there was not a dry eye
that night that looked upon that scene. The class that
went up for confirmation was larger than had been
expected. It was said that when Thomas Dabney walked
up the aisle several persons who before had been
undecided now rose and went forward as candidates for
confirmation.
"I don't believe in all the people who call themselves
Christians," a plain neighbor said, in talking of this step of
Thomas, "but I believe in Colonel Dabney's Christianity.
He is no hypocrite."
Awhile after this he began to ask a blessing at his own
table, and gradually he grew into asking a blessing at the
tables of his friends, unless a clergyman was present. But
he never led the family prayers. "I want you to do that,"
he said to a daughter. Among the letters that he valued I
find one received about this time from a young girl, one of
his servants whom he had placed in Montgomery.
"MONTGOMERY, February 10, 1867.
"MY DEAR OLD MASTER,
- I am anxious to see you
and my young masters and mistresses. I often think of you,
and remember with pleasure how kind you all ever were to
me. Though freedom has been given to the colored race, I
often sigh for the good old days of slave-times, when we
were all so happy and contented. ...I am tolerably pleasantly
situated. I am hired to a Mr. Sanderson, who treats me very
well. I am very well, and hope I may have an opportunity of
coming to see you all next Christmas. I am still single and
don't think much about beaux. I don't think the men in these
days of freedom are of much account. If I could find one
whom I think a real good man, and who would take good
care of me, I would get married. Please, dear old master,
ask some of my young mistresses to write to me.
"My kind and respectful
remembrances to all.
"Your former servant and friend,
His former servants showed affectionate attentions to
him, and they were deeply appreciated. George Page sent
all his best fruits and vegetables to his master's table,
especially those that were rare and difficult to cultivate.
When George's girl brought over a bucket of strawberries
one year, the daughter who received them asked casually
if she had been enjoying the strawberries that spring.
"No, marm, I ain't tase one," the child answered. "Daddy
say dat we sharn't tase one 'twell ole marster hab de fust
dish, an' dese is de fust."
Sometimes a fat gobbler, the finest of the flock, would be
sent over for the master's Christmas dinner by Mammy
Harriet. George's wife or children, who were sent with his
offerings, had strict orders from him, which they did not
dare disobey, to receive nothing in return. "Law, missis,"
his wife would say, "I 'feared to take anything back.
George would run me out in de woods. Yes, marm, to be
sho' I want de things, but I darsen't take 'em."
Finally we hit upon the plan of sending an express-messenger
to George's house with such things as we had
to bestow. He was by no means pleased at this turn of
affairs, but saw no way of evading it. He had to be
consoled with the assurance that our presents were for
Susan, and not for him.
When George himself brought his gifts, he would try to
drop them in the kitchen without being seen, and when
discovered, his manner was as deprecatory as though he
were serving an Eastern despot. As a slave his bearing was
independent. He often thought his opinions worth more
than any one's whom he knew, and he constantly gave
advice to his owners, not being discouraged by their
neither asking nor adopting it. But, from the day that he
saw them reduced to poverty, he strove to throw into his
carriage all the deference that could be expressed in one
human body. As soon as his bag of melons, peaches, and
roasting ears was found, he would be seized with regret at
having brought them.
"Don't look at dem things," he would cry, snatching
the bag, that we might not see the contents. "I dunno what I
bring 'em for. Dey ain't fitten' for marster an' my young ladies.
Here, lemme throw 'em 'way. Dey ain't fitten' for nothin'. I know
you got plenty of them."
He always brought things that he knew we did not have, but
this feigned belief that his master was as well off as ever was
soothing to George's pride.
In proportion as he reverenced his master he felt himself
superior to the white people of the plainer sort. This was in right
of his having been brought up by "one o' de big bloods," as
George and others of this aristocracy-loving race expressed it.
One day papa sent a note by George to one of the neighbors.
The man could not read it, and said something about the
handwriting being hard to read. George's ire was fired by this
implied imputation on his master's penmanship.
"My marster's handwritin' hard, sir?" he asked. "My marster
has de educationcy, sir. It is you who do not know how to read,
sir."
It is needless to say that George became unpopular with those
who could not see beyond the surface, and recognize the proud,
loyal heart under this bluster. In these days of poverty our Caleb
Osbaldistone felt himself called on to maintain the family honor
and dignity. He delighted in relating to strangers, who had not
visited Burleigh in former years, marvellous stories of the
champagne that he used to have from the dinner-table every day,
throwing in such other adjuncts as seemed to him in keeping with
this style from that inexhaustible storehouse, his fancy.
One Christmas, one of the white family sent a little money to
George and his wife. "What de debble do I want wid money?" he
cried, as he threw it on a shelf away from him.
Susan kissed hers and shed tears over it.
They had been free for twenty years, and after their crop was
sold but twenty dollars had come to them.
Thomas exercised a protecting care over the negro tenants,
his own old servants and others, long after
they were free. It seemed instinctive with him. One dark
night one of the tenants came over and begged him to go
to the quarters to drive off some men, who were, he said,
frightening the negroes. As our father was upwards of
seventy years of age, and as we were not sure that in these
lawless times personal harm was not meant to him in this
affair, we entreated him not to go. The quarters were from
a quarter- to a half-mile off, and half the way was up a
precipitous hill. But he seemed scarcely to hear our
remonstrances, and went in all haste to find out what was
the matter. Everything was quiet when he got there, and
he received no connected account of the disturbance.
In the spring of 1868 Thomas had the great pleasure of a
visit from Dr. Thomas Cooke, who had been his ward in
early Gloucester days. Dr. Cooke's eldest son Thomas
Dabney Cooke, had spent a year at Burleigh in boyhood,
and his father had long intended to bring some of his
daughters to see his old friend. But time had slipped away,
and still he had never felt that he could afford the journey.
This spring he resolved to delay no longer. He was afraid,
he said, that he might die without having brought his family
to see the dearest friend of his life, and he came with three
of his daughters. This visit was made at a time of the
greatest poverty in the Burleigh house. A beautiful little
incident that took place will show the courtly polish of this
gentleman. One of Thomas's daughters was about to go to
the wood-pile to get some chips for the fire. Dr. Cooke
offered her his arm, and the two proceeded and collected
the chips together in the basket and came back in the same
formal style. He felt intuitively that the young lady would
not allow a venerable guest to go alone to perform this
office, and his fine breeding showed him this way out of
the difficulty.
In the fall of 1869 Thomas met with a serious pecuniary
loss. A negro riot took place in the height of the cotton-picking
season, and among other unhappy consequences
the negroes abandoned the fields until the cotton had
been spoiled by the wind and rain. Nearly the whole
crop was lost. The seat of the
trouble was eighteen miles from Burleigh, but it was
chosen by the negroes as their rendezvous. We knew
nothing of the trouble. But the white men of the
neighborhood heard that they were preparing for a fight,
and about fifty of them marched to the plantation to meet
the negroes. Wild rumors were afloat, among others, that
not a "white face" was to be spared. Our first intimation of
the riot was to hear about one hundred rifles go off in the
park, followed by loud cries and yells and battle orders.
And presently a riderless horse or two, one shot through
the body and dying, rushed past the gate. This was all.
After that one volley the negroes fled. The carpet-bagger
who had urged them to this riot had gotten to a place of
safety before the fight came off. Four negroes were killed
and two white men wounded. About fifty negroes had been
in the engagement.
Our cook clung to me as I went in the kitchen. "Oh, they
have killed Robert! Oh, he say all de time dat he warn't
goin' to hurt his white people! He say all de time dat he
b'long to you."
The negro men on the plantation disappeared, as has
been said, and did not come back for weeks. The women
came to the house; the hall was quite full of them, and we
could not persuade them to go home all that day. Mammy
Maria got under the chair on which one of "her white
children" sat, and embraces and pattings on the back and
all the affectionate words that could be thought of were
needed to get her up from the floor, where she was crying
bitterly. All this had taken place just as we were about to
go in to breakfast, on a lovely morning in October. In a
short time a body of one hundred and fifty men from
Crystal Springs rode up. They had ridden from there, a
distance of sixteen miles, under whip and spur, and were
so covered with dust as to be almost unrecognizable.
Our cook had gone to her dying husband, and these men
had had no breakfast. Thomas opened the store-room
to them; several of the more experienced were soon
engaged in cooking for the company. For a week the
country was in a state of apprehension, and
patrols were out and guards set day and night. The
younger men were needed for patrol service, and only our
father and a delicate young visitor were left to guard the
Burleigh house. Papa called us all up, and asked if we
were willing to shoot if there were need. He found but
one coward among his daughters, the writer of these
memorials. The others were willing to receive the pistols
and guns which he handed them. There were not enough
for all. Sarah kept a pot of water boiling as her means of
defence. But the negroes were scattered in every direction
and not thinking of another outbreak.
Papa went to see Robert, and was disarmed by the poor
fellow's sufferings and affectionate greeting. He assured
"marster" that he had not meant to hurt him or his family. He
only wanted to kill the "poor white trash" who insulted his
race. "I had to be true to my color, marster." His old master
gave him such comfort as he could, telling his wife how to
allay his sufferings, and promising protection. He died in a
few days. Robert's wife related an incident that took place
on the preceding night, at the drill, before the battle. A
negro from a distance proposed that the work of
destruction should begin by burning the Burleigh house.
Two brothers, old family servants, stepped from the ranks
and said that would have to be done over their dead
bodies, if at all.
On the night before the fight a strange negro had begged
to be allowed to stay all night, and offered to work
Lelia's flowers if she would let him stay. He seemed
nervous and miserable, and Edward, to whom she had
appealed for advice, felt sorry for the man and gave the
desired consent. When the Crystal Springs troops arrived,
they informed the family that the chief agitator among the
negroes had been harbored by them. He was running from
a riot that he had gotten up under the direction of the
carpet-baggers, and in which the negroes had been
worsted, of course, when he took refuge with us. He
wished to be found among us when the impending fight
in the park should take place. The Crystal Springs men
were for making an example of
him. But Edward and Lelia, to whom the poor misguided
fellow clung, saw that he was quite conquered. They
interceded for him and he was not molested. We were
thankful when that wretched week was over.
In November we had a visit from the saintly Bishop
Wilmer, of Louisiana. When he went away several of the
ladies of the house accompanied him a part of the way in
the carriage. One of them, in the hurry of getting off, had
left her handkerchief behind, and Aunt Abby, who
discovered it, ran out to the carriage and handed it in.
Bishop Wilmer held his hand out to her and said, "Let me
shake hands with you, mammy. I want to shake hands with
a faithful servant." Then, as he held the small, withered
black hand in his, he went on: "You thought that you
were not doing much when you ran out with that
handkerchief. You were doing more than you thought. You
were doing a faithful part by your young mistress. There
shall a day come to you in which your ears shall hear a
voice saying, 'Well done, thou good and faithful servant.
Thou hast been faithful over a few things. I will make thee
lord over many.' "
As he spoke the last words, he had the manner of one
of God's prophets delivering a message. Every one in the
carriage was weeping. His rare and boundless sympathy
had enabled him to read her character. Some one asked him
what had moved him to say such words to a stranger. He
replied that he had seen what she was as soon as he
looked at her. She spoke of him after that as the "good
gentleman." Those who knew Bishop Wilmer and his
incomparable powers of conversation, will not be
surprised to hear that we were laughing or crying, or doing
both together, all the way during that drive of two and a
half miles.
Seeing us draw on our gloves, he said, "Girls, I ought
to have brought gloves to each of you. There were three
reasons why I did not. In the first place, I did not know the
numbers that you wore; in the second, I had no money;
and, in the third, I did not think of it."
Thomas had been patient and forbearing with his
servants when he owned them, but he had small patience for the
shiftless, lazy ways of the negro race after they were set free.
Very few of his own remained on the plantation. Many had gone
off when he was absent with his family in Mobile and Macon,
and a large number had been left in Montgomery when the war
ended. Tenants were brought in from other plantations, but they
were more fond of barbecues and big meetings and hunting and
fishing than of keeping the grass out of the fields. It became so
onerous to Thomas to look after plantation affairs conducted in
such a manner, that he decided to turn over the management to
his son Edward.
He longed to visit a tide-water country, and it was arranged
that he should spend a part of nearly every summer at Pass
Christian with his kind friends down there. He was now too old
to hunt. Some of the following letters show his keen enjoyment
of fishing.
"PASS CHRISTIAN, 4th August, 1870.
..."Mr. -- enacted
a droll scene, or one that would have
been droll had it not been so discreditable. He was very drunk,
but he managed to get into his little wagon and started for home.
Meeting two ladies on the way to whom he wished to pay
distinguished attention, he uncovered with the 'grand flourish,'
and bowed so profoundly that he bowed himself clean out of the
wagon, head down, and had it not been for the prompt seizure of
the horse by the head by one of the ladies, whilst the other was
engaged in disentangling and disengaging Mr. --'s legs from the
reins, Mr. -- would probably have been gathered to his fathers!
"I do not allow plantation affairs to obtrude themselves upon
my thoughts. This I intend as a period of rest, mentally as well
as physically. I expect to hear from Tom to-morrow, and hope
to hear that Sophy and Fify and Lelia reached home on the 28th,
as expected.
"This is no very good place to write letters at, as I cannot
very well do it in the morning, on account of fishing and
getting back from fishing, and then bathing,
and then dressing, and then dining, and then people are coming to
see me, and then I am going to see people, and then - and
then - I feel lazy and very comfortable!"
"PASS CHRISTIAN, 7th August, 1870.
..."I will move to
Mr. Harrison's to-morrow, for the purpose
of waging regular war on the trout nationality.... It may be
a difficult thing to determine which is the most delightful, the
catching or the eating. For myself, greatly as I enjoy the eating, I
would forego that, and take the middling and greens, rather than
to have my rod and line taken from me. I have actually been so
nervous as to fancy, after going to bed, that I had a large trout on
my line, and would give my arm a twitch in order to hook him
good!"
"MR. J. P. HARRISON'S, PASS CHRISTIAN, August 12,
1870.
..." Mr. Harrison's
horse being very lame to-day, I lose my
fishing, which is a sore disappointment, but I ought to be
thankful that nothing has kept me from the bayou until to-day.
I have fished eleven days, starting at about half an hour after
sunrise and returning about eleven o'clock. In these eleven days I
have caught one hundred and thirty-eight of these splendid trout,
one sheepshead, besides various brim, goggle-eyes, perch, etc.,
which are never counted here. I hope to resume operations
to-morrow, as Mr. John Harrison intends hiring a horse for the
campaign, if possible, and he thinks he knows where he can get
him. On the whole, I am satisfied with my performance, as I put
the best of them up to all they know to keep tally with me.
When I am beaten (which is seldom, and a very small beat at
that) the cause is obviously some disadvantages that I had to
encounter. With a fair show, there is not a disciple of old Izaak
that can allow me an inch of margin."
"BURLEIGH, 11th September, 1870.
"MY BELOVED
DAUGHTER, - I have not for seventy-two
years, eight months, and seven days perpetrated so
stupid an action as when I sent your trunk to New Orleans,
by express, instead of to Baton Rouge. It never occurred to
me that the express could take a package on any other than
a straight line; and I never knew better until Ida asked me,
on yesterday, how I had directed the trunk. I was near not
replying, but did reply, with some impatience, 'To New
Orleans, care of office, etc., etc., of course!' But she took
me from my high horse with a jerk by asking me if your
costly clothes would not be ruined by the rotting pears in
consequence of the delay of the trunk, which would have
been avoided had it gone right along by express. Now, I
want to hear from you, and I don't; but, as I must hear,
sooner or later, I hope somebody will report on the
damage, as soon as it is ascertained. It was a stupid thing
to put pears in that trunk; but I thought myself smart in my
manner of putting them up. You found that each pear was
wrapped up separately in strong brown paper (except two,
that could not be gotten in with the wrappings), packed
without pressure in a pasteboard box, and the box duly
secured at the very bottom of the trunk. All this was done
with a proud consciousness that it had been 'done up
brown.' Brown? Very brown! your fine silks reeking with
rotten pear-juice. But I don't know how the thing stands, as
the people at the New Orleans office may have sent the
trunk right ahead on Saturday. But I fear they did not, and
actually believe the chances against their having done so.
"Now, the fact is, I thought of nothing hardly but that I
had not only some fine pears, but also an opportunity
to send you some. Had I not sent them I know they
would choke me if I attempted to eat them. I always
feel choky when eating good things beyond the reach
of my children. But I must master this feeling, as it
impairs the judgment sometimes, - as in the present
case, most deplorably. But - bah! This does no good;
so let me hear from you. This pear-silk-dress-bottom-
of-the-trunk-express business is quite too interesting to
admit of the introduction of any other topic in this missive,
and so I will conclude."
"BURLEIGH, December 14, 1873.
..."We are having a
hard road to weed just now, but,
with a stout heart and honest intentions, we will wade
through."
"BURLEIGH, 17th December, 1873.
..."The almost
cheerful tone of your letter of the day
before yesterday gives me more pleasure than I can well
describe. I understand the thing now entirely. It was hope
deferred. 'Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.' Yes, sick
unto death very often....
"The reality now stares us in the face, and I am happy to
learn from you that your husband will meet it like a man.
This I never doubted, however, and I am not at all
surprised at his tardiness in taking hold. It is a tight thing
to take a subordinate position on a road where he had
ruled for a long time as head of the scientific department;
but it is manly and honorable to take it, and, if this be
strictly true, as I think it is, it would not be manly or
honorable to decline it. So, cheer up, you and your
glorious husband, and utilize such opportunities as offer,
without fear of compromising yourselves by doing so.
There is but one position on the railroad that I would have
objected to his taking, and that is brakeman on a freight-train;
not on account of the humbleness of it, but on
account of the danger."
"CRYSTAL SPRINGS, 7th February, 1874.
"MY DEAR, DEAR
CHILD, - I cannot defer until I get
home writing to you to ask your forgiveness for having
hurt your feelings, as I know I did. Forgive me, my
good child, for I was so much excited as to be incapable of
acting right."
"BURLEIGH, 1st May, 1874.
"My last letter to
you has miscarried. As I gave you
particular instructions how to plant cotton, I will repeat;
and, as you will want every seed to come up and to do its
best, my object will be to show you how to do that. I once
planted forty seed with this object in view, and I had every
one to come up finely, but one was cut down by a worm
the first day. Thirty-nine lived to do their best. The seed
from those thirty-nine I planted again as at first, and the
third year I had three hundred acres in cotton from those
thirty-nine plants."
"BURLEIGH, 17th May, 1874.
..."Last Wednesday
the bishop, assisted by Mr.
Douglas and Heber Crane, ordained a Mr. Jackson, a negro
as black as any on this land, a deacon in the church. The
ceremony was very interesting, and Jackson preached in
the afternoon to as enlightened an audience as ever goes
to our church. His sermon was admirable and admirably
delivered. I have heard but few who read so well, and fewer
who had so good a manner. He is a well-educated man,
having a considerable knowledge of Latin, Greek, and
Hebrew. He has been living in one of the rectory houses
for two years, is a hard student under Mr. Douglas, and is
without reproach. My family has had him by the hand
during the whole time, and now every one of our
respectable people show him kindness. I will send you the
paper containing the proceedings."
friends had attained fourscore years they fell into a way of
exchanging birthday letters. On Bishop Green's departure,
after his last visit to Burleigh, Thomas accompanied him as
far as Dry Grove two and a half miles, where he bade him
good-by and returned home on foot, the bishop
proceeding in the carriage.
"8th July, 1875.
..."You must not
take so much note of my looking sad,
my dear child, as it is contrary to my philosophy to
cultivate unhappiness. That I cannot always be merry, or
even cheerful, should be expected; as there are shades as
well as sunshine with all humanity, as I suppose. But God
has been wonderfully kind to me in giving me such
children.... And now let me say, my love, that you give way
too much to despondency. Restrain yourself in giving
expression to sad thoughts, unhappy thoughts, and they
will become mollified after a time for want of aliment to feed
on. The indulgence in gloomy thoughts, not to say gloomy
expressions, can be made instruments of self-torture like
any other vice, for I class such a disposition, or the giving
way to it, among the vices. God gave you three children
and has taken one away. The other two He has spared to
you so far, but, if displeased, He may take the others. Look
at your husband and your father. Is it nothing to have such
a husband and such a father? Does not their affectionate
appreciation of you (it is in this sense that I am introduced)
count for nothing? If for anything, think of them, and the
countless blessings by which you are surrounded, and
then humble yourself, my lonely child, and seek
forgiveness for your forgetfulness.
"Lelia has a juvenile party to-day, consisting of the
shavers of both sexes from the rectory, - twelve in all, - and
they are making noise enough. But I am out of the
mêlée, having resigned my room to Sophy, taking roost
right over her. It does me good to see Sophy charging
about, helping on the housekeeping in all
manner of ways and fattening apace. Her recovery may be
set down among the marvels. God bless you, my dear
child."
"BURLEIGH, 29th August, 1875.
..."WE are having
lively times in the political way. I
have seen nothing like it since 1840, - those days of 'hard
cider,' 'log cabins,' 'coon skins,' and what-not by means of
which the Whigs gave Van Buren and the Democrats so
signal an overthrow. I believe the impulse under which the
outraged white race of the South are now being urged on
will be equally irresistible. At a mass-meeting held in
Raymond on the 18th instant, falling in with T. J. Wharton,
I remarked to him that such an uprising was wonderful!
'Uprising?' replied he. 'It is no uprising. It is an insurrection!'
To give you some notion of the enthusiasm of the
people, I only have to say that they do not straggle in to
such meetings, but go in clubs, each club with its band of
music, flags, and regalia, and a cannon in many instances,
and these cannon they make roar from every hill-top on the
road. The procession of cavalry from Edwards Dépôt (some
other clubs having joined the Edwards Club) reached from
the court-house far beyond John Shelton's house, - the
length of the column being two miles, as one of the number
told me. That from Utica, taking in my club and one other,
was a great deal longer. The thing to be appreciated had to
be seen. The 'carpet-baggers' and negroes are evidently
staggered. We have been carrying on this thing for a
month without their having moved a peg. They do not
know where to begin. I suppose something will be
hatched up in Washington after a while, and the cue
be given to the faithful, and then 'we shall see what we
shall see.'
"Among the anomalies of the canvass upon which we
have just entered, not the least significant is that we have
not a single candidate in the field who, for himself,
sought office; whereas every 'carpet-bagger' and a large
percentage of the negroes are clamorous for some place
or other. All of our candidates have been brought out by
nominating conventions; many of these against their
wish, - for these conventions pick out our best men. For
example, we are running John Shelton for supervisor,
A. R. Johnston for the State senate, Daniel Williams for
magistrate at Dry Grove, etc. None of these desire the
positions proposed for them, but it would be considered in
very bad taste in either to refuse.
"The upshot of the whole is that I am kept on the
'pad,' - being president of the Dry Grove Club, that has to
march, or be marched to, at every whip-stitch. We held two
club meetings last week, and I have ordered one for this
week. Next week, on the 11th of September, we go in a
body to Edwards Dépôt, where preparations will be made
for ten thousand people. I suppose Jackson will respond,
as I know other places will, and so many barbecues will be
given by the clubs, to each of which the others must march
in a body, and in military order, that I will esteem myself
lucky if I get through alive. But I expect to be lucky to that
extent, as my whole soul is in it."
From 1865 to 1875, - ten long, weary years, - tenfold
harder to endure than the four years immediately
preceding 1865, the State had been under military rule, our
last governor from Washington being Adelbert Ames (a man
honest and brave, but narrow and puritanical), who seems
to have hated the Aryan race of the South. In proof of this
I merely cite the fact that he was impeached by the State
Legislature for fomenting race strife, but, by advice of
counsel, he wisely or unwisely evaded the issue of trial,
and fled away to his own.
During the years 1870-74 the taxes, imposed by aliens
and the misguided African element, in many cases
exceeded the incomes derived from the plantations; and it
was then that men, nerved with a courage born of despair,
cast about them for suitable leaders (men of unquestioned
integrity, cool judgment, and dauntless resolution) under
whose guidance relief might be attempted. Intuitively all
eyes were turned to Thomas Dabney, and he was chosen
president of the Democratic club of his neighborhood. *
"BURLEIGH,
15th October, 1875.
..."I will have my
house as full as it can hold tomorrow
night, as Utica, Raymond, Clinton, Boltons, Edwards, etc.,
will send their clubs here in force. You will perceive that a
great many will have come long distances. I must take as
many as I can accommodate reasonably, having already
invited a number. It will put your sisters to much trouble,
but as it is unavoidable, they undertake it with great
cheerfulness."
The daughters worked by day and night on the uniforms
for Thomas and his friends. Some of the negroes joined the
club, and uniforms must be made for them too, and it was
the patriotic thing for the ladies in the house to make these
also. Besides, an immense United States flag was called for
by the club, and was made by us in those hot July days
and nights.
Thomas was as ready to extend the simple hospitality
* Written by Edward.
of his house in helping on this movement as he had been
in former times to render more extensive aid. His life-long
friend, Mr. John Shelton, in writing of this side of his
character, says, -
"We were both Henry Clay men while he lived, and
Whigs of the straitest and strictest type.... A most zealous
Whig before the civil war, the leaders and candidates of
that party were often the recipients of his unbounded and
princely hospitality, and, as a zealous party man, he took a
great interest in whatever elections were pending, and
shared his means with an unsparing and free hand for the
advancement of party ends."
"BURLEIGH, 20th October, 1875.
..."We are in a very
hot political contest just now, and
with a good prospect of turning out the carpet-bag thieves
by whom we have been robbed for the past six to ten
years. They commenced at Clinton on their old game of
getting up riots and then calling on Grant for troops to
suppress them, - these troops to be used afterwards to
control elections. They succeeded in getting up their riot,
which was put down by our own people after so
sanguinary a fashion as to strike them with a terror not
easily described."
"BURLEIGH, 24th November, 1875.
..."I am in a
laughing humor to-day, as I have just sent
E-- to pay my taxes, and I had to fork over only three
hundred and seventy-five dollars for that purpose, - a
very different affair from the operations of many years
back. Last year it took over eight hundred dollars, and the
year before more than that."
harassing, humiliating, and destructive than people
beyond our borders can conceive.
In one of these years a lawsuit was brought against
Thomas about one of his line fences. He had kept up his
own fences dividing his plantation from his neighbors, *
not sharing the expense and labor with them, as was the
custom in the country. The negroes were summoned by his
counsel as witnesses. They must have talked the case over
with indignation among themselves, for their testimony
given, one after another, sounded in the court-room as if
they had been trained for the occasion. They used the
same words: "Course I know all 'bout it. 'Twas when Mr.
M-- was de oberseer. Hi! I help to split dem rails. Dey's
marster's rails. Didn't brer Gilbert lay de worm o' dat fence?
All master people know dat. Dey all 'members dat dey split
and tote dem rails, and brer Gilbert lay de worm."
A good many, fifty perhaps, had been summoned, but
after five or six had said these words, Thomas's counsel
decided at once that the case would probably go against
him if the whole band should be allowed to go through
with this formula, and, greatly to the disappointment of the
negroes, no more were allowed to give their evidence. Their
pride in their old owner had risen to its height, and their
indignation against the neighbor was proportionally great.
The case lasted for three days, and, during this time, one of
the daughters was alone at Burleigh. The negroes showed
much sympathy for her. Every evening about dusk Mammy
Maria's husband came to the steps where she was sitting.
He was a shy man, and had scarcely ever before spoken a
dozen words to her. He appeared with his hat in his hand
and the graceful bows and salutes of the negro race.
"Good-evenin', missis. 'Ria, marm, say dat I must tell you
'bout my garden. She 'bleeged to go home to 'tend to things
now. She say dat I ken tell you how my garden was gittin'
on. I plant potatoes, marm,
* With one exception, which was in the case of
a connection.
an' I wucked 'em. Oh, yes, I'se wucked 'em. An' peas an'
greens, marm, an' I wucked 'em. An' I git sprouts to eat out
o' my garden, marm. I wucked 'em all, marm. 'Ria say dat I
mus'n't let you be lonely. She tole me to tell you 'bout dem
things. An' she say dat you mus'n't feel no ways oneasy
'bout dat law business. She say dat some o' de people is
come down from Raymond and dey say dat she must tell
you 'bout how things is goin' on, an' dat eberything is goin'
for master. An' you ought to hear how he people talk up
for him. Hi! dem lawyers stop Ellis 'cus he talk up so. Dey
sent some o' de people back an' wouldn't let 'em talk. But
dey was all ready to say de same thing 'bout dat fence. Dey
was ready to stan' up for master, but dey wasn't 'llowed to
do it."
"John say he couldn't talk to you," mammy explained
afterwards. "But I tole him to tell you all 'bout he garden; I
know he could talk 'bout dat."
Great was the rejoicing on the plantation when the case
was decided for the master, and he and his witnesses came
home together. A good many came to the house to say
how glad they were that he had gained the case, and to
explain how much they had done in bringing about the
result.
When Thomas Dabney's fortunes were at their lowest
ebb he heard that a widow living a few miles from him was
in need of the necessaries of life. The case was represented
to him very strongly that she and her children were in
danger of starvation. He turned visibly white, and said
afterwards that he thought his heart had stopped beating
for a moment when he heard of such a thing so near him.
He hurried out and sent a wagon-load of corn and a supply
of meat to her, and he went himself and put ten dollars in
her hand. "My daughter is also a woman" were the words
with which he accompanied the money. "She knows that
you may need money to buy some little things as well as
food." He was so poor at the time that the lack of the corn
and meat would be seriously felt in his own larder, and it is
doubtful if anything were left in his pocket after he gave
away the ten dollars. It seems
almost needless to say that his daughter, knowing the
family at Burleigh was living almost without the use of
money, did not suggest to him to give that. But what
woman could have devised a more compassionate and
gracious way of bestowing a gift?
A poor woman in Mississippi has said of him, "The time
that my son fell in the well and he was there, - oh! I could
have hugged him in my arms. My son told me that the first
thing that he saw was that white head bending over him."
"BURLEIGH, 21st February, 1876.
"The mail of to-day
brought me your sweet and truly
dutiful letter of the 16th instant. You only want my 'orders,'
my dear child, to obey them. God forbid that I should ever
give 'orders' to one who is ever ready to anticipate my
wishes by the time that I know them myself. I had to write
that letter to you, painful as it was to me. All that you say
of -- I already knew but too well; but the knowledge came
too late to be of any benefit to us, and it can now do no
good to grieve over it. What we now have to do is to look
the thing in the face as it stands, and I will tell Coker that
he may look to me for that one hundred dollars next winter.
I cannot pay it any sooner, as I find, after my last pound of
cotton has been sold, that I have thirty-three dollars and
some cents left."
"BURLEIGH, 14th July, 1876.
..."When I fish in
the bayous back of the Pass (which I
generally do, in preference to fishing in the gulf), I start at
sunrise and get back at half-past twelve to one o'clock, and
the distance, eight miles, is nearly the same as from
Alexandria to Trout Creek. With a buggy and a good horse
I never thought anything of the distance; and, besides, I
always wanted the family with whom I stayed to enjoy the
fruit of my rod. I have caught thirty-two trout (we never
counted the perch, goggle-eyes, etc.) in the three hours
that we had for fishing. But that is the largest number that I
ever caught in any one day. We always caught more than
the family wanted, however; and Mrs. Harrison and Mrs.
Smith were in the habit of supplying their neighbors with
many a fine dish, for two to three of us would bring in a
goodly pile of them."
"BURLEIGH, 3d May, 1877.
"MY BELOVED CHILD,
- I wrote to your brother last Sunday,
but without mentioning your children. When such a letter
comes from me, it may be considered as clean a 'bill of
health' as can possibly be written. But I would have noticed
them had I not expected Ida to stick in something. In all
letters from me to any member of my family, if anything is
the matter with another member, I always write the worst, not
exaggerated, not extenuated, but precisely as the thing
stands, leaning, if leaning at all, to the bad, but avoiding all
leaning, if that be possible. But you know all this, and yet I
find you as wretched as you can make yourself over
imaginary sufferings of Emmeline. The child has not grunted
once since my telegram to you, nor for four days previously
to the date of that telegram There is no need of studying
what she likes or dislikes whether sweet milk or sour, bread
or crackers, for she eats right and left four to five times
during the day. The day before yesterday (1st May) the
rectory children were all here, a May-party having been
gotten up for them. They had various 'goodies' spread on a
large table in the yard, the entertainment coming off late in
the evening. After the children had satisfied themselves the
grown folks partook. No long time afterwards, the
company having left and Sue very tired, she said to
Emmeline, 'Well, come along now and we will go to bed.'
Whereupon Emmeline, with all the naïveté imaginable,
inquired if they were not going to have supper!
"So make yourself easy. I will never leave anything to your
imagination about these dear little fellows; so, 'go 'long' and
get yourself well as soon as you please."
"BURLEIGH, 6th July, 1877.
"MY MUCH BELOVED
NIECE, - You can't know how
much pleasure your eminently characteristic letter of the 20th
ultimo gave me - gave all of us. It is so like you to remember a
promise that I did not make, but which you chose to believe I did
make because you wished to have it so. I was too fearful of being
unable to visit you this summer to promise such a thing, and yet
could not give expression to that doubt; and hence you were left
to draw your own inference, and you only know one way of
solving such problems as these. I now know that it is impossible
for me to enjoy the hospitality of Cam and yourself this
summer, as we are expecting my brother's family, - the whole
tribe, consisting of himself and wife, Nanny, Mary Ware and her
son Toby, and perhaps Martha, to spend the month of August
with us. They are all together on Honey Island (except Martha),
but they know that they can't stay there through the summer,
and so they propose to divide about three months between
Aggy, Colonel Porter, and myself. So you see, my dear, that I am
nailed hard and fast right here for this summer, at least. But I
don't relinquish the hope of seeing the inside of your new home
some time or other, and will do it as soon as I can, for I wish to
see you all very much. As you say nothing about gnats in your
letter to me, I hope those vile pests left you quickly after your
letter was written to Mrs. Douglas. They are a great deal worse
than mosquitoes, I think, as they light on you in clouds - in your
eyes, nose, and ears, - are not to be frightened off, bite like --, and
pass right through ordinary mosquito-bars. I fear your region is
subject to them at certain seasons of the year.
"I don't know whether to congratulate Cam on his
elegant leisure or not. If he had much professional
employment, you would probably have to burn the lamp o'
nights.
"If your neighbors wish to see your old uncle, he is indebted
to the kind words of his niece for that wish. But what is the use
of having friends if they fail to show it on proper occasions!
"I am glad that you have some garden. I have had a scuffle to
have even that, as it rained eternally during the spring, and then
dropped off to no rain at all, and we are having the hottest
summer I ever witnessed in Mississippi. I have to take the
garden in broken doses, homoeopathic at that, as I came near a
sunstroke, or something worse, the other day, frightening the
girls nearly out of their wits.
"Lelia, poor child, is very far from being well. I was in hopes
of getting her off to the North, but could not make it out, and so
she has gone to her kind friends in Brandon for a change of air
and scene. If she is not improved by it, I must send her to New
York when her brother returns to that place after his summer
vacation terminates. Emmy has been in New York three to four
months, but is expected to arrive at Terry to-morrow night. Her
children have been with us during her absence, but she will have
no fault to find when she sees them, as they are as hearty a trio
as ever discussed bread and butter and sich.
"Charlie and Kate are as loving as ever, I believe, which is
saying a good deal for this hot weather. The girls send any
amount of love to you and Cam and the children. My love all
round."
"BURLEIGH, 19th December, 1877.
"MY POOR AFFLICTED
CHILD, - I received, yesterday, a
letter from Dr. Baird, giving the particulars of the dreadful
calamity that has befallen you. I was waiting for that, or for
something of the kind from some member of your family, being
more than willing to postpone so mournful and difficult a task as
writing a letter to you that could be satisfactory to me or in
any way a comfort to you. To lose one's husband or wife I
take to be the greatest calamity that can befall any one
who may be happily married, and that you had that comfort
in Cam I have every reason to be absolutely certain of. But,
my dear child, it is among the inevitable laws of nature that
these unions must be broken up at some time or other, and
one or the other be left to mourn. It is therefore seemly that
we should be grateful for such measure of happiness as we
have been permitted to enjoy, and to bow our heads
reverently and without a rebellious spirit when the All
Wise sees fit to checker our path. I trust you may succeed,
after a time, in schooling your mind to this necessity.
"Dr. Baird's letter to me shows him to be a very sincere
friend of yours. He discusses your situation with a great
deal of feeling, and exhorts me to go to see you, if
possible, and, if not possible, to send some one on whose
friendship you may be supposed to rely.... For myself,
you may remember that I returned from the Pass a month
or two ago (or were told that I did) so entirely indisposed
as to make it doubtful whether or no I should ever get over
it. I am unable now to undergo any extra exertion, and got
to my garden with some difficulty, but force myself to go,
as better than continuous inactivity. I never even go to
Dry Grove if it can be avoided. It was therefore impossible
for me to accede to Dr. Baird's suggestion by going to
your house."
"BURLEIGH, 6th January, 1878.
"God bless my child
and her children and her husband!
And you thought of me in connection with the 4th, and
your husband thought of me in connection with Christmas
and oysters, and you forgot to write to me about it! But all
is well that ends well, as you say; and I now know more
about oysters than I ever did. I thought they must be lost,
but I told Edward to bring them out unless they would
knock a buzzard over. There were but two spoiled ones. The
mouths of a good many were a little open, but, as I had to
open all of them, I found they were not spoiled, and in they
all went to the dish. I even ate some of them raw. I took them
all out of the barrel on Tuesday morning, placed them on
the ground in the north cellar, with the deep shell down,
sprinkled them with salt and meal, and then with just
enough water to make the salt run a little. They were a little
too fresh at first, but on the second day after their removal
from the barrel they were as salt as could be desired, and
perfectly delicious. I could have kept them - well, I don't
know how long, - a week, perhaps; perhaps a month. They
improved every day (I mean those with their shells closed),
the last being the best. You need never mind the
temperature hereafter; and, as New Orleans oysters are
generally too fresh, you can, in one day, season them to
your taste and make them equal to York River oysters, - perhaps!...
"Letters from Virginius and Ben remind me of the 4th.
Good boys! Neither did Tom fail. Good boy, too! These
things, and such thoughts as they suggest, make me
happy....
"THOS. S. DABNEY."
"BURLEIGH,
20th January, 1878.
"Although you have
been throwing off suggestions from
time to time of the likelihood of your going to California,
I was still taken by surprise when I read your card of the
12th, informing me that you were packing up and expecting
to be off in two hours. I hope Mary stood the trip reasonably.
Unless some accident befell, I have no good reason for
hoping that you and sister E-- had a good time, as you both
like travelling, she especially. No amount of 'hoping' would
do any good under such circumstances; as of
all modes of getting about, the only intolerable mode to me
is by rail. There is no walking about on a railroad car; the
only change possible is to change from one seat to
another, - from an erect to a recumbent or a prostrate
position. When on one of those luxurious vehicles I am
reminded within an hour or two of the man of leisure who
would escape, if he knew how, from the 'rack of a too easy
chair.' I suppose to be stretched on a hot gridiron, or on a
bed of fleas, with my hands tied would be worse, and that
is about the best I can say for such luxuries as palace cars.
And yet I take them, of course, when I have to go, but on
the principle that a nauseous dose of physic cuts short
disease. I think Mary extremely fortunate in having made
her escape from cotton-planting; as, indeed, from every
interest now known to this side of the Sierra Nevada. From
my stand-point I can discover nothing but an early crash
and a universal bankruptcy. Corn is selling in Kansas at
fifteen cents per bushel, and is worth but little more at
Bonham, Texas, where Ben lives. Molasses can now be had
in New Orleans at six dollars per barrel and sugar at six
cents per pound. Edward sold cotton at Terry a few days
ago at six and a half cents. It was inferior cotton, but a large
portion of my crop is no better, as we had four overflows of
the creek in three weeks, when much of the crop was open,
and necessarily was washed out, and what remained was
badly damaged. Ten to eleven cents in New Orleans is now
about the price of what little tolerably good cotton we
have. Under such figures the whole country must sink,
except the few who are free of debt, and this class goes
about as far towards making this Southern country as one
swallow does towards making a summer. Tom has taken
the alarm promptly by entering the medical college as a
student, but without giving up his school, attending
lectures and the dissecting-room out of school hours. It
will be too much for him, I feel certain, although he is very
strong. But I will watch him closely, you may judge. His
school hours are from nine A. M. to three P. M. Lectures
from half-past three P. M. to five P. M., and dissecting from
seven to eleven and twelve at night. You will perceive that
he has but thirty minutes to pass from his school to the
lecture-room, and but one hour and a half for dinner,
recreation, and travelling, from nine in the morning till
eleven or twelve at night. No man can stand this, I think;
or, if at all, but for a short time. But Tom is a fellow of pluck
and will stand as much of it as any man. I will keep a sharp
eye on him, however.
"We had a very humdrum Christmas, - none but my
own family, and many of them away, as you know. I had a
fine beef for the occasion, but had to let him enjoy a
reprieve, as the weather was quite too warm to kill him at
that time. But we are enjoying him now, and each day as I
look upon a part of him smoking on the table I think of ante-bellum
times, in a small way."
"BURLEIGH, 3d March, 1878.
"Yours of the 1st
February reached me 'on time,' as I
suppose, and went through the family, interesting each one
of us very much, as it abounds in incidents of travel and
California affairs. One incident, however, was far from
agreeable, but when a man tumbles down a strange and
dark staircase, he may congratulate himself upon finding
no bones broken. I hope your hand has recovered. I did
not intend deferring this reply so long, and did not know
that it was so long until I referred to the date just now. I
truly hope that Mary finds the climate agreeable to her,
and I hope that Toby is doing as well as Mary can desire.
As to yourself and sister E--, I have no apprehension but
that everything in that great country will suit you both
perfectly, and prolong your lives.... You will be seventy-eight
to-morrow, dating this reminds me of it.... I was
interrupted and lost the mail, and have read over your
letter again, with renewed interest. It is very full, and
strictly conforms to the description of Mark Twain, in
his last book, 'Roughing It,' which I have just read;
which is remarkable, as you were rushing along by
rail, whereas he took it by stage, horseback, and footback.
The Desert and the sage bushes, the sharp air and snow of
the Sierra and the sudden transition to perpetual spring on
reaching the Valley of Sacramento. All this is more like
enchantment than like anything to be looked for in real
life....
"Although I have, for the past ten or fifteen years, only
given myself three to five years of furlough at a time, I yet
live, and with a breathing apparatus and casing as perfect
as ever, to all appearance; but yet the vigilant old fellow
'Time' has not slept, but has increased day by day my
repugnance to locomotion, making it more agreeable to
me to read or talk in an arm-chair than to trundle a
wheelbarrow up a steep hill; and it requires so much
engineering to pull on my socks, that Sue comes into my
room every morning before I am up and shoves them on for
me. Some one has to tie my shoes; not that it is impossible
to me, but vastly disagreeable. Now, although I have not
mentioned either of old Dodson's (or Dobson's) infirmities
in the Table, you will recognize this as a kindred picture....
"The people here, with few exceptions, are becoming
poorer and poorer, and without the least prospect of
amendment, as the prime cause is to be found in the
worthlessness of the negro. As I am now physically
unable to take charge (active) of the plantation, I am utterly
at a loss as to what is best to be done. If I could sell this
place, the problem would be solved, but nothing can be sold
here now."...
"BURLEIGH, 28th April, 1878.
"MY DEAR SISTER, -
A note from Marye, received
this morning, informs me that I have lost my only brother.
If there was a rule in such cases he would have been the
survivor, but there is no rule that I
know of. I have no consolation to offer beyond the
expression of my sincere sympathy, - an oblation that I need
nearly as much as you do. It will doubtless occur to you,
without your being reminded of it, that you have been
wonderfully passed by the band of fate during the whole
course of your married life, amounting to about forty-five
years, I think. When you think of the few, the very few, who
have carried their cup of happiness over the rough paths of
life for such a time with so little loss, you may be surprised
into self-gratulation rather shall be weighed down by this
calamity, great as I feel it to be on you and on myself. You are
wonderfully blessed in your children. Do you know any one
with whom you would exchange, maternal ties being severed,
and you free to choose? Take me from the list, and do you
know another? Verily, no! It becomes you, then, to accept
this visitation of Providence without a murmur, or the
appearance of one. To mourn we must, and may, and be
forgiven.
"For myself, I feel like some hoary obelisk, with a circle
of desolation steadily widening, but few, if any, of the
contemporaries of my early manhood surviving. Not one
remains, I think....
"You have no plans at present, I suppose. Should you
elect, at any future time, to return to this State, you will
remember that my door, equally with that of your children,
will be open to you."...
"BURLEIGH, 13th August, 1878.
"That you and Ida
are quite able to take care of
yourselves I entertain no doubt, but still it does me good to
find you asserting the fact with so much boldness. Of all
the principles developed by the late war, I think the
capability of our Southern women to take care of
themselves by no means the least important. With ten to
twelve years of nominal peace, however, the necessity for
exemplifying, that principle might be supposed to be at an
end; but so long as such men as Governor -- have it in their
power to control and
set at defiance the decrees of the judiciary, just so long
you will have to take care of yourselves, and lucky to be
able to do it. The responsibility that he is assuming is
fearful; and to make it as bad as possible, there was no
necessity for it, no matter what his opinions might be, for a
governor has no right to an opinion on a law after it has
been acted upon by the Supreme Court. He still has the
power, as an engineer has to blow up his passengers, but
he does not blow them up for all that, except by accident.
I suppose the bread of two thousand people has been
denied them by the folly or wickedness of this one wrong-headed
man."
"BURLEIGH, 31st August, 1878.
"DEAR SIR, - In
view of the pestilence that has broken
out at Dry Grove, I wish you to bring your wife and Nellie
here immediately. You have not a moment to lose....
"My carriage will be moving the rectory family this
morning, and when it completes that job will bring yours.
"Don't hesitate, as the loss of a day may cost you
your life. I will tell you how you can manage the post-office.
"Most truly your friend,
"BURLEIGH, 7th September, 1878.
"Mrs. Governor Brown's servant-girl, Eliza, as you will
remember, went to Canton a year or so ago. She returned to
her old home about two weeks ago, and died of yellow fever
or some kindred disease in the course of four to six days.
Four days after her death the governor was taken ill. Three
or four days after that Edward went to Terry, and, hearing of
the governor's illness, went directly to see him. He found
him very ill, and announced to Mrs. Brown his intention to
remain with him. But she positively refused to allow this,
and he came home and told us of it, and added that he
would immediately return. This Mrs. Brown probably
expected, but would not allow him to wait on the governor
without first obtaining my sanction. She raised no objection
to his remaining after his return. He was to have written to
us by every mail, but five days passed without a line from
him or from any one there. Mr. Douglas then went to see
after them, and found Edward with the highest fever on and
the reddest face he had ever seen.... We had a terrible scare
about the Dry Grove people a week ago. It seems that two of
the men there, in order to deepen the pond on which the
little mill at Dry Grove depends for water, cut the dam and
drew off the little water that was in it, and then turned in to
drag out the mud. The stench was described by Dr. West as
terrific. In three days half of the inhabitants were flat on
their backs, some of them ill. Nearly all of Mr. Douglas's
family were sick. In this exigency I wrote to Mrs. Douglas
(Mr. Douglas having left home that morning, but to return in
the evening) to lose no time about it, but to send one of the
Castons immediately for my carriage and to bring her whole
frock here. I said they could
take possession of the two rooms in the library building,
where they might keep house according to their own taste;
for they would have to bring their own bedding, cooking
utensils, and provisions, and do regular 'camping out'
except for the tents. Mr. Douglas returned home in time to
bring Mrs. Douglas and provisions, etc., that afternoon,
Miss Carrie and the children having preceded them in my
carriage. All of the children, or nearly all, were pouring
down quinine at three to four hours' intervals, and Miss
Carrie had to be taken up bodily and placed in the
carriage, and two of the children got up from sick-beds.
The change in their condition is remarkable. They all
appeared to be as well as possible on the morning after
their arrival here, and Miss Carrie appears to be as well as I
ever saw her. I have suggested to Mr. Douglas that all
hands had best remain here through September and get a
good stock of health, as they are not in my way in the least.
I think they will stay, although he made no reply. I also
invited Hugh Stewart to bring (I to send for them) his wife
and Nelly, as we would squeeze them in somewhere, but
they declined, feeling, as we suppose, too poor to leave
their property - fowls, etc. - to be stolen in their absence.
You cannot imagine how grateful they are. Nelly stayed
here the night before last and thanked me in tears.... I
neglected saying in its proper place that Mr. Douglas left
here yesterday morning with instructions from me to
telegraph to Tom to come immediately to the assistance of
his brother and the governor, if, after seeing them and
consulting Edward and Mrs. Brown, that step should be
deemed necessary. The first thing I wished to know from
Mr. Douglas last night was, had he telegraphed for Tom,
and I never heard the word no with so much delight."
A part of the following letter also bears on this time:
"If I undertake to say much of my dear and honored uncle, it
will necessarily be a repetition of what others can say
much more ably than I, so I will endeavor to confine
myself to a few lines.
"I knew him well only after he grew old. His old age, like
the sunset, was more beautiful, if less useful, than the mid-day.
Age softened without weakening his character. I was much
struck, in reading one of the last letters he wrote, with this
expression, 'We must have sympathy even with the imaginary
troubles of others.' This was hardly in accordance with my
previous knowledge of him. Of a healthy nature, with strong
self-control, he thought (and rightly) that people should
control their imaginations; that there was enough real
trouble in the world without any indulgence in morbidness.
But, without relaxing his hold over himself, he grew more
tender towards the weaknesses of others. He was the most
thoroughly natural man I ever knew, without one particle of
affectation. Of course he often refrained from uttering his
sentiments or opinions, for fear of giving pain; but never, in
his whole life, I imagine, did he say anything he did not
entirely feel with the motive of pleasing. Of whom beside can
we say the same? Praise from him might be justly valued,
since he sounded his mind and weighed his words before
speaking. He was not irritable or prone to take offence,
because he took but little heed of trivialities, yet his was no
easy-going amiability that includes all men and all ways in its
indolent charity. Meanness, cruelty, and lies were so utterly
abhorrent to him that he needs must speak and feel strongly
against their perpetrators.
"Not all the heavenly host sing eternal praises. His
guardian spirit must have been Michael, the strong, the
terrible, warning all powers of evil! That lightning glance,
those words so weighty in truth, so keen in insight, have
made many an evil-doer quail before him.
"To see my uncle, in his old age, performing the homely
duties of the farm with the same care and exactness he
formerly bestowed on matters of great moment; to see him
doing the honors of his plain board with the same courtly
dignity as when it groaned in luxury; to see him turn to
books with the same judgment and interest he formerly
bestowed on men, was
a lesson never to be forgotten. Circumstances change, the
man did not; loss of wealth, political weight, youth, even
wife and children, left him unshaken. In that healthy mind
and strong soul wounds healed, leaving scars, it is true, but
no sores.
"We were there during the dreadful plague of '78, and I
was struck almost with awe by my uncle's wonderful
foresight as to the fever coming to so apparently an
unlikely spot, his wise advice and generous offers of aid
to others, which, if acted on, would have saved many
valuable lives and prevented his own family from being
exposed to infection. His sagacity was almost
superhuman; but what shall I call the feeling which
prompted him to send his beloved daughters from their
place of safety to nurse the very people who had rejected
his aid while it was yet time, and even to bring the plague-stricken
sufferers into his own home?
"I feel how poorly I have expressed in these lines the
love and admiration I felt for my dear uncle. I pray that his
qualities may flow in every drop of his blood forever; so
shall he live and not die, even on this earth!
"LETITIA DABNEY MILLER."
quartered in the little honey-house among the bee-hives.
They were in quarantine there, as both the Burleigh house
and the cottage in the yard had its fever patient. In
addition to the people in the house who had fled there for
safety from the fever, one or two convalescents came to
recuperate, and the nurses came to rest after their patients
had either died or gotten well. There were white nurses and
negro nurses, and they were of both sexes. Augustine's
son Thomas had come on a little visit just before this time,
and seeing the trouble in which his uncle was involved,
resolved, in spite of earnest remonstrance, to stay to
render any assistance in his power. Augustine's daughters,
Nannie and Letty and her husband and young children,
were with difficulty induced to leave us. They became at
length convinced that their presence would only add to the
anxiety and horror of the time.
My father was told that he could not see his ill daughter.
His presence seemed to excite her too much. One day as
Sophy opened the door of the sick-room she found him
standing there. "My child," he said, "when Sue falls
asleep let me know. I must see her. I shall not disturb her."
Accordingly he was summoned, and he got down on his
hands and knees and crawled from the door across the
large room till he reached the bedside. In this humble
posture he remained many minutes, occasionally touching
her hand, which lay outside the cover, lightly with his lips.
When she awoke, he said, "My child, if I excite you, say
one word, go, and I will go. If I may stay, say stay." That
word was spoken, and he took her hand in both of his and
covered it with his tears and kisses.
Thomas's friend, John Shelton, and his son were ready
to come to nurse the sick at Burleigh, but were informed
that they were not needed, as trained nurses had arrived
from the New Orleans hospitals. Supplies of provisions,
medicines, and wines sent by the North and the South
were received and distributed at the Burleigh door.
For miles people sent for provisions, for the quarantine
regulations made it impossible to get supplies from
the neighboring towns. A barrel of vinegar that had been
made as the year's supply by the family was exhausted in a
week. It required all the time of one person to attend to this
part of the business. Wagons, buggies, and horses stood
waiting at the gate for the doctor or nurses or provisions,
or for all three. Supplies were exhausted so rapidly that
sometimes no meat was to be had for the immense
household except the squirrels killed by my cousin Thomas.
And sometimes there was no food in the house of any
kind. As long as it held out it was distributed. But the larder
was never empty more than a few hours. The "shot-gun"
quarantines at times made it a matter of peril to bring
us this relief. One gentleman, a prosperous citizen of
Jackson, himself drove a wagon filled with provisions to
our door, because he could not hire a driver to do it. He
travelled all night, and arrived just in time to avert serious
want. Another man was shot at by his own nephew because
he persisted in passing the picket-line which divided the
infected district from the rest of the country. Over one
thousand dollars were sent by the Howard associations in
different cities and by friends to the family at Burleigh.
Three of them had the fever, but all recovered.
It was found necessary during these days of horror to
keep up our spirits, by avoiding as far as possible all
reference to the pestilence and its ravages. At the table,
especially, such allusions were forbidden. The list of
deaths occurring the night before was not to be spoken of
at breakfast. Afterwards the names of friends who had just
died passed quietly and without comment from mouth to
mouth. There was no giving way to emotions. A man who
had lost his wife and two children, a woman whose
husband, mother, brother, and child had died, a young girl
who saw eight members of her family borne from the
house, these, like the rest, gave no sign.
It seemed so easy to die. Why should we weep? We will
soon follow them. Besides, there is no time for tears. The
suffering and the dying are calling us. And the dead lie
unburied, wrapped in blankets just as
they died, across the church pews, waiting for a tardy
coffin and a shallow grave. At last the coffins do not come
fast enough, and many are buried in goods boxes without
a prayer save the silent one breathed by the two men who
gave all their time to these last offices.
Thomas was in his eighty-first year, and the strain and
anxiety and the labor he performed came near killing him.
One day he drove forty miles in passing back and forth
between his house and Dry Grove, carrying food and fresh
nurses to relieve exhausted ones. He said afterwards many,
many times that he could never forgive himself for placing
his children in such a position of danger. His daughters
had obtained his consent before going into the fever-stricken village to nurse their friends. He seemed to think
he had failed in his duty, and never ceased to express the
deepest self-condemnation at having yielded his judgment
to their wishes.
The neighborhood was desolated by the fever. During
preceding years family connections and friends had died
or moved away, and the circle of congenial friends, always
small, had grown smaller as time went on. Under these
circumstances, and as there appeared to be no hope of
improvement in their surroundings, the Burleigh family
resolved on leaving, the old home forever, as soon as the
last of the debts were paid. A sum of money sent by
Frederick Dabney as a gift to his uncle he sent at once to
his creditors. Still, three years were to elapse before the
final payments were made. Our dearest father had been so
shaken by the scenes that he and his children had passed
through during the fever, that we thought it best to persuade
him to take a change every winter by going to visit
one or other of his married children. The summers were
made pleasant at Burleigh by the society of his
affectionate nieces and nephews and their families, but the
winters were lonely and depressing. We were the more earnest
in this, as during the year 1880 he lost three old and valued
friends, - Dr. Thomas A. Cooke, of Louisiana, Mrs. Mary
Roy Cox, of Louisiana, and Governor A. G. Brown, of
Mississippi. The first two were
life-long friends whom he had first known in Gloucester,
and Dr. Cooke was the dearest friend of his life.
"BURLEIGH, 14th June, 1879.
..."As you have not
seen that article of mine and can't
get it, I enclose it to you; not so much on account of any
supposed merit that may attach to it (except historically) as
to keep you and the major up with whatever I may be
about. The paper contains enough of Buena Vista for one
time, I suppose; but, as I know a good deal more about it
(from General Taylor's own lips to me at Pass Christian), I
may give you more incidents from time to time.... Three
days ago Sue asked me to pour some boiling water from the
big tea-kettle, which I proceeded to do, and more than was
desired, as I turned the spout on myself, and poured a
tablespoonful or two in my shoe. As it was impossible to
get the shoe, and particularly the sock, off until the water
had cooled of itself; I have a burn that will annoy me for
some time. My foot is considerably swollen and hurts me
badly, and, as I cannot wear a shoe, I am confined to the
house, and pretty much to my chair, with my foot cocked
up on a pillow in another chair. This gives me leisure to
think over my sins. Mr. Root, the great bee man of the
North, offers through his paper one dollar a quart for bees,
to which Sophy has responded by driving about a peck into
a box and sending it to him....
"A sad accident happened to George Page's daughter
Puss and her husband two days ago. They had some
powder in a trunk, which they attempted to take out, in the
night, torch in hand. The powder ignited and burned them
both terribly."...
"I ain't goin' to no Kansas," Puss said, when we went to
see her. "I would have been dead now ef I had been in
Kansas, away from marster." *
It was characteristic of George Page that, when some of
"his young ladies" went to his house on hearing of the
accident, he met them at his gate and made demonstrations
of not allowing them to enter. He and his house were not fit
for us, he expressed in his earnest manner. But Susan came
out with the tears running down her face to take us in and
to explain that we must not mind George. "Heish, George,"
she exclaimed. "Didn't I sen' fur de ladies? an' here you tell
'em not to come in! Don't mind George, missis. He dunno
what he talkin' 'bout. Go 'long, George, you talk so foolish."
Thomas enjoyed much a visit from Bishop Quintard, of
Tennessee, this fall. The bishop preached a Thanksgiving
sermon in the little church at Dry Grove. Before the sermon
he said a few very earnest words on the subject of the
kneeling posture in prayer. He had observed that many of
the congregation kept their seats during the prayers. The
country people belonging to the denominations in that part
of the world do not, as a rule, kneel in church. Thomas
was much impressed by what the bishop said, and he
resolved never again to fail to kneel at church or in his
private devotions. At the next prayer nearly the whole
congregation knelt, but the man sitting next to Thomas, an
old neighbor, maintained his sitting posture. Colonel Dabney
gave him a thrust in the side, and said, "Why do you not
kneel down ?" On which the man promptly knelt.
"BURLEIGH, December 3, 1879.
"MY DEAR GRANDCHILD,
- ... And I am proud of your
standing in your other classes. Do not be satisfied until
you reach the head of all of them. As some one
* There was quite an excitement among the
negroes at this
time in our part of the State on the subject of moving to Kansas.
must be at the head, I wish you to be the one. Of course, I
see your letters to your mother, and think very highly of
them and of your progress at school. Continue, my dear,
as you have begun, and you will never cease to rejoice over
your attainments when you have become a woman."
"BURLEIGH, 27th December, 1879.
..."Many thanks, my
dear, good boy, for your
thoughtful presents, which are appreciated with a full
knowledge of the toil they cost you, and the many uses
you had for the money. But you rather overdid it, as one
barrel of oysters and half a barrel of oranges would have
been ample. Should I live to afford you the opportunity to
repeat this thing, please be more moderate. Major Greene
performed his duty in executing your orders, as he selected
himself the oysters, splendid single ones, and he had the
oranges gathered from the trees on Monday, only two
days before they came into my hands; and they are the
finest I ever saw, their excellent quality being due to their
freshness and to the fact that our summer ran into our
winter down to the 24th of December; the temperature on
that day, in my passage, being up to 78. John Dabney is
expected to visit his Vicksburg relations within a week or
so to spend a week, and then some of them will come out
here for a week on a big partridge and squirrel hunt.
Marshall Miller says he will certainly come, but the work on
the Vicksburg jetties may prevent Edward and Tom Greg
from accompanying him. I hope John may be able to come.
He is a noble specimen of a man, and so is Miller."...
"BURLEIGH, 28th December, 1879.
"MY BELOVED CHILD,
- Your anxiety to have Ben's
presents here in time for Christmas made you underrate, or
disregard, all other considerations. As it happened that Dr.
Douglas opened the mail on Tuesday and found a card for
his son Taylor and a letter for
me, both from you, he immediately brought them to me,
so that I received the earliest possible information of
your intention to send perishable things up to me on that
very day. Had he not been at the post-office I should
have remained in ignorance of these facts, as it was not
convenient to us to communicate with the office on that
day; and, expecting nothing particularly, a messenger
would not have been sent, and this goes to show that I
should have had more notice. But I got the notice, sent to
Terry that night, and had the oysters in the cellar and
spread out before I went to bed. But I never saw oysters in
such a condition, as they were actually hot, as in a state of
fermentation. Ida and I turned in upon them and separated
the dead from the living (there being but few of the latter)
and spread these few on the cellar floor, and covered them
with salt and meal and sprinkled them afterwards with
water. These few gave us soup for two days. We were so
keen for oysters that I opened some of the best-looking
fellows with open countenances, and had them for our
breakfast next morning,. We all escaped death; Ida's
escape being due, perhaps, to her getting clear, in a hurry,
of oysters, breakfast and all, by throwing them up. The
balance of us managed to hold on by a tight squeeze.
"Please observe, my child, that oysters are good at
other times than on Christmas day, and had the shipment
been deferred but three days they would have done us
great service. And sufficient notice should never be
dispensed with; the notice, in case of oysters, to run as
follows, viz.: 'A barrel of oysters will be sent to Terry for
you on -- next if the weather be suitable, and if not, when it
becomes so, of which due notice will be given.' I am not
finding fault with you, my dear child, and if you think my
words imply fault-finding, you must forgive me, for I know
the misfortune had its origin in overzeal on your part to
promote my happiness and that of your sisters. The
oranges are the very best I ever saw, due to the care in
their selection, and to the fact that our summer ran into
our winter down to the 24th of December.
"P. S. - Don't let Ben know that any accident happened
to the oysters."
"BURLEIGH, 15th June, 1880.
"Sophy and I
returned from Governor Brown's
yesterday, our admirable friend having died the previous
night of apoplexy, or something of that nature. Mrs.
Brown was quite sick, and the governor went to Terry in
the afternoon (Saturday) for a doctor and some ice, taking
his carriage-driver along. The doctor left immediately,
the governor following soon after. Arriving at the gate
opening upon his lawn, he dismounted to open it, and
leading through, he again mounted the horse and
proceeded to the pond to water him. In about ten minutes
afterwards the cook observed the horse loose, and gave
the alarm. The carriage-driver went to the pond
immediately, saw the hat floating and the governor's
shoulders and the back of his head protruding above the
water, which was two feet deep at that place. He was in a
crouching posture, his arms thrust forward and downward,
embracing his legs, and his face submerged. Neither his
shoulders nor the hack of his head had been in the water.
How the equilibrium was maintained is a mystery. A
doctor was there, who pronounced him dead. He was in the
water not exceeding fifteen minutes, perhaps ten. His
lungs could not have acted since the moment of the
submergence of his face, as not a drop of water issued
either from his mouth or nose. He therefore did not drown,
neither did he fall from his horse. Had he fallen, be must
have gone clear under. It is supposed, as the only tenable
conjecture, that he lost his hat, and in attempting its
recovery by means of his cane, he lost his balance, and,
finding he must go, he clung to the horse's neck and mane
until he got his feet into the water, and then sunk down
dead. He had been complaining for some days of an undue
determination of blood to the head which Mrs. Brown had
attempted to subdue by wet cloths, etc. As he was not wet
all over, he did not fall, and, as not a drop
of water was in his stomach or lungs, he did not drown.
After satisfying myself fully on these points, I told Mrs.
Brown that the governor must have been dead by the time
he struck the water, to which she said yes.... She had
decided on nothing further than that she would go to
Washington. We urged her to make Burleigh her home in
the mean time, and at her pleasure, Sophy adding that
either she or Sue would go to Chicama and stay with her, if
she preferred it to coming here. She made no reply by
words."
be left alone during the day or night. His old servants took
care of him at night for weeks, coming in turn to sleep on
the floor by the side of his bed when their day's work was
over. Some whom he had thought ill of, and had sent off
the plantation, came now and nursed him. On Sundays
they came in large numbers to visit him. He was extremely
gratified by these spontaneous attentions. Books and
letters from his children and friends filled up the days.
In the prime of his busy life he had quite given up
reading everything but newspapers, but after he no longer
had the cares of a plantation he turned to books with
almost the love of a bookworm. History was his
preference, and he went through the excellent and rather
large collection in his library. Some of them he read many
times. After they were exhausted he grew omnivorous in
his tastes, and read every book that came in his way,
frequently reading from morning till night, and, unless his
eyes were too tired, until late at night. His wonderful power
of adapting himself to changed circumstances and
surroundings was in no way more conspicuously shown
than in this turning to books for entertainment when he
was over sixty years of age.
"BURLEIGH, 22d December, 1880.
"MY BELOVED CHILD,
- I am confined to the house
almost entirely, walking out in the yard two to three times
in a week, which I can just do by the help of a cane, and
very slowly at that. But this is a great improvement on
confinement to one's bed, or the incapacity to walk at all.
These sores on my feet have proved more obstinate than
either Dr. West or Tom anticipated, although they both
knew that a burn by mustard was the worst of all. They are
tantalizing to the last degree, assuming a convalescent
form for a week or two and then falling back to their old
tricks."
"BURLEIGH, 16th September, 1881.
..."We have had a
lively time here, with the biggest
crowd that was ever in the house. In addition
to Letty's family, who are here yet, we had the Rev. Dr.
Tucker's from Jackson (wife and three children), Mrs.
Sidway and three children and nurse, Nanny, my brother's
wife, Martha, Kate Nelson, a Miss Coffey (a friend of
Tom's, from New Orleans), and callers constantly coming
in. The tables had to be set diagonally, and sometimes
three to four had to sit at a side-table."
"BURLEIGH, 19th October, 1881.
"I reached the Pass
on the night of Monday. I got there
in a storm, and when I awoke on Tuesday morning the
equinox was upon us. The wind howled and the rain came
down - just as it can when it chooses - through that day
and most of the night. On Wednesday morning it was not
raining, but there had been no abatement of the wind. It
came from the east, piling the water up in Lake
Ponchartrain at such a rate that on Wednesday morning it
was found surrounding the Clay statue in New Orleans.
But I had two enthusiastic friends at the Pass, who, like
myself, had gone there to fish, and would not be balked.
They called for me in their carriage, and I jumped in, as a
matter of course, being but a boy myself, as you know. As
we knew the woods were flooded and the bayous out of
their banks, the only chance was the railroad bridge over
the bay of St. Louis; and so we struck out for that, but, on our
arrival at the bridge, neither of my friends would venture
on it, for fear of being blown off. We should then have
gone home, but did not. We went to one of the bayous,
and found it exactly as we expected. We threw in, though
(having plenty of shrimp), but 'nary' bite had we. We
determined to try it lower down, where the bayou was
wider, and could hold more water. But that cost me a walk
through a marsh of a mile, the grass from waist- to shoulder-high,
and very stubborn and thick, and the water shoe-deep
every step, except when I trod in a hole, and then I
did not measure it. Meanwhile I had a three-gallon bucket
of water to carry (with my shrimp) in one hand, and my
angle in the other.
'Nary' fish again! I have a faint recollection of getting out
of that marsh, and of drinking some excellent brandy in
commemoration of the auspicious event; and I remember,
too, that I went to bed (sick) the next day, but I have no
recollection of wetting a line since. The fishing was
wonderfully fine afterwards, but I was unable to go,
although I remained a week, being too unwell to undertake
the journey, and I have ventured to my garden but twice
since my return, and was doubtful about getting back to
the house the last time I went."
In December he went to Bonham, Texas, to spend a few
months with his son Benjamin and his family.
"BONHAM, TEXAS, 5th January, 1882.
..."I have seen a
rabbit-hunt, and found it to be very
exciting, even under the disadvantage of being in a buggy,
and therefore incapable of joining in the chase. But we
(Ben and I) kept pretty well along, as
the scene was an open prairie, without obstruction to the
vision for many miles. There were fourteen huntsmen and
eight greyhounds, who run by sight alone, as you
probably know. When the quarry gets out of their sight
they relinquish the chase, as they have no sense of smell,
or too little to be available on such occasions. The
huntsmen 'breast' it across the prairie and rouse the rabbits
themselves, the dogs taking no part in that portion of the
programme. A rabbit being roused by one of them, he claps
spurs to his horse with a yell, and puts right at him at full
speed, the dogs and the other huntsmen rushing to that
point without loss of time, and away they go. Four of
them were caught; one of them kept ahead of dogs and
huntsmen for two miles or more, but the others were
taken at less distance. One was not taken, and remains for
another day. On the whole, I think fox-hunting better, but
this is the natural sport of the prairies."
"NEW ORLEANS, 24th February, 1882.
"MY BELOVED NIECE,
- Sophy sent me your sweet letter,
and as every member of my household is always hungry
for anything that comes from you, I placed the letter
immediately on its travels again, sending it to Bonham,
Texas, where Sue now is, and where she will be until about
the 1st of April, when she and those still at Burleigh will
pull up stakes for their final and permanent removal to
Baltimore. I will remain here until warm weather, as I find
that my capacity to generate heat has become much
enfeebled within the last two to three years, or ever since
the epidemic at Dry Grove. I was with the dead and dying
there many days before Sue was stricken, and then,
although she recovered, the strain on my whole system
was so intense as to leave me pretty much a child,
physically, when it relaxed. I have never recovered from it,
and was ten to fifteen years older within a week or two; but
they are taking good care of me, and affect to expect to tide
me over several sand-bars yet. They are good children,
these of mine, and the same may be said of my nieces and
nephews, for I cannot discover the difference in affection
between the two sets. I am here with Emmy. The
profession of Major Greene allows him very little time for
his family. Emmy is delightfully situated within the French
district, but within easy walking distance of Canal Street,
and in a French boarding-house, where her children are
restricted to the French language."
By this time we had made it as comfortable and homelike
as his limited means would allow.
"BALTIMORE, 8th December, 1882. 98 JOHN STREET.
"Thanksgiving-Day
gave Virginius a good chance to
close the doors of his school for four days. He devoted
those four days to me, coming down on Wednesday night
and remaining until Sunday night, when he returned home.
Those were four happy days to all of us. He brought his
son Nolan to show him to me, as I used to take one of my
children every other year to Virginia to show to their
grandmother. My grandson Nolan is a very fine boy,
indeed. As the Christmas holidays in the schools in New
York last two weeks, Virginius will come here then for
some days.... Our cousin, Mary Smith, wrote to Sue a few
days ago that she would send her a teapot with a broken
spout, some cracked glass, and some chipped china. A
hogshead and a box arrived yesterday, and was found to
contain the teapot, sure enough, and some splendid glass
(cracked, to be sure, but we had to hunt for the cracks),
with a good deal that is not cracked. The china consists of
a full set of dinner dishes and plates (four dozen plates, I
suppose), and dishes for all purposes, - for the largest fish
and sirloin and round of beef and vegetables. There are
some exquisite glass pitchers and peculiar tumblers and
other things in the glass line, not cracked at all. Of chipped
china, I suppose there may be half a dozen plates, with
little specks chipped off the edges, that you must look for to
see. Well, those things only filled the hogshead two-thirds
full, and that little crack was filled with table-cloths,
napkins, and other things that I do not know the name of.
The box contained the most exquisite parlor-chair I ever
saw. Mary writes that she will make another consignment
shortly! She is a good girl, decidedly.
"Last night, cold as it was, Lelia (you know she never
allows anything to turn her) went three-quarters of a mile
or more to attend some society of which she is a member,
and was half frozen when she got back.
She said the wind - a keen northwester - blew her dress up
above her knees in spite of her efforts to the contrary. An old
gentleman running near them (there were three girls with Lelia)
had his hat blown off in spite of his efforts to keep it on, and it
gave the four girls some trouble to recover the hat, but they
persevered until they captured it.
"I look out of the window at the ice and snow and at the
car-drivers and others in the street, all muffled up to the chin
and nose, and I, meantime, in a temperature of seventy degrees,
unconscious, personally, of winter, except for the glowing fires in
the stoves, that keep the whole house at about seventy degrees
throughout the day and most of the night. So you see the climate
of Baltimore is a matter of no consequence to me at all. I have
about arrived at the conclusion that should I ever be able to
divide my time between the North and South, I would make
Baltimore my winter and Pass Christian my summer home. But
this can never be, of course.... The people here suit me entirely.
The neighbors met me for the first time as if they had known me
always. The city is full of poor Virginians, made poor by the
war, and being poor and well bred, all ostentation is tabooed, and
they give you what they have without apology."
"BALTIMORE, 95 JOHN STREET, 1883.
..."As my
acquaintance extends I find that the girls made no
mistake when they elected Baltimore as their future home. I
say their, because I cannot expect to enjoy it with them very
long; but it is my wish to have a good place whilst I am with
them, and with the hope of seeing you and your dear little ones
sometimes."
"BALTIMORE, 5th January, 1883. 98 JOHN STREET.
"MY BELOVED CHILD,
- MY birthday dinner wound up
with a snow-storm last night, and the wind this
morning is pretty sharp, but it does not affect me in this house.
Virginius came on the 3d to be in time, and we had the pastor of
this parish and his wife (Mr. and Mrs. Dame) to join our family.
The girls gave us a very fine dinner, - a turkey that the dealer in
the market could not sell, because it was too large, Sophy bought;
and a noble gobbler he was, and elegantly cooked. A ham of bacon
and vegetables constituted the first course after soup. The best
plum-pudding I ever tasted, with other things, then came in, to be
succeeded by oranges, apples, etc., to wind up with coffee. We
were at the table two and one-half hours, and I well employed all
the time. Mrs. M., aunt of Virginius's wife, and a splendid
woman she is, dropped in while we were discussing the pudding,
and was induced to take a seat at our table. I had called on her on
the 1st of January in conformity to the custom in these cities. I
had previously called at S. T.'s, and wound up at two other houses,
when I broke down, and could not call on other ladies with whom
I have become acquainted, but all of them most kindly excuse me
on such occasions on account of my age, and come to see me in
the most kind and polite way. I receive such attentions
constantly.... It does me more good than I can well describe to see
Virginius. He comes in with open arms, with which he encloses
me, and then kisses me with the fervor of a lover when first
accepted. He kisses me and lets me go, and then kisses me again.
It makes my old heart quiver. But I kiss him in turn!"
"BALTIMORE, 8th January, 1883, 6 P.M.
"MY BELOVED CHILD,
- We are enjoying winter in all its
loveliness, as I am still boy enough to enjoy snow. If I had to
attend market before day with a few vegetables, on the sale
of which the daily bread of a wife and half-dozen children
depended, it is more than probable that my taste would be
different. But, as it is, the sight of falling snow exhilarates and
elevates my spirits."
"BALTIMORE, 21st January, 1883. 98 JOHN STREET.
..."Snow has lain on
the ground for two weeks, and the
Baltimoreans have been using sleighs for that length of time, with
a prospect of continuance, as it is very cold now, with a prospect
of heavy snow to-night :But these things do not concern me, as I
am not obliged to go out, and so I keep my shins warm, read and
write, and feed the sparrows from the dining-room window.... I
am more and more pleased with Baltimore and the Baltimoreans."
"BALTIMORE, 98 John Street, February 20, 1883.
"MY DARLING CHILD,
- Something, I do not know what,
turned my attention to the condition of these four single
daughters of mine on yesterday, and made me shudder. With all
of Ida's energy, Burleigh has proved inadequate to their support,
as she has been forced to spend most of the rents in building
houses, digging wells or cisterns or ditches, and clearing up the
creeks and bayous, and this work is far from being completed yet.
I pictured to myself what would become of these daughters if I
died, with my old will of fifteen to twenty years ago left in my
desk as my last will and testament. Under that will the Burleigh
estate would have to be divided into nine equal parts as near as
might be, each of my children taking one part, except Virginius,
who, I thought, had had his share. If the whole estate has proved
inadequate to the support of four, how could these four support
themselves on four-ninths, and these chopped up into detached
pieces? I saw at once that something had to be done, and that
quickly, and I did it this morning without the slightest suggestion
from any one. I now wonder why it took me so long to see it.
What fearful risks I have gone through during the last few years,
and yet have lived to do it! As all of my children (and I devoutly
thank God for it), except these four, are now able to take care of
themselves,
and are taking care of themselves, I made a new will this morning,
leaving the Burleigh plantation and all that is on it, and the
furniture that is here, to these four daughters of mine and
Sophy's daughter Sophia. The silver is to be divided equally
among my ten children, after taking out the large urn, which I
give to you, and this is the only earthly thing that I have to
bestow on my dear children, and that could not be divided. To
avoid mistakes, I will state that the urn must be considered as
your share of the silver, the rest to be divided among the other
nine, so that each one will have something with my initials cut on
it. This is the best I could do, and I have no doubt about the
others being satisfied at your having the lion's share, as some one
had to get it, and none more worthy than you, whom I picked
out to have it, having the undoubted right to do so.
"I hope, my darling, that you will approve the whole will, and
I am sure you will do so after thinking over the matter a little."
"BALTIMORE, 22d March, 1883. 98 JOHN STREET.
"MY DARLING CHILD,
- I cannot thank you sufficiently
for your sweet, loving letter of the 18th, just received from your
quiet, delicious home at McComb. Those two arm-chairs, called
mine by you, remaining still in the front porch and awaiting my
occupancy, must remain without my corporeal occupancy yet a
little longer, perhaps indefinitely; but my heart hovers over them
and every crack and cranny of that establishment without
ceasing; not that I lack loving hearts here, for they hover round
me and anticipate every imaginable want of mine, as though I
was an infant, - as I am indeed in too many respects. They have
to undress and dress me partially every night and morning. I am
getting old, old, old, faster and faster, having been broken down
again by a very severe attack of cold when in New York. I went
too early, and was caught by the three worst weeks of the
winter. When I said I had to return home Virginius considered it
necessary for him to accompany me, and he accordingly
delivered me into my arm-chair that now stands before me
before he let me go.
"My first two weeks in New York were most royally
spent. I dined at No. 4 twice, and they had another dinner
on the tapis for the day before my departure, but I had to
decline on account of serious indisposition. Virginius,
Anna, and my grandchildren hovered over me as a hen
would over a sick chicken, and left me nothing to ask for or
to wish for, so that I was not reminded while there that I
had lived too long."
The following account of one of his Scott County hunts
was written by Thomas at the request of a friend:
"BALTIMORE, MD., April 17, 1883.
"MY DEAR SIR, - In
conformity to your request, I
subjoin an account of some of my camping experiences
in Scott County.... I procured a tent large enough to
accommodate twelve persons, took a small four-horse
wagon, to which I attached four fine mules, and took a
man along besides the wagoner, to take charge of the
first deer that I might kill, and save me from packing any
until I had killed two. I had a box made, into which my gun
and rifle fitted perfectly, so that, no matter how rough the
road might be, they were secured against chafing. From
the time that I left Scott until a year later the cover never
came off that gun, so that the first deer that I might kill the
next fall fell by a load that had been in the gun twelve
months. I had always thought such rounds more effective
than those more recently put in.
"But you want to hear about that remarkable hunt. It was
the last, or next to the last, of my series of eight years
in Scott.
"Our 'regulars' were on hand, as usual, on the Friday
after the first Monday in November. We pitched our tents
on the east of Line Prairie, and stuck our pegs in the same
holes that they had occupied for the first two or three
previous years, as we could not hope to find a better
location, - good water at hand and abundance of game.
We would start out from camp 'in line' a quarter- to a half-mile
long, breasting it round the prairie, and it would take
us all day to make the circuit. I have many a time, after
'drawing a bead' on a fine doe that had jumped up within
three foot of my horse's nose, replaced my gun across my
lap upon finding that no horns were on the head of the
quarry. This, perhaps, will give you a better idea of the
number of deer to be found in that locality at that time than
anything else that I could say. I did not do that every time,
but only after I had killed a certain number, and was tired. I
then went for the bucks alone.
"As I have said, we formed in line, thirty to fifty yards
apart, and moved forward as the word reached us from
the captain, who occupied the centre; but at the report
of a gun every man suddenly stopped. If a deer was
killed, one or two nearest to the shooter went to him to
viscerate and help to throw the deer on his horse, when
he, having reloaded and remounted, would shout out 'go
ahead,' and the line again moved forward. It was a rule
that no one should move until
the word came; but this rule required no enforcing, as to
be in advance of the line would be to occupy a very
dangerous position.
"On one occasion a dozen harum-scarum fellows joined
our party when we were but one day out. We had but little
knowledge of some of them, and none of others. They set
all rules at defiance, tearing through the woods in all
directions, sometimes observing our line of march, and
sometimes meeting us. How it happened that none of them
were killed is a mystery. One of them shot the horse of
another, and seemed to think it was part of the fun. As one
of our party was passing within two or three feet of a large
post-oak, the bark of the tree was thrown so violently
against his face as to hurt him, and two buckshot were
afterwards found in the horn of his saddle, - all the work of
one of those fellows. We could stand it no longer, and
upon our suggesting that we could do better in two parties
they left us. But they had interfered with our hunt, almost
consuming one of the three days of that memorable hunt.
At the end of the third day, however, finding that we had
killed and hung up ninety-three deer, a proposition was
made that we should start next morning for the public road,
six miles off (and so far on our way home), and it was
agreed to. We accordingly gave the necessary instructions
to our servants, and struck out by compass for a certain
point on the public road, and missed it by very little.
"When about to start, some one remarked that we must
get the other seven, to which another replied, 'We will
do that and not half try.' We got thirteen. We had not
proceeded more than one mile before I had killed three,
and the hunt was closed.... I cannot close without giving
you some account of one of our 'regulars.' His name was
Mount, the most hare-brained, crazy fellow in the woods I
ever saw, and but for his good nature and willingness at
all times to take hold of anything and everything heavy or
dirty, and to make himself useful generally and particularly,
he could not have been tolerated, as it was dangerous to
hunt with him. Towards the last, and for some time,
no one but myself would ride next to him, and I required
him to ride at my left side. He would shoot at the flash of
a deer's tail, without estimating the distance, and he was
known to use up a bag of buckshot in every hunt of several
days' duration, and often had to go to Hillsborough for a
fresh supply. On one occasion, he and I being close
together, he crippled a buck (for he killed one occasionally),
and although a deer was already tied to his saddle, he raised
the shout of an Indian, clapped spurs to his horse, and was
off at full speed, I after him. He flushed a little deer that
took the back track, but Mount saw him, and without
drawing rein, or turning his head, threw his gun over his
shoulder and let fly; but the muzzle of his gun was a little
depressed below the perpendicular, and no harm was done
either to the deer or to me. I could fill a dozen pages with
Mount's pranks, but must let this suffice."
"BALTIMORE, 29th June, 1883.
"My son, Virginius
Dabney, of New York, has forwarded
to me your letter of the 25th inst., in which my name is
mentioned as the oldest known member of the Dabney
family, and I presume I will have to accept the
patriarchal position, as I am in my eighty-sixth year,
having been born on the 4th of January, 1798. I have read
your letter with great interest and pleasure, although
restraining with difficulty a blush at my utter inability to
aid you in your labor of love.... But I do know something
of my family.
"I know that my grandfather lived on the east bank of the
Pamunkey River, in King William County; that he had a
numerous family of sons and daughters, some of whom
remained on the paternal acres, as they were
divisible. Others went to Cumberland County with a Mr.
Thornton, who married one of the daughters. My father,
Benjamin, who was a lawyer, removed to York River, and
afterwards to North River, in Gloucester County, where
he died in 1806. His eldest brother, George, retained the
mansion-house on the Pamunkey River, known during the
war, as before and since, as Dabney's Ferry. Two other
sons, Dr. James Dabney and Major Thomas Dabney, lived
and died, the first on North River in Gloucester County,
and the other near Aylett's in King William.
"Should any matter of business or pleasure draw you to
Baltimore, you will please make my house your home
for the time.... Have you read Dick Taylor's book (General
Richard Taylor's), 'Destruction and Reconstruction'? If
not, I advise you to get it, as the best and most readable
book that the civil war has brought out, - better written,
interesting, and fresh as a novel, with the impress of truth
on every line.
"There is not a doubt in my mind but that Grant saved
this country from some - God only knows how much - of
the scenes of the French Revolution. Andy Johnson, with
Morton and Stanton, backed by other hyenas of the
Senate, were for blood. They were outspoken for making
'treason odious' by punishing the leaders of the 'rebellion.'
Think of having R. E. Lee, Joseph E. Johnston, Stonewall
Jackson hung! Could any Southern man or woman have
stood by and looked on quietly? Could many Northern men
have looted on with hands in their pockets? Did the
twenty- two Girondins and Danton and Robespierre expect
their turn to come, and so soon, when they saw the
guillotine doing its work so glibly on Louis and Marie
Antoinette? Does it not make the heart sick to think of what
we have escaped, and so narrowly? When Andy Johnson
announced his intention to make treason odious, Grant said
NO, and the power behind the throne was greater than the
throne itself. Lee was allowed to retire without even giving
up his sword or even formally to acknowledge himself as
on parole (that is my impression); but men of their style
consider themselves as much
bound by a tacit understanding as by a formal one under
oath and bond. How grand and lovely is that idea, and how
worthy of such men! But perhaps, my dear cousin (if I may
take so great a liberty as to call you so), I am giving you
more than you bargained for. It is quite certain that I
have strayed very wide of the original object of this
correspondence, and I will therefore return to it by the
recital of a single anecdote in which my branch of the
Dabney family is concerned, for I see plainly that this is
not the last letter with which I shall have to trouble you.
"Mr. Philip Tabb, of Gloucester, of whom you may have
heard, when on his way to the White Sulphur Springs, fell
in with a great-uncle of mine, James Dabney, and they not
only put up at the same inn, but were put into the same
room. As they were undressing, Mr. Tabb did not fail to
observe that he was in the company of a man of
extraordinary physical power, and his curiosity prompted
him to ask my uncle to be so good as to strip to his shirt, as
he wished to see and feel his muscular development. This
was done with a laugh, and then Mr. Tabb asked him if he
had ever struck a man, thinking, obviously, that the man
must have been killed. 'Yes,' was the reply; 'I struck one,
and came near being whipped for my impudence.' Of course
he had to tell the story. He had occasion to make a journey
of eighty to ninety miles from home (on horseback, of
course), and on the way he observed a very mean
cornfield, - mean from neglect, obviously, - and having
some negroes working in it (or affecting to do so). He
inquired who was their overseer. Upon being told, he said
to the negroes, 'Tell your overseer that I will return day
after to-morrow, and will give him a whipping for not having
his corn in better order.' 'Yes, master!' shouted the negroes
in chorus, showing their teeth from ear to ear. He returned
on time, and on approaching the place he observed a man
sitting on the fence, facing the road. Remembering his
message, he measured the man with his eyes, and saw that
he was no baby. He had been observed, too, and recognized
as the gentleman to whom he was indebted for
the message. He accordingly slipped off the fence (the
negroes coming to it at the same time), and with a bow
asked my uncle if he was the gentleman who had left a
message for him two days ago. He acknowledged it with a
laugh, and tried to turn it off with a laugh, and as a joke,
but the overseer was no joker, and told him that he had to
make good his promise, taking hold on his bridle and
inviting him to dismount, which he had to do. All the rules
of chivalry were observed. The horse was tied to a limb of a
tree, and both knights (!) went at it. My uncle told Mr. Tabb
that he was fairly whipped twice, and on the point of giving
up, but his pride came to his aid, and he held on until the
overseer stopped battering him, and said he thought they
had better quit, and he acknowledged the gentleman had
redeemed his promise. The negroes in the mean time had
mounted the fence, and shouted and laughed, as only
negroes can laugh, throughout the fray. My uncle was laid
up two weeks, with his face and eyes so swollen as to make
him partially blind for one week or more. He never struck a
man afterwards. I suppose Francisco was the most athletic
man Virginia ever produced. He was doorkeeper to the
House of Delegates for many years, and I have often seen
him at his post."
"July 31, 1883.
"I consider the
conduct of your brother in opening his
doors to Mr. Cover, who was sent to Fayal to supplant him,
as one of the most remarkable acts of magnanimity I ever
heard of, and Mr. Cover's acceptance of hospitality under
such circumstances not less remarkable. His early death
and abdication, if such a view were admissible, may be
looked upon as acts of courtesy in requital of your
brother's kindness. I have never mentioned to you that
my wife died just on the eve of hostilities between the
sections, leaving me ten children to care for, - four sons
and six daughters, - all of whom are now living and doing
fairly well. I fought against secession as long as there was
any sense
or patriotism in it; but when the war came, three of my boys
shook hands with me and shouldered their rifles. It was my
great good fortune to greet them on their return. My
youngest, Benjamin, was but fourteen years old when I
took leave of him; my eldest you have some knowledge of.
He belonged to General Lee's army, and was with him at
Appomattox, dividing the general's breakfast with him just
before the meeting of the two generals took place; for
neither had eaten anything up to that time. My son had
nothing to eat, and the general only a few slices of ham and
bread in one of his pockets. A part of this he ordered him
to accept, for he had to put it in the form of an 'order' before
it was accepted. And here again Grant acted the gentleman,
as he apologized to General Lee for not having his sword
on, giving as the reason that he bad no time to go for it,
taking care to forget that General Lee's sword might have
supplied the deficiency.
"I got an item from your last letter of more than ordinary
interest: nothing less than that a son of mine and a nephew
of yours were at Appomattox. Their swords were in their
scabbards then, but they had been naked, and might have
been plunged in the bosoms of each other. Such a war! If
the scoundrels who brought on that war could have been
pushed to the front and kept there until the last one of
them had been annihilated, it would have been well; but
that was not in the Southern programme. The Whigs, who,
to a man very nearly, opposed secession, did the fighting,
soft places being provided for the Democrats, who did the
shouting; but enough of that.
"I may have mentioned to you, but am not certain, that
my father was married twice, and that I am the oldest of the
second batch. He left two sons (George and Ben) by his
first wife, and one daughter (Ann). George went into the
navy, was present at the battle of Tripoli, and had the good
fortune to save the life of Decatur in that memorable and
desperate affair by running his bayonet through a gigantic
pirate (Algerine), who had Decatur down, and was about to
transfix him to the deck of the frigate ('Philadelphia,' I
think, was her name), when my brother, who was near,
took him on his bayonet and bore him over the side of
the ship, the pirate taking the musket to the bottom in
his death grip. George was as strong a man as the pirate,
and probably much stronger, as he killed a large dog
with his fist at a single blow, and may have killed a man
in this city in the same way, but this is not certainly
known. My brother had come here with his wheat;
had sold it and imprudently drawn the money, and,
more imprudently still, had gone out on a 'spree' after
dark; had pulled out his roll of money in a drinking
establishment to pay for some drinks; was noticed by a
ruffian, who followed him and attempted to stab him; but
his dirk struck the knife that was in his waistcoat-pocket,
splitting the buckhorn incasing it, only giving my brother a
jar. He threw his left hand round behind, seized the fellow
by the collar, and felled him to the pavement. He appeared
to be dead. He had but one of two things to do, - to call
the watch or to escape to his schooner that was to sail in
the morning. He called the watch, showed him the broken-pointed
dirk that lay on the pavement, his broken knife in
the pocket of his waistcoat, and the gash that had been
made in his waistcoat by the dirk. The watchman believed
my brother's account of the affair and did not arrest him,
but summoned him to attend the police court in the
morning; but he was far down the bay at that hour, and
heard nothing more of the ruffian. My brother Ben was a
powerful man too, but not as strong as George, though
more active. Feuds were in fashion at William and Mary
College when Ben was as a student there, between the
students and the young men of the city. Ben was always
the champion of the college, and would accept a challenge
to fight any two of the citizens, and sometimes three at a
time, and generally came off victor. My maternal
grandfather was the Rev. Thomas Smith, of Westmoreland
County, Virginia, of the Established Church of England, of
course, and General Washington was one of his
parishioners."
BALTIMORE, 29th September, 1883.
"Enclosed you will
find the long-coveted letter from my
erratic friend, as you call him, and I hope you may not
find it as difficult to unravel as Dr. Slop found untying
Obadiah's knots.
"I think it will amuse you for some time, and, not to be
entirely idle myself, I will not take advantage of your kind
permission to give myself no further trouble in the
promises. I will still continue to dig about the tree that you
are so faithfully endeavoring to decorate with fruit.
"I am much engaged just now in arranging my house
for a 'new departure' in housekeeping, and must defer the
interesting anecdotes that my daughters imagine they can
extract from me for the edification of yourself and
daughters."
One year's housekeeping in the new home in the city had
taught the family that the expenditures were larger than
the income. The simplest way - indeed, the only feasible
way - of keeping an unbroken family circle around the
father was to rent out all the rooms except those actually
needed. By this arrangement he would be cut off from the
greatest comfort and pleasure of his old age, the visits from
his absent children. Virginius had made it his pious duty
and pleasure to come four times a year to see him, spending
several days each time. He never said good-by without
mentioning the period of his next visit, and this broke the
pang of parting to the affectionate heart. They were like
two boys in the enjoyment of these occasions, the man of
nearly fifty sitting close by the arm-chair of the aged
father and going over college pranks and jokes and scrapes
and war reminiscences, to the great amusement and delight
of my father. The brilliant eyes glowed and flashed with
the fire of youth at the recital of any brave deed, or
moistened at the account of suffering, or almost closed
with merriment as he heard of some youthful frolic. It was
a picture not to be forgotten by those who saw them thus.
Edward had spent his two months' summer vacation
with him, and much did he enjoy this and the hope of many
more such summer holidays. The society of his sons was
very delightful to him; no one could take their place.
Benjamin had promised to send on his wife and his little
band of four boys the next summer. Thomas also had made
his plans for coming on for a long visit.
All these delightful visions were swept away when a
large part of the house was given up to strangers.
"BALTIMORE, 29th October, 1883.
"MY BELOVED CHILD,
- To say that your long-looked-for
letter of the 27th, from Augusta, was hailed with joy this
morning would be putting it too mildly. It was simply
devoured by many hungry minds. Yes, your daughter
Emmeline is happy here, and it would be strange if she was
not, although her aunts and grandpapa cannot spread as
good a table now as she sees at home. But we try to make
up deficiencies in the first courses by an elaborate dessert,
consisting of unbounded affection for her and good humor
in general. Scant fare, you might say, but my sweet
grandchild appears to be as well satisfied as if she had
started on canvas-back duck and wound up on ice-cream
and what-nots. There is a great preference in favor of
wealth over squalid poverty, but when you come to the
intermediate grades, there is less choice for real happiness
than is generally imagined. And yet, with this fact
acknowledged, how prone we all are to reach up, up, up!
and so would I if, by tipping-toe, I could reach the thing
that is universally coveted. But good-by to that; and yet I
am far from desolate, as I still have the hearts of ten loving
children."
"BALTIMORE, 18th November,
1883. 98 JOHN STREET.
..."Last week Dr.
Latimer stepped in with Mrs. Ann
Foote Stewart, daughter of Governor Foote, and wife of the
Nevada Senator, from Washington. She came expressly to
see the Dabneys, accepting his escort. She had been to
Burleigh, and my daughters had been in her father's house
many a time. I had been her father's friend in Confederate
times, when friends to him were not as thick as blackberries
in August. She knew it, and had remembered it to us. Mrs.
Stewart will do to tie to, as would her father, who was as
true as steel to a friend. He was much misunderstood. She
has the colloquial powers of her father, is never at a loss,
and never talks nonsense.... We are getting along with our
lodgers unexceptionably. We have to see them
occasionally, but never obtrusively."
"Note. - I thought I was through with military matters,
but find myself mistaken, as my girls on hearing the
foregoing read, remind me of another exploit to our
credit. We were in Macon, Ga., when we found the city
suddenly and unexpectedly raided upon by General
Stoneman. He had planted his battery, unobserved, on
an eminence within rifle-range of the city, and opened
upon us at a lively rate. No organized
force was there, but a good many large hospitals, and
necessarily more or less convalescents, and others
approaching convalescence. These, with the citizens, were
in the streets in a few minutes, fully armed, and on their
way to the battery, the location of which was revealed by
the smoke and the whistling of the shells, that came tearing
by us. My youngest son (twelve years old) and I ran to the
arsenal for ammunition, and having obtained a supply,
joined the throng that headed for the enemy, but as yet
without seeing him. My son and I were ordered to defend
the bridge to the last extremity, or till further orders. We
stopped, and the others crossed over the bridge, as the
enemy was on the opposite side; shells and bullets as
lively as ever, the bullets a good deal more so, as our
arrival gave him additional targets to practice at. Our men
turned their attention to the infantry supports, and soon
detached them from the guns. A running fight of ten to
twelve miles ensued. Stoneman got confused and lost, and
surrendered to a force not exceeding one-third his own,
and without regular organization. But officers were among
them, and their orders were promptly obeyed. General
Johnston and Governor Cobb (Johnston had been 'relieved'
by Jefferson Davis but a few days previously), with
Stoneman between them, passed within twenty yards of
me, to the prison, I suppose, for I never saw him afterwards.
The artillery soon followed. Neither my son nor myself
fired a gun on this Waterloo of a day!
"I have something for you in civil life more sad than the
war. My then oldest son, Charles, after passing through
William and Mary College and the literary course of the
University of Virginia, and graduating at Harvard in 1853,
contracted yellow fever and died within two months
after leaving Cambridge. Will you do me the kindness to
look into the records of that institution and judge for
yourself of the measure of my loss?"
made remittances to him at stated intervals, with the
expressed desire that these sums should be used
exclusively for his own small indulgences. But the greatest
pleasure that this gave to him was to return to the old
ways of many years back, and bring home presents to his
children and to others to whom he thought little gifts
would be acceptable.
"You used to like to find nice things in my pockets," he
said, "and I treat you like little children now."
"BALTIMORE, 15th December, 1883.
"MY DEAR LITTLE PET,
- ...I am very glad that the poor
bracelet that I sent you enables you to save your nickels
for some other purpose than the purchase of one of them.
It was a poor thing, but your grandpapa could do no
better. I hope your mamma may bring you here some day,
that I may hug and kiss you to make amends for the poor
bracelet."
"BALTIMORE, 27th December, 1883.
..."Yeatman is from
Gloucester, and his wife from
Princess Anne County, Virginia. We gravitated to each
other immediately, for I knew Yeatman's father and mother
before he knew them. They are delightful people, both of
them. He expects me to dine with him every Sunday. For
decency's sake I sometimes fail to go, but I generally do,
and get as fine a dinner as this market affords....
"Mr. James R. Randall is the editor of the Augusta
Constitutionalist newspaper, and the author of 'Maryland, my
Maryland,' a song that the boys used to sing during the war.
I fell in with him in the rooms of Mr. and Mrs. Yeatman at
Barnum's Hotel."...
"BALTIMORE, 16th January, 1884.
"MY LITTLE DARLINGS,
- Your sweet letters, enclosed
in one from your dear mother, came to hand two to
three days ago, and were read by your aunts and myself
with much pleasure. You must continue to write to me on
all such occasions, and never allow your mother or father
to write to grandpa without putting in letters yourselves.
In this way writing will become very easy to you, and I will
be kept up with your progress in education, in which I take
very great interest. As I know nothing of French, you
cannot practice on me in that language, but you will learn
to write good English, which will be a high accomplishment."
"BALTIMORE, 5th February, 1884.
..."In 1832, I think
it was, the South Hampton insurrection
occurred in Virginia, and stirred the State to its centre,
although only a dozen to twenty whites were murdered,
according to my recollection. But the attempt was so bold
that the people took a serious view of it. The Richmond
Enquirer took ground for the gradual emancipation of the
negroes. The Bruces, among the largest slaveholders in the
State, took the stump on the same side, and the largest
slaveholder in my county of Gloucester made a speech
(which I heard) in favor of the measure. The State was
drifting rapidly into it when the Northern abolitionists
undertook to advise and cheer us on in the good cause.
Agitation in Virginia ceased. Those who had openly
espoused the cause took back their word, the Enquirer
ceased to advocate it, and the old State relapsed into
her old views and remained there till her negroes were
taken from her by violence. Mr. Clay's proposition to
the same effect in Kentucky shared the same fate, but
I forget by what agency, but the same, I suppose.
We will not submit to foreign dictation or advice
either." *
* "And there was a time when many
Virginians now living
began to see this; and had they been let alone not many
years would have passed before we should have freed
ourselves from the weight that oppressed us....
EXTRACT FROM "THE
RICHMOND ENQUIRER,"
SEPTEMBER, 22, 1835.
"DINNER TO COLONEL
THOMAS S. DABNEY.
"Colonel Dabney being about to move to the
State of Mississippi
with a view to a permanent settlement in that State, many of his
countymen united in giving him a public dinner at Gloucester
Court-House on the 12th inst. The following letters passed on the
occasion:
"THOMAS SMITH,
"JOHN TYLER,
"MANN PAGE,
"ROBERT CURTIS.
"Answer of Colonel Dabney.
Page 44
Page 45
My
heart, untravelled, fondly turns to thee;
Still
to my brothers turns with ceaseless pain,
And
drags, at each remove, a lengthened chain." '
Page 46
Was made his wedded wife yestereen,
The
monarch may forget the crown
That on his head an hour has been;
The
mother may forget her child
That
hangs so sweetly on her knee
But
I'll remember thee, my State,
And
all that thou hast been to me." '
Page 47CHAPTER III.
LEAVING THE OLD HOME.
THOMAS went through a large part of Alabama,
Louisiana, and Mississippi looking at the country before
deciding on a body of land in Hinds County, Mississippi.
He succeeded in purchasing four thousand acres from half
a dozen small farmers.
Page 48
Page 49
Page 50
Page 51
Page 52CHAPTER IV.
MAMMY HARRIET'S RECOLLECTIONS.
I GIVE here Mammy Harriet's account of the journey,
taken down by me as she sat by my side a few weeks ago:
Page 53
Page 54
Page 55
Page 56
Page 57
Page 58
Page 59
Page 60
Page 61
Page 62
Page 63
Page 64
Page 65CHAPTER V.
EARLY DAYS IN MISSISSIPPI.
IN entering on this pioneer life many difficulties had to be met
that were a new experience to people coming from lower
Virginia. One of the first was the unavoidable delay in getting
supplies of meats for the servants. For two weeks after their
arrival they had none. Sophia's sister Emmeline, Mrs. Lewis
Smith was so conscientious that she refused during this period
to touch a morsel of meat, although the supply on hand was
ample to last the white families till more could be procured.
Page 66
Page 67
Page 68
Page 69
Page 70
Page 71
Page 72
Page 73
Page 74
Page 75
Page 76CHAPTER VI.
PLANTATION MANAGEMENT.
THOMAS owned more negroes than could work with
advantage on one place. He was advised to put a part on a
second plantation, but he refused to let a consideration of profit
induce him to place his servants where he could not personally
attend to their welfare. All the negroes were encouraged to
come freely to the house to see the master and mistress, and
they were very fond of making visits there, even when there was
nothing more important to say than to ask after the young
masters off at college, and to send their how d'ye to them. They
had their favorites among the growing-up sons and daughters,
and chose their future owners, and spoke of themselves as
belonging to the ones selected. It was a great grief to those
who had chosen Charles Dabney when he was cut off at the
threshold of his life, and I never heard of their making a second
choice.
Page 77
Page 78
Page 79
Page 80
Page 81
Page 82
Page 83
Page 84
Page 85
Page 86
Page 87CHAPTER VII.
STILL WATERS AND GREEN PASTURES.
THE summer of 1836 was spent by the Burleigh
Dabneys in Virginia. They returned home in October, and
two weeks after reaching the plantation Sophia gave birth
to her sixth son, Edward.
Page 88
Page 89
Page 90
Page 91
Page 92
Page 93
Page 94
Page 95
Page 96
Page 97* A few Sundays ago one of her old neighbors laid upon the
altar of the parish church in Raymond a. memorial of Susan
Fitzhugh Hill, - handful of the fragrant white star jasmine. It
grew in her garden on a bush that her hand had tended fifty
years ago.
Page 98SOPHIA TO THOMAS DABNEY.
Page 99
Page 100
Page 101CHAPTER VIII.
MANAGEMENT OF SERVANTS.
THE house-servants were never required to sit up later
than ten, and only the cook and dining-room servants were
detained till then. No grown servant slept in the house.
Sixteen living children - nine sons and seven
daughters - were born to Thomas and Sophia Dabney,
and, though she was not strong, she managed to take care
of her babies at night unassisted. Two young negro girls
slept in the house, but were rarely disturbed. One of these
girls, now a married woman with great girls of her own,
relates to me a touching instance of the kindly simplicity of
the sweet mistress: "I asked missis to button my dress for
me one mornin'. I didn't know no better. An' missis
buttoned it up for me."
Page 102
Page 103
Page 104
Page 105
Page 106
Page 107
Page 108CHAPTER IX.
A SOUTHERN PLANTER'S WIFE.
IT has already been said that in 1845 Pass Christian was chosen
as a summer resort for the family. Eight happy summers were spent
there. Thomas and Sophia enjoyed the good society, and soon
made warm friends among the residents. It was a sort of Paradise to
the children. Books and studies were left behind, - very little was
thought of but bathing and crabbing and fishing, rowing, sailing,
swimming, picking up shells and "fiddler-crabs," and trying to
gather the pale pink sand-flowers, that withstood so much tossing
from the sea-breezes, but fell in pieces with the lightest touch of the
human hand. In the long summer mornings we ran just as wild as we
pleased. In the afternoons we must be dressed and be civilized. At
the Pass we took our dancing lessons. Our mother took as many of
us out airing as the family carriage, reinforced by two ponies, could
carry. One of the children heard a neighbor say, as the carriage
drove by with the mother in the midst of the little flock, that when
Mrs. Dabney went driving she took the whole Dabney family with
her. The mother was only amused, and filled her carriage as full as
ever. When the Baroness Bunsen's tenth child was born, she felt
that she had never loved a baby so dearly, - her motherliness had
increased with each child that came. It was so in Sophia's case. She
became so accustomed to the noise of young children that she seemed
quite unconscious of it, but missed it painfully if separated from her
children. Her motherliness extended over the whole plantation. She had
a special eye and care for any neglected unfortunate or ill-treated
negro child, and would contrive to have such cases near her. One
deformed, sickly girl, who was of no value in any sense, she took to
the Pass one summer for the benefit of the sea-bathing. In the
Burleigh household of servants there was usually some
Page 109
Page 110
Page 111
Page 112
Page 113
Page 114
Page 115CHAPTER X.
A SOUTHERN PLANTER.
PERHAPS no life was more independent than that
of a Southern planter before the late war. One of the
Mississippi neighbors said that he would rather be
Page 116
Page 117
Page 118
Page 119
Page 120
Page 121
Page 122
Page 123
Page 124THOMAS TO HIS SON CHARLES.
Page 125
Page 126
Page 127
"THOS. S. DABNEY."
Page 128CHARLES TO HIS FATHER.
Page 129
Page 130CHAPTER XI.
HOME LIFE.
IT was just after the close of the war with Mexico - in
the summer of 1848 - that General Zachary Taylor,
who had been nominated by the Whigs for the Presidency,
and was travelling from point to point, came to Pass
Christian.
Page 131
Page 132MRS. MACON TO HER SON THOMAS
DABNEY.
MRS. MACON TO HER SON THOMAS
DABNEY.
Page 133CHARLES TO HIS MOTHER.
Page 134CHARLES TO HIS FATHER.
Page 135CHARLES TO HIS FATHER.
Page 136CHARLES TO HIS FATHER.
Page 137SOPHIA DABNEY TO HER SON
CHARLES.
SOPHIA DABNEY TO HER SON
CHARLES.
SOPHIA DABNEY TO HER SON
CHARLES.
Page 138CHARLES FROM HIS MOTHER.
T. S. D. TO HIS SON CHARLES.
Page 139CHARLES TO HIS FATHER.
Page 140
Page 141
Page 142
Page 143
Page 144
Page 145
Page 146CHARLES TO VIRGINIUS.
DR. J. A. SMITH TO CHARLES.
..."For no one ever arrives at eminence in this world,
or, at any rate, the exceptions are too rare to be taken into
the account, without proposing to himself some great
object of which he is to think every day and nearly all
day, - filling, it may be, his dreams at night. He must
passively submit to every needful privation and actively
surmount for weeks, nay, perhaps for years, every
obstacle which may perhaps successively arise to foil
his aspirations. And this is the key to the success of
enthusiasts, who are thus enabled, when guided by good
sense, to overcome difficulties which to ordinary minds
appear absolutely insuperable.
Page 147
"J. AUG. SMITH."
CHARLES TO HIS MOTHER.
Page 148T. S. D. TO HIS SON CHARLES.
Page 149T. S. D. TO HIS SON CHARLES.
CHARLES TO HIS MOTHER.
Page 150
Page 151THOMAS DABNEY TO HIS SON
CHARLES.
Page 152CHARLES TO HIS FATHER.
T. S. D. TO HIS SON CHARLES.
Page 153THOMAS DABNEY TO CHARLES.
CHARLES TO THOMAS DABNEY.
Page 154
Page 155
Page 156CHARLES TO HIS FATHER.
Page 157CHARLES TO HIS MOTHER.
CHARLES TO HIS FATHER.
Page 158
Page 159
Page 160THOMAS DABNEY TO HIS SON
CHARLES.
CHARLES TO HIS FATHER.
CHAPTER XII.
HOLIDAY TIMES ON THE PLANTATION.
A LIFE of Thomas Dabney could not be written without
some reference to the Christmas at Burleigh. It was as
looked forward to not only by the family and by friends
in the neighborhood and at a distance, but by the house
and plantation servants. The house was crowded with
guests, young people and older ones too. During the
holiday season Thomas and his guests were ready to
accept invitations to parties in other houses, but no one
in the neighborhood invited company for Christmas-Day,
as, for years, everybody was expected at Burleigh on
that day. On one of the nights during the holidays it was
his custom to invite his former overseer and other plain
neighbors to an eggnog-party. In the concoction of this
beverage he took a hand himself, and the freedom and
ease of the company, as they saw
Page 161
Page 162
Page 163
Page 164
Page 165
Page 166CHAPTER XIII.
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.
The summer of 1853 was an anxious one in the
South, for the yellow fever was raging in New Orleans
and in other Southern cities. It had never been known
to reach Pass Christian, and the Dabneys felt safe
there. But the New Orleans daily papers, giving the
mortality at two hundred, and finally even three
hundred a day, cast a gloom over all faces. A great
many New Orleans people fled for safety to the Pass.
The daily boats were crowded with refugees.
Quarantine laws were unknown then.
Page 167
Page 168
Page 169
Page 170
Page 171CHAPTER XIV.
SUMMER TRAVEL.
THEY found the Burleigh house well suited to the hot
climate, as the halls and rooms were high-pitched and
spacious. They spent many comfortable summers there,
and did not suffer from any illness caused by climatic
influences.
Page 172
Page 173
Page 174
Page 175
Page 176
Page 177
Page 178
Page 179CHAPTER XV.
SUMMER-TIME - FALLING ASLEEP.
THE summers of 1856-57-58 were spent by the family at
Burleigh. Indeed, from this time, the house was not again
closed in summer. Occasionally some members of the
family went to Mississippi City on the seacoast for the
change, or to the Hinds County watering-place, Cooper's
Wells, or to the Virginia springs or farther north; but of so
large a family, some were always at home after the Pass
Christian house had been sold.
Page 180
Page 181
Page 182
Page 183
Page 184
Page 185
Page 186
Page 187
Page 188
Page 189
Page 190CHAPTER XVI.
SLAVES AND WAR-TIMES.
ON the day after our mother's death one of the daughters
went to the kitchen to attend to the housekeeping. She
found the cook in a flood of tears. "I have lost the best
friend that I had," she said. She spoke the truth, for few
besides the mistress who was gone could have had
patience with Alcey. She was the cook who had been
bought from Mr. Dabney's mother's estate, and had been
treated with marked kindness on account of her being
a stranger; but she seemed to be vicious and heartless,
and nothing but the untiring forbearance and kindness of
this mistress had touched the hardened nature.
Page 191
Page 192
Page 193
Page 194
Page 195
Page 196
Page 197
Page 198
Page 199
Page 200
Page 201
Page 202CHAPTER XVII.
A WEEK WITHIN THE LINES.
THE next rumor that came was that we were left
within the enemy's lines, and it was true. Thomas
Dabney thought it best to stay quietly at home and
Page 203
Page 204
Page 205
Page 206
Page 207
Page 208
Page 209
Page 210
Page 211
Page 212
Page 213
Page 214CHAPTER XVIII.
REFUGEES.
AT the end of the six months in Mobile, papa decided
to take his family to Macon, Georgia. There he bought
a little cottage with four diminutive rooms. As we drove
up to it in the old family carriage, which
Page 215
Page 216
Page 217
Page 218
Page 219
Page 220TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
Page 221
Page 222
Page 223CHAPTER XIX.
OLD MASTER.
IT was a great happiness to get back home, and to be
welcomed by the dear Augustine Dabneys. They had
lived at Burleigh during the year and a half that the
family had spent as refugees. The home in Raymond had
been rented out, and the two families spent several
Page 224
Page 225TO HIS CHILDREN.
"22d October, 1864.
TO HIS CHILDREN.
Page 226TO HIS CHILDREN.
Page 227
Page 228
Page 229
Page 230
Page 231CHAPTER XX.
THE CROWN OF POVERTY.
AND now a great blow fell on Thomas Dabney. Shortly
before the war he had been asked by a trusted friend
to put his name as security on some papers for a good
many thousand dollars. At the time he was assured that
his name would only be wanted to tide over a crisis of
two weeks, and that he would never hear of the
papers again. It was a trap set, and his unsuspicious
** His entertainers at Burleigh.
Page 232
Page 233
Page 234
Page 235
Page 236
Page 237
Page 238
Page 239
Page 240
Page 241
Page 242
Page 243
Page 244CHAPTER XXI.
THE CROWNING BLESSING.
THE crowning blessing of our lives came in these days
of poverty and toil. The beloved head of the house took
his baptismal vows on himself, and became a regular
communicant in the church. His daughters had come to
him one night as he sat on the porch, talking with Edward,
and had urged him to be confirmed. They told him that
they were unworthy of the name of Christians, and felt
especially in approaching him how unworthy they were.
But the Saviour's command was explicit. He called the
sinners and not the righteous. He ought to obey that
loving call and not wait to feel worthy. The day would
never come when he would feel so. "Oh, papa, how can
one go to heaven who does not obey Him? Even earthly
parents require obedience. And what would heaven be
without you! Oh, let us all try to go there together!"
Page 245
"ALICE DABNEY."
Page 246
Page 247
Page 248
Page 249
Page 250
Page 251
Page 252T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
Page 253T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
Page 254T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
Page 255T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER
EMMY.
T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
Page 256T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
T. S. D. TO HIS SON THOMAS.
Page 257T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY
BURLEIGH.
Page 258CHAPTER XXII.
LIFE AT BURLEIGH.
T. S. D. TO HIS SON-IN-LAW B. H.
GREENE.
Page 259
Page 260T. S. D. TO HIS SON THOMAS.
Page 261T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER
EMMY.
Page 262
Page 263
Page 264T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
Page 265T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
Page 266T. S. D. TO MRS. H. CAMPBELL
SMITH.
Page 267T. S. D. TO MRS. H. CAMPBELL
SMITH.
Page 268T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
Page 269T. S. D. TO AUGUSTINE DABNEY.
Page 270
Page 271T. S. D. TO AUGUSTINE DABNEY.
Page 272T. S. D. TO MRS. AUGUSTINE
DABNEY.
Page 273T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
Page 274T. S. D. TO HUGH STEWART, ESQ.
Page 275
"THOMAS S. DABNEY."
T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
Page 276
Page 277
Page 278
Page 279
Page 280
Page 281
Page 282T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
Page 283T. S. D. TO HIS GRANDDAUGHTER,
SOPHIA THURMOND."
Page 284T. S. D. TO HIS SON BENJAMIN.
T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
Page 285
Page 286T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
Page 287
Page 288T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
Page 289T. S. D. TO AUGUSTINE DABNEY.
Page 290T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER IDA.
Page 291
Page 292T. S. D. TO HIS NIECE, MARTHA C.
DABNEY.
CHAPTER XXIII.
QUIET DAYS.
IN April the Burleigh family moved to Baltimore. Our
dear father was with his daughter Emmy, and did not come
to join us in the simple home till November.
Page 293T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
Page 294T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
Page 295T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
Page 296T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
Page 297T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
Page 298
Page 299
Page 300
Page 301T. S. D. TO WILLIAM H. DABNEY.
Page 302
Page 303
Page 304T. S. D. TO WILLIAM H. DABNEY.
Page 305
Page 306
Page 307T. S. D. TO WILLIAM H. DABNEY.
Page 308T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
Page 309T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
T. S. D. TO WILLIAM H. DABNEY.
..."I was in the civil war, too, but unfortunately have
no wounds to show or brag on, although a man was shot
uncomfortably near my position. My eldest son, Virginius
Dabney, when acting as aide to General Gordon, of
Georgia, caught a minie-ball on the handle of his pistol (it
being strapped to his side in a holster) at the second battle
of Manassas, bending one or two of his ribs, that have
not yet straightened out, and are yet troublesome. I had
two other sons in the army, although I despised the war,
and those who brought it on, and do yet. And here ends
the military career of these Dabneys, all of us perfectly
satisfied with the record as it stands, and without the
slightest wish to improve it.
Page 310
Page 311T. S. D. TO HIS EIGHT-YEAR-OLD
GRANDDAUGHTER, SOPHY
GREENE.
T. S. D. TO HIS DAUGHTER EMMY.
T. S. D. TO HIS GRANDCHILDREN,
SOPHY GREENE AND
THOMAS DABNEY GREENE.
Page 312T. S. D. TO HIS SON-IN-LAW, B. H.
GREENE.