University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER XVII.

April 21st.—In the afternoon I went with Mr. Porcher
Miles to visit a small farm and plantation, some miles from
the city, belonging to Mr. Crafts. Our arrival was unexpected,
but the planter's welcome was warm. Mrs. Crafts
showed us round the place, of which the beauties were due to
nature rather than to art, and so far the lady was the fitting
mistress of the farm.

We wandered through tangled brakes and thick Indian-like
jungle, filled with disagreeable insects, down to the edge of a
small lagoon. The beach was perforated with small holes, in
which Mrs. Crafts said little crabs, called "fiddlers" from their
resemblance in petto to a performer on the fiddle make their
abode; but neither them nor "spotted snakes" did we see.
And so to dinner, for which our hostess made needless excuses.
"I am afraid I shall have to ask you to eke out your
dinner with potted meats, but I can answer for Mr. Crafts
giving you a bottle of good old wine." "And what better,
madam," quoth Mr. Miles, "what better can you offer a soldier?
What do we expect but grape and canister?"

Mr. Miles, who was formerly member of the United States
Congress, and who has now migrated to the Confederate
States of America, rendered himself conspicuous a few years
ago when a dreadful visitation of yellow fever came upon
Norfolk and destroyed one half of the inhabitants. At that
terrible time, when all who could move were flying from the
plague-stricken spot, Mr. Porcher Miles flew to it, visited the
hospitals, tended the sick; and although a weakly, delicate
man, gave an example of such energy and courage as materially
tended to save those who were left. I never heard him
say a word to indicate that he had been at Norfolk at all.

At the rear of the cottage-like residence (to the best of my
belief built of wood), in which the planter's family lived, was
a small enclosure, surrounded by a palisade, containing a
number of wooden sheds, which were the negro quarters; and
after dinner, as we sat on the steps, the children were sent for
to sing for us. They came very shyly, and by degrees; first
peeping round the corners and from behind trees, oftentimes
running away in spite of the orders of their haggard mammies,
till they were chased, captured, and brought back by their
elder brethren. They were ragged, dirty, shoeless urchins of
both sexes; the younger ones abdominous as infant Hindoos,
and wild as if just caught. With much difficulty the elder
children were dressed into line; then they began to shuffle
their flat feet, to clap their hands, and to drawl out in a monotonous
sort of chant something about the "River Jawdam,"
after which Mrs. Crafts rewarded them with lumps of sugar,
which were as fruitful of disputes as the apple of discord. A
few fathers and mothers gazed at the scene from a distance.

As we sat listening to the wonderful song of the mockingbirds,
when these young Sybarites had retired, a great, big,
burly red-faced gentleman, as like a Yorkshire farmer in high
perfection as any man I ever saw in the old country, rode up
to the door, and, after the usual ceremony of introduction and
the collating of news, and the customary assurance "They
can't whip us, sir!" invited me then and there to attend a
fête champêtre at his residence, where there is a lawn famous
for trees dating from the first settlement of the colony, and
planted by this gentleman's ancestor.

Trees are objects of great veneration in America if they
are of any size. There are perhaps two reasons for this. In
the first place, the indigenous forest trees are rarely of any
great magnitude. In the second place, it is natural to Americans
to admire dimension and antiquity; and a big tree gratifies
both organs—size and veneration.

I must record an astonishing feat of this noble Carolinian.
The heat of the evening was indubitably thirst-compelling,
and we went in to "have a drink." Among other things on
the table were a decanter of cognac and a flask of white curaçoa.
The planter filled a tumbler half full of brandy. "What's
in that flat bottle, Crafts?" "That's white curaçoa." The
planter tasted a little, and having smacked his lips and exclaimed
"first-rate stuff," proceeded to water his brandy with
it, and tossed off a full brimmer of the mixture without any

remarkable ulterior results. They are a hard-headed race.
I doubt if cavalier or puritan ever drank a more potent bumper
than our friend the big planter.

April 22d.—To-day was fixed for the visit to Mr. Pringle's
plantation, which lies above Georgetown near the Pedee
River. Our party, which consisted of Mr. Mitchell, an eminent
lawyer of Charleston, Colonel Reed, a neighboring planter,
Mr. Ward, of New York, our host, and myself, were on
board the Georgetown steamer at seven o'clock, a.m., and
started with a quantity of commissariat stores, ammunition,
and the like, for the use of the troops quartered along the
coast. There was, of course, a large supply of newspapers
also. At that early hour invitations to the "bar" were not
uncommon, where the news was discussed by long-legged,
grave, sallow men. There was a good deal of joking about
"old Abe Lincoln's paper blockade," and the report that the
Government had ordered their cruisers to treat the crews of
Confederate privateers as "pirates" provoked derisive and
menacing comments. The full impulses of national life are
breathing through the whole of this people. There is their
flag flying over Sumter, and the Confederate banner is waving
on all the sand-forts and headlands which guard the approaches
to Charleston.

A civil war and persecution have already commenced.
"Suspected Abolitionists" are ill-treated in the South, and
"Suspected Secessionists" are mobbed and beaten in the
North. The news of the attack on the 6th Massachusetts, and
the Pennsylvania regiment, by the mob in Baltimore, has
been received with great delight; but some long-headed people
see that it will only expose Baltimore and Maryland to
the full force of the Northern States. The riot took place on
the anniversary of Lexington.

The "Nina" was soon in open sea, steering northwards
and keeping four miles from shore in order to clear the shoals
and banks which fringe the low sandy coasts, and effectually
prevent even light gunboats covering a descent by their ordnance.
This was one of the reasons why the Federal fleet
did not make any attempt to relieve Fort Sumter during the
engagement. On our way out we could see the holes made
in the large hotel and other buildings on Sullivan's Island behind
Fort Moultrie, by the shot from the fort, which caused
terror among the negroes "miles away." There was no sign
of any blockading vessel, but look-out parties were posted

along the beach, and as the skipper said we might have to
make our return-journey by land, every sail on the horizon
was anxiously scanned through our glasses.

Having passed the broad mouth of the Santee, the steamer
in three hours and a half ran up an estuary, into which the
Maccamaw River and the Pedee River pour their united
waters.

Our vessel proceeded along-shore to a small jetty, at the
end of which was a group of armed men, some of them being
part of a military post, to defend the coast and river, established
under cover of an earthwork and palisades constructed
with trunks of trees, and mounting three 32-pounders. Several
posts of a similar character lay on the river banks, and
from some of these we were boarded by men in boats hungry
for news and newspapers. Most of the men at the pier were
cavalry troopers, belonging to a volunteer association of the
gentry for coast defence, and they had been out night and day
patrolling the shores, and doing the work of common soldiers
—very precious material for such work. They wore gray
tunics, slashed and faced with yellow, buff belts, slouched felt
hats, ornamented with drooping cocks' plumes, and long jackboots,
which well became their fine persons and bold bearing,
and were evidently due to "Cavalier" associations. They
were all equals. Our friends on board the boat hailed them
by their Christian names, gave and heard the news. Among
the cases landed at the pier were certain of champagne and
pâtés, on which Captain Blank was wont to regale his company
daily at his own expense, or that of his cotton broker.
Their horses picketed in the shade of trees close to the beach,
the parties of women riding up and down the sands, or driving
in light tax-carts, suggested images of a large picnic, and a
state of society quite indifferent to Uncle Abe's cruisers and
"Hessians." After a short delay here, the steamer proceeded
on her way to Georgetown, an ancient and once important settlement
and port, which was marked in the distance by the
little forest of masts rising above the level land, and the tops
of the trees beyond, and by a solitary church-spire.

As the "Nina" approaches the tumble-down wharf of the
old town, two or three citizens advance from the shade of
shaky sheds to welcome us, and a few country vehicles and
light phaetons are drawn forth from the same shelter to receive
the passengers, while the negro boys and girls who have
been playing upon the bales of cotton and barrels of rice,

which represent the trade of the place on the wharf, take up
commanding positions for the better observation of our proceedings.

There is about Georgetown an air of quaint simplicity and
old-fashioned quiet, which contrasts refreshingly with the bustle
and tumult of American cities. While waiting for our
vehicle we enjoyed the hospitality of Colonel Reed, who took
us into an old-fashioned, angular, wooden mansion, more than
a century old, still sound in every timber, and testifying, in
its quaint wainscotings, and the rigid framework of door and
window, to the durability of its cypress timbers and the preservative
character of the atmosphere. In early days it was
the grand house of the old settlement, and the residence of
the founder of the female branch of the family of our host,
who now only makes it his halting-place when passing to and
fro between Charleston and his plantation, leaving it the year
round in charge of an old servant and her grandchild. Rose trees
and flowering shrubs clustered before the porch and filled
the garden in front, and the establishment gave one a good
idea of a London merchant's retreat about Chelsea a hundred
and fifty years ago.

At length we were ready for our journey, and, in two light
covered gigs, proceeded along the sandy track which, after a
while, led us to a road cut deep in the bosom of the woods,
where silence was only broken by the cry of a woodpecker,
the scream of a crane, or the sharp challenge of the jay. For
miles we passed through the shades of this forest, meeting
only two or three vehicles containing female planterdom on
little excursions of pleasure or business, who smiled their welcome
as we passed. Arrived at a deep chocolate-colored
stream, called Black River, full of fish and alligators, we find
a flat large enough to accommodate vehicles and passengers,
and propelled by two negroes pulling upon a stretched rope,
in the manner usual in the ferry-boats in Switzerland.

Another drive through a more open country, and we reach
a fine grove of pine and live-oak, which melts away into a
shrubbery guarded by a rustic gateway: passing through this,
we are brought by a sudden turn to the planter's house, buried
in trees, which dispute with the green sward and with wild
flower-beds the space between the hall-door and the waters of
the Pedee; and in a few minutes, as we gaze over the expanse
of fields marked by the deep water-cuts, and bounded
by a fringe of unceasing forest, just tinged with green by the

first life of the early rice-crops, the chimneys of the steamer
we had left at Georgetown, gliding as it were through the
fields, indicate the existence of another navigable river still
beyond.

Leaving the veranda which commanded this agreeable
foreground, we enter the mansion, and are reminded by its
low-browed, old-fashioned rooms, of the country houses yet to
be found in parts of Ireland or on the Scottish border, with
additions, made by the luxury and love of foreign travel, of
more than one generation of educated Southern planters.
Paintings from Italy illustrate the walls, in juxtaposition
with interesting portraits of early colonial governors and
their lovely womankind, limned with no uncertain hand, and
full of the vigor of touch and naturalness of drapery, of
which Copley has left us too few exemplars; and one portrait
of Benjamin West claims for itself such honor as his
own pencil can give. An excellent library—filled with collections
of French and English classics, and with those ponderous
editions of Voltaire, Rousseau, the "Mémoires pour
Servir," books of travel and history which delighted our forefathers
in the last century, and many works of American and
general history—affords ample occupation for a rainy day.

It was five o'clock before we reached our planter's house—
White House Plantation. My small luggage was carried into
my room by an old negro in livery, who took great pains to
assure me of my perfect welcome, and who turned out to be a
most excellent valet. A low room hung with colored mezzotints,
windows covered with creepers, and an old-fashioned
bedstead and quaint chairs, lodged me sumptuously; and after
such toilet as was considered necessary by our host for a
bachelor's party, we sat down to an excellent dinner, cooked
by negroes and served by negroes, and aided by claret mellowed
in Carolinian suns, and by Madeira brought down stairs
cautiously, as in the days of Horace and Mæcenas, from the
cellar between the attic and the thatched roof.

Our party was increased by a neighboring planter, and
after dinner the conversation returned to the old channel—
all the frogs praying for a king—anyhow a prince—to rule
over them. Our good host is anxious to get away to Europe,
where his wife and children are, and all he fears is being
mobbed at New York, where Southerners are exposed to insult,
though they may get off better in that respect than Black
Republicans would down South. Some of our guests talked

of the duello, and of famous hands with the pistol in these
parts. The conversation had altogether very much the tone
which would have probably characterized the talk of a group
of Tory Irish gentlemen over their wine some sixty years
ago, and very pleasant it was. Not a man—no, not one—
will ever join the Union again! "Thank God!" they say,
"we are freed from that tyranny at last." And yet Mr. Seward
calls it the most beneficent government in the world, which
never hurt a human being yet!

But alas! all the good things which the house affords, can
be enjoyed but for a brief season. Just as nature has expanded
every charm, developed every grace, and clothed the
scene with all the beauty of opened flower, of ripening grain,
and of mature vegetation, on the wings of the wind the poisoned
breath comes borne to the home of the white man, and
he must fly before it or perish. The books lie unopened on
the shelves, the flower blooms and dies unheeded, and, pity
'tis, 'tis true, the old Madeira garnered 'neath the roof, settles
down for a fresh lease of life, and sets about its solitary task
of acquiring a finer flavor for the infrequent lips of its banished
master and his welcome visitors. This is the story, at
least, that we hear on all sides, and such is the tale repeated to
us beneath the porch, when the moon while softening enhances
the loveliness of the scene, and the rich melody of mockingbirds
fills the grove.

Within these hospitable doors Horace might banquet better
than he did with Nasidienus, and drink such wine as can be
only found among the descendants of the ancestry who, improvident
enough in all else, learnt the wisdom of bottling up
choice old Bual and Sercial, ere the demon of oidium had dried
up their generous sources forever. To these must be added
excellent bread, ingenious varieties of the galette, compounded
now of rice and now of Indian meal, delicious butter and
fruits, all good of their kind. And is there anything better
rising up from the bottom of the social bowl? My black
friends who attend on me are grave as Mussulman Khitmutgars.
They are attired in liveries and wear white cravats
and Berlin gloves. At night when we retire, off they go to
their outer darkness in the small settlement of negro-hood,
which is separated from our house by a wooden palisade.
Their fidelity is undoubted. The house breathes an air of
security. The doors and windows are unlocked. There is
but one gun, a fowling-piece, on the premises. No planter

hereabouts nas any dread of his slaves. But I have seen,
within the short time I have been in this part of the world,
several dreadful accounts of murder and violence, in which
masters suffered at the hands of their slaves. There is something
suspicious in the constant never-ending statement that
"we are not afraid of our slaves." The curfew and the night
patrol in the streets, the prisons and watch-houses, and the
police regulations, prove that strict supervision, at all events,
is needed and necessary. My host is a kind man and a good
master. If slaves are happy anywhere, they should be so
with him.

These people are fed by their master. They have half a
pound per diem of fat pork, and corn in abundance. They
rear poultry and sell their chickens and eggs to the house.
They are clothed by their master. He keeps them in sickness
as in health. Now and then there are gifts of tobacco
and molasses for the deserving. There was little labor going
on in the fields, for the rice has been just exerting itself to get
its head above water. These fields yield plentifully; the waters
of the river are fat, and they are let in whenever the
planter requires it by means of floodgates and small canals,
through which the flats can carry their loads of grain to the
river for loading the steamers.

April 23d.—A lovely morning grew into a hot day.
After breakfast, I sat in the shade watching the vagaries of
some little tortoises, or terrapins, in a vessel of water close at
hand, or trying to follow the bee-like flight of the hummingbirds.
Ah me! one wee brownie, with a purple head and red
facings, managed to dash into a small grape or flower conservatory
close at hand, and, innocent of the ways of the glassy
wall, he or she—I am much puzzled as to the genders of
humming-birds, and Mr. Gould, with his wonderful mastery
of Greek prefixes and Latin terminations, has not aided me
much—dashed up and down from pane to pane, seeking to
perforate each with its bill, and carrying death and destruction
among the big spiders and their cobweb-castles which for the
time barred the way.

The humming-bird had as the Yankees say, a bad time of
it, for its efforts to escape were incessant, and our host said
tenderly, through his mustaches, "Pooty little thing, don't
frighten it!" as if he was quite sure of getting off to Saxony
by the next steamer. Encumbered by cobwebs and exhausted,
now and then our little friend toppled down among

the green shrubs, and lay panting like a living nugget of ore.
Again he, she, or it took wing and resumed that mad career;
but at last on some happy turn the bright head saw an opening
through the door, and out wings, body, and legs dashed,
and sought shelter in a creeper, where the little flutterer lay,
all but dead, so inanimate, indeed, that I could have taken the
lovely thing and put it in the hollow of my hand. What
would poets of Greece and Rome have said of the hummingbird?
What would Hafiz, or Waller, or Spenser have sung,
had they but seen that offspring of the sun and flowers?

Later in the day, when the sun was a little less fierce, we
walked out from the belt of trees round the house on the
plantation itself. At this time of year there is nothing to
recommend to the eye the great breadth of flat fields, surrounded
by small canals, which look like the bottoms of dried-up
ponds, for the green rice has barely succeeded in forcing its
way above the level of the rich dark earth. The river bounds
the estate, and when it rises after the rains, its waters, loaded
with loam and fertilizing mud, are let in upon the lands
through the small canals, which are provided with sluices and
banks and floodgates to control and regulate the supply.

The negroes had but little to occupy them now. The children
of both sexes, scantily clad, were fishing in the canals and
stagnant waters, pulling out horrible-looking little catfish.
They were so shy that they generally fled at our approach.
The men and women were apathetic, neither seeking nor shunning
us, and I found that their master knew nothing about
them. It is only the servants engaged in household duties
who are at all on familiar terms with their masters.

The bailiff or steward was not to be seen. One big slouching
negro, who seemed to be a gangsman or something of the
kind, followed us in our walk, and answered any questions we
put to him very readily. It was a picture to see his face
when one of our party, on returning to the house, gave him a
larger sum of money than he had probably ever possessed
before in a lump. "What will he do with it?" Buy sweet
things,—sugar, tobacco, a penknife, and such things. "They
have few luxuries, and all their wants are provided for."
Took a cursory glance at the negro quarters, which are not
very enticing or cleanly. They are surrounded by high palings,
and the entourage is alive with their poultry.

Very much I doubt whether Mr. Mitchell is satisfied the
Southerners are right in their present course, but he and Mr.

Petigru are lawyers, and do not take a popular view of the
question. After dinner the conversation again turned on the
resources and power of the South, and on the determination
of the people never to go back into the Union. Then cropped
out again the expression of regret for the rebellion of 1776,
and the desire that if it came to the worst, England would
receive back her erring children, or give them a prince under
whom they could secure a monarchical form of government.
There is no doubt about the earnestness with which these
things are said.

As the "Nina" starts down the river on her return voyage
from Georgetown to-night, and Charleston harbor may be
blockaded at any time, thus compelling us to make a long
détour by land, I resolve to leave by her, in spite of many
invitations and pressure from neighboring planters. At midnight
our carriage came round, and we started in a lovely
moonlight to Georgetown, crossing the ferry after some delay,
in consequence of the profound sleep of the boatmen in their
cabins. One of them said to me, "Mus'n't go too near de
edge ob de boat, massa." "Why not?" "Becas if massa
fall ober, he not come up agin likely,—a bad ribber for
drowned, massa." He informed me it was full of alligators,
which are always on the look-out for the planters' and negroes'
dogs, and are hated and hunted accordingly.

The "Nina" was blowing the signal for departure, the
only sound we heard all through the night, as we drove
through the deserted streets of Georgetown, and soon after
three o'clock, a.m., we were on board and in our berths.