LETTER II.
It would no doubt please you, Mr. —, to learn
something about us here at Overton Lodge—for this is
the name of the fine old Western Homestead for which
I have exchanged my cold, yet warm-hearted northern
clime. Overton Lodge, then, please to know, is a large,
commodious mansion of brick, square and stately, with a
double storied portico in front, from the upper gallery
of which is one of the finest landscape views a painter's
eye—even the eye of the deathless Cole—would care to
banquet on. In Tennessee? you will say, with a quizzical
movement of the under lip, and an incredulous dropping
of the outward corner of the nether eyelid. Yes,
in Tennessee, sir, for Overton Park is in this Western
Empire State. But, to my sketch—and don't interrupt
me sir, for any doubts about the verity of my writings,
for I never romance; ladies can write something besides
romances, sir!
From this upper portico the view stretches for miles
and leagues away, to a blue range of boldly beautiful
hills, that, when the atmosphere is a little hazed, seem
to be the blue sky itself bending down to repose upon
the undulating sea of forests, at their base. Between
these azure walls that bound our horizon westward, and
the mansion, lie belts of noble woodland, intermingled
with green intervals, through which wind transparent,
rock-channeled rivulets, (they would call them rivers in
England,) bordered by fringes of maple, sycamore, and
oak trees, opulent with verdure.
Nearer the house, comprising the first breadth of view,
a mile and a half in width, stretch right and left the rich
cotton and tobacco fields, like, in the distant coup d'æil,
lakes of blue and green water, slightly ruffled by the
breeze; while their level surface is relieved at pretty intervals
by islands of trees—half acre clumps grouped in
groves, and left by the overseer for shade, where slaves
can retire in the fervid noon, to eat their coarse but
abundant dinner, doubtless to them savory as Parisian
cuisinerie. The picturesque aspect of these grove-islands
is enhanced by the white walls of a negro-shelter-hut,
which is built upon columns to afford protection from the
rain.
The “Lodge,” being placed with an eye to the capabilities
of the surrounding prospect, upon a gently rising
eminence, which is clothed with gardens to its foot, has
a very imposing appearance, as it is approached along a
winding carriage-way, that leads to it from the stage
road. This is at least a league off, and its place can be
indicated on dusty days from the house, by clouds of
reddish brown dust rolled into the air and curling along
the hedges, disturbed by the heavy wheels of the mail
coach, or the lighter progress of some planter's carriage
on its way from town.
It seemed to me when I first came in sight of the
mansion, that was to be (I don't know how long) my
home, that I was approaching the mansion of some
English Baronet, at least; and the scenery of this part
of Tennessee, I am told, bears a striking resemblance to
that in the best part of England; and I can bear testimony
that the neighboring gentlemen are vying in taste
and wealth with each other, to make this country one of
the most lovely in the land. For you must know that
this is an opulent district, and the planters here count
their estates rather by miles than acres.
I have described only the view in front of this stately
edifice, from which I am writing you. From a little
balcony that opens from my chamber window south, I
get a view of a vale and upland, dotted with sheep and
cattle, tended by a blind negro boy, who whistles all
day, and I have no doubt sleeps soundly all night; who,
with his dog, complete a very nice picture of its kind.
The crest of the upland is topped by a wood, out of
which, just where the acclivity dips eastward, stares a
huge, bald, gray rock, in shape as much like a lion's head,
as either of the heads of those lions on your Exchange
steps in Philadelphia, for which I am credibly informed
that a famous dog, belonging to a Monsieur Gardel, a
talented gentleman of your city, sat; and very good lions
they are—very like lions! If I recollect right, this dog,
who sat as a model for a pair of lions, was called “Neptune.”
I remember once seeing him at West Point, and falling
in love with him, (with “Nep,” not Monsieur G.,) when
I was about—about—let me see—thirteen.
But let me finish my scenery. This lion's-head rock
hangs over a deep tarn, where at mid-day, the water is
black and polished as glass ebon; and near the tarn, not
five yards from its margin, rises thirty feet in height, a
green pyramid, one of the sepulchral mounds of the noble,
brave, mysterious Indians, now wasted, as McLellan, one
of the New England poets, says,
“Like April snows
In the warm noon,”
before the burning radiance of the sun of civilization.
On the east side of the mansion, there is quite a different
view from either I have described. First, the eye rests
on a vast vegetable and fruit garden, a score of good
roods broad, crossed by wide graveled walks, dotted
with hot-houses, and enclosed by a white paling, half-concealed
in a luxuriant hedge of the thorny and beautiful
Cherokee rose. At two corners of the garden erected
on high places, is perched a monstrous pigeon house, to
and fro, above and about which its soft winged tenants
are flying in clouds at all times, like the scriptural doves
to their windows.
Of all birds, I love the dove, the home dove, with its
blue and brown breast, its affectionate, trustful glance,
and its musical, happy coo. I have loved them in the
streets of my native town from a child, and stopped and
watched them till I forgot school hour, and dinner hour,
as they fluttered, hopped, sidled, and pranced about the
fallen oats under the farmer's cart, or crowded about the
shop doors.
I never failed to have my pocket filled with grain and
crumbs for them, and I cannot now but smile at the recollection
of myself, at twelve years old, seated on a
curb-stone, surrounded, and lit upon, and run over, and
almost had my eyes put out by their wings, as they
eagerly shared my bounty out of my hands and lap.
Many a black mark at school for tardiness, and many a
scolding at home have I to lay to the account of the blue
doves. Yet I love them still; and ere long they will find
out—these in the dove-cotes—that they have a friend
near; and I dare say in my little balcony, ere I have
been here a month, will be enacted the street scenes of
my girlish days.
Beyond the garden is a large pond or lake, and on the
declivity of the opposite shore appears, half hid in the
trees of its pretty streets, one of the most novel and
striking towns I ever beheld. It is the “Quartier” or
African village of the estate, the Negropolis of the slave
population. It is composed of some thirty dwellings,
white-washed, one story high, arranged on two streets
that follow the margin of the pond. Each cottage is
neat and comfortable, with a small garden patch behind
it; and in front are rows of shade trees for the whole
length of the street, growing near enough to each house
to afford shade to the roofs. The streets themselves are
green sward, intersected by well-trodden footpaths which
lead from door to door.
Overlooking them all, and a little higher up the gentle
ascent, is a house of more pretension, built of brick, with
a belfry at one end, containing a bell as loud as a
church bell, which I hear rung every morning at day-break,
and at noon, and at nine o'clock at night. This
house belongs to, or rather is occupied by, the overseer, or
manager, as these gentlemen prefer being designated.
Over this house rises a majestic range of mountainous
heights, of great beauty, from the summit of one of
which, three miles off, and which is designated by a
single scathed tree rising from a bosom of foliage, a view
can be obtained, with a good glass, of the city, six
leagues or thereabouts to the north; and also of one of
the shining windings of the romantic Cumberland, as
it, for a mile or two, leaves its embracing cliffs to roll
gloriously along in the cloudless sunlight.
