University of Virginia Library

34. XXXIV.

In America, where vegetation is on a scale of
magnificence commensurate with her continental
extent—it is remarkable that a taste for horticulture
should be so little cultivated. In the southern
United States, nature enamels with a richness of
colouring and a diversity of materials which she has

but sparingly employed in decorating the hills and
valleys of other lands. The grandeur of the forests
in the south, and the luxuriance of the shrubs and
plants, have no parallel. But southerners tread the
avenues, breathe the air, and recline under the trees
and in the arbours of their paradise, thankfully accepting
and enjoying their luxurious boon, but seldom
insinuating, through the cultivation of flowers,
that nature has left her work imperfect. There
are, it is true, individual exceptions. One of the
finest private gardens in the United States, which
has suggested these remarks, is in the south, and
within two hours ride of Natchez. But as a general
rule, southerners, with the exception of the cultivation
of a few plants in a front yard, pay little regard
to horticulture. So in New-England, a lilac tree
between the windows, a few rose bushes and indigenous
plants lining the walk, and five or six boxes or
vases containing exotics standing upon the granite
steps on either side of the front door, constitute the
sum of their flower plants and the extent to which
this delightful science is carried. The severity of
northern winters and the shortness of the summers,
may perhaps preclude perfection in this pleasing
study, but not excuse the present neglect of it.
The English, inhabiting a climate but a little milder,
possess a strong and decided horticultural taste
—England itself is one vast garden made up of innumerable
smaller ones, each, from the cluster of
shrubbery around the humblest cottage to the magnificent
park, that spreads around her palaces, displaying
the prevailing national passion.

Though southerners do not often pursue horticulture
as a science, yet they are passionately fond of
flowers. At the south, gentlemen, without the charge
of coxcombry or effeminacy, wear them in the button-holes
of their vests—fair girls wreathe them in
their hair, and children trudge to school loaded with
bouquets. The south is emphatically the land of
flowers; nature seems to have turned this region
from her hand as the chef d'œuvre of her skill. Here,
in the glowing language of Chateaubriand, are seen
“floating islands of Pistia and Nenuphar, whose
yellow roses spring up like pavilions; here magnificent
savanas unfold their green mantles, which
seem in the distance to blend ther verdure with the
azure of the skies. Suspened on the floods of the
Mississippi, grouped on rocks and mountains and
dispersed in valleys, trees of every odour, every
shape, every hue, entwine their variegated heads,
and ascend to an immeasurable height; bignonias,
vines, and colocynths, wind their slender roots
around their trunks, creep to the summit of their
branches, and passing from the maple to the tulip
tree and alcea, form a thousand bowers and verdant
arcades; stretching from tree to tree they often
throw their fibrous arms across rivers and erect on
them arches of foliage and flowers. Amidst these
fragrant clusters, the proud magnolia raises its immoveable
cone, adorned with snowy roses, and commanding
the whole forest, meets with no other rival
than the palm-tree, whose green leaves are softly
fanned by refreshing gales.” The race here now is
for wealth; in good time the passion will change, and

men, tired of contesting for the prize in the game of
life, which they have won over and over again, will
seek a theatre on which to display their golden laurels;
and where are men more fond of displaying
their wealth than on their persons, equipage, and
dwellings? Horticulture, the taste in such cases
earliest cultivated, will then shed its genial influence
over the valley of the south-west, and noble mansions
and tasteful cottages, around which forests
now gloomily frown, or rude fields spread their
ploughed surfaces, will be surrounded by noble
grounds enriched by the hand of taste from the
lavish opulence of the forests and savanas. The
garden alluded to at the commencement of this letter,
is situated upon the plantation, an excursion to
which was the subject of my last. As this is said
to be the finest garden in Mississippi, to which all
others more or less approximate, in the character of
their plants, style, and general arrangement, I would
describe it, could my pen do adequate justice to the
taste of its proprietor, or the variety and beauty of
the plants and flowers. Among them—for I will
mention a few—which represented every clime,
were the cape myrtle, with its pure and delicately
formed flower, the oak geranium, the classical ivy,
and the fragrant snow-drop. The broad walks were,
as usual in southern gardens, bordered by the varnished
lauria mundi, occasionally relieved by the
cape jessamine, slender althea, and dark green arbor
vitæ. The splendidly attired amaryllis, the purple
magnolia, the Arabian and night-blooming jessamines,
the verbenum, or lemon-scented geranium,
with the majestic aloe, that hoary monarch of the
garden, which blooms but once in a century, the
broad-leaved yarra, or caco, the fragrant snow-drop,
and the sweet-scented shrub and oleander, with
countless other shrubs and flowers, breathing forth
the sweetest fragrance, gratified the senses, and
pleased the eye wherever it was turned. There
spread the cassia, a creeping plant, bearing a pink
flower, and admirably adapted to bind the soil of
this region, to prevent its “washing,” by the texture
of its thickly matted shoots, its tenacity to the
soil, and the density of its foliage, all which combined,
render it a secure shield laid over the surface
of the ground; box-trees, in luxuriant, dark green
cones, two or three feet high, were interspersed
among the loftier shrubs at the angles of the several
avenues, which were lined with diminutive hedges
of this thickly-leaved plant. In the centre of the
main avenue, which, on account of the inclination
of the garden, was a terraced walk, terminating in
an artificial pond, was a large diamond-shaped bed
of violets enamelled with blue and green, from
which arose a cloud of fragrance that floated over
the whole garden, gathering rich tributes from a
hundred flowers of the sweetest perfume and loveliest
hues. Around this pond, were crescents of
shrubs and trees, among which the melancholy
weeping willow drooped its graceful tendrils over
the water.[6] Beyond this little lake, the primeval
forests, which on every side bounded the prospect,
rose majestically on the summit of a high hill, in
front, affording a striking contrast to the Hesperian
elegancies spread around the observer.

Arbours of the lauria mundi, and pleasant alcoves
invited to repose or meditation; and thickly shaded
walks, wound on either side of the principal walk
which they occasionally intersected, in graceful serpentine
lines, bordered by the eglantine, or Scotch

rose, the monthly rose—the flower-pot plant of the
north—which here grows in luxuriant hedges, from
six to ten feet high. The moss, and wild rose, the
last a native, in which the creative power of horticulture
annually unfolds new beauties, the dwarf
cape jessamine, the Washita willow, with its pretty
flower, the laurustina, hypiscus, and citronelle, or
fragrant lemon grass, the tea-tree, three feet high,
with orange and lemon trees, bending under their
golden fruit, and a guava tree, the only one in fruit
in the state, clustering with its delicious apple, presented
on every side the most delightful offerings
to the senses. But I must beg your indulgence for
intruding upon you a botanical catalogue of plants
in a southern garden, which Pomona, envying the
fair divinity presiding there, might sigh to make her
empire. Besides this exception to my general philippic
in the former part of this letter, against the
practical floral taste of Mississippians, there are a
few others sufficiently beautiful to atone for the prevailing
deficiency of which I have spoken. Clifton,
an elegant villa near Natchez, and one of the
finest residences in the state, for the beauty of its
grounds, and the extent of the prospect from its lofty
galleries, boasts a garden of almost unrivalled beauty,
and rich in the number and variety of its shrubs
and plants. There are three or four other gardens,
buried like gems in the centre of old plantations,
which, in horticultural wealth and display, nearly
rival those above mentioned. I record these instances
with pleasure, as indicating the existence
of that fine taste, in the germ at least, which refinement,
opulence, and leisure, will in time unfold and
ripen into maturity.

While standing upon the gallery in the evening,
enjoying the various busy scenes and confused sounds
peculiar to a plantation at the close of day, my attention
was drawn to a lugubrious procession, consisting
of seven or eight negroes approaching the
house from the “quarters,” some with blankets
thrown like cloaks over their shoulders, their heads
bandaged, and moving with a listless gait of inimitable
helplessness. One after another they crawled
up and presented themselves, before the open passage
in the gallery. Seeing such a sad assembly
I approached them with curiosity, while their
master, notified of their arrival, came out to examine
into the state of this his walking hospital. Of
all modifications of the “human face divine,”
that of the sick negro is the most dolorous. Their
miserable, abject, hollow-eyed look has no parallel.
The negro is not an Adonis in his best estate. But
he increases his natural ugliness by a laxity of the
muscles, a rolling of the eye and a dropping of the
under jaw, when ill, which give his face a most ludicrously
wo-begone appearance. The transparent
jet-black hue of his skin altogether disappears, leaving
the complexion a dingy brown or sallow, which in
no slight degree increases the sadness of his physiognomy.
Those who are actually ill generally receive
every attention that humanity—not “interest”—dictates.
It has been said that interest is the only
friend of the slave; that without this lever applied
to the feelings of the master, he would never be influenced

to care for his slaves either in health or in
sickness. However true this may be in individual
instances, a vast number of cases have come within
my knowledge, which have convinced me that as a general
censure this charge is unmerited. Planters, particularly
native planters, have a kind of affection for
their negroes, incredible to those who have not observed
its effects. If rebellious they punish them—
if well behaved they not unfrequently reward them.
In health they treat them with uniform kindness, in
sickness with attention and sympathy. I once
called on a native planter—a young bachelor, like
many of his class, who had graduated at Cambridge
and travelled in Europe—yet northern education
and foreign habits did not destroy the Mississippian. I
found him by the bed side of a dying slave—nursing
him with a kindness of voice and manner, and
displaying a manly sympathy with his sufferings
honorable to himself and to humanity. On large
plantations hospitals are erected for the reception
of the sick, and the best medical attendance is provided
for them. The physicians of Natchez derive
a large proportion of their incomes from attending
plantations. On some estates a physician permanently
resides, whose time may be supposed sufficiently
taken up in attending to the health of from
one to two hundred persons. Often, several plantations,
if the “force” on each is small, unite and employ
one physician for the whole. Every plantation
is supplied with suitable medicines, and generally
to such an extent, that some room or part of a
room in the planter's house is converted into a small
apothecary's shop. These, in the absence of the
physician in any sudden emergency, are administered
by the planter. Hence, the health of the slaves,
so far as medical skill is concerned, is well provided
for. They are well fed and warmly clothed in the
winter, in warm jackets and trowsers, and blanket
coats enveloping the whole person, with hats or
woolen caps and brogans. In summer they have
clothing suitable to the season, and a ragged negro is
less frequently to be met with than in northern
cities.

The attendance which the sick receive is a great
temptation for the slaves to “sham” illness. I was
dining not long since in the country where the lady—
a planter's daughter, and the wife and mother of a
planter—sent from the table some plates of rich
soup and boiled fowl to “poor sick Jane and her
husband,” as she observed in her reply to one who
inquired if any of her “people” were unwell. A
portion of the dessert was also sent to another who
was convalescent. Those who are not considered
ill enough to be sent to the hospital, are permitted
to remain in their houses or cabins, reporting themselves
every evening at the “great hus,” as they
term the family mansion. The sombre procession
alluded to above, which led to these remarks, consisted
of a few of these invalids, who had appeared
at the gallery to make their evening report. On being
questioned as to their respective conditions, a
scene ensues that to be appreciated, must be observed.

“What ails you, Peter?” “Mighty sick, mas

ter.”[7] “Show me your tongue:” and out, inch by
inch, projects a long tongue, not unlike the sole of
his shoe in size and colour, accompanied by a groan
from the very pit of the stomach. If the negro is
actually ill, suitable medicine is prescribed, which
his master or the physician compels him to swallow
in his presence. For, sick or well, and very fond
of complaining, they will never take “doctor's stuff,”
as they term it, but, throwing it away as soon as
they are out of sight, either go without any medicine,
or take some concoction in repute among the old
African beldames in the “quarters,” by which they
are sickened if well, and made worse if ill, and
present themselves for inspection the next evening,
by no means improved in health. They are fond of
shamming, or “skulking,” as sailors term it, and
will often voluntarily expose themselves to sickness,
in order to obtain exemption from labour.

There is no animal so averse to labour, even to
the most necessary locomotion, as the African. His
greatest enjoyment seems to be a state of animal
inactivity. Inquire of any ordinary field negro why
he would like to be free, if he ever happened to indulge
the wish, and he will reply, “because me no
work all day long.” It is well known that the “lazzaroni”
of Italy, the gauchos who infest Buenos
Ayres, and the half-bloods swarming in the streets
of all South American cities, will never labour, unless
absolutely obliged to do so for the purpose of
sustaining existence, and then only for the temporary

supply. I once applied to a half-naked gaucho,
who, with his red capote wound about his head,
was dozing in the sun on the plaza, to carry a portmanteau.
Slowly raising the heavy lids of his large
glittering eyes, he took two pieces of money, of
small value, from the folds of his red sash, and held
them up to my view, murmuring, with a negative
inclination of his head—“Tengo dos reales, señor:”
thereby implying, “I will take mine ease while my
money lasts—no more work till this is gone.” By
such a feeling is this class of men invariably governed.
Individuals of them I have known to work
with great industry for a day or two, and earn a few
dollars, when they would cease from their usual
labour, and, until their last penny was expended, no
remuneration would prevail on them to carry a
trunk across the square. From my knowledge of
negro character at the south, however elevated it
may be at the north, I am convinced that slaves, in
their present moral condition, if emancipated, would
be lazzaroni in every thing but colour. Sometimes
a sham patient will be detected; although, to make
their complaints the more specious, they frequently
discolour the tongue. This species of culprit is
often punished by ridicule and exposure to his fellows,
whose taunts on such occasions embody the
purest specimens of African wit. Not unfrequently
these cheats are punished by a dose from the medidine
chest, that effectually cures them of such indispositions.
Latterly, since steaming has been
fashionable, a good steaming has been known to be
an equally effective prescription.

When a negro dies, his remains are placed in a
coffin and decently interred. Labour is often entirely
suspended on the plantation, and the slaves
are assembled in their Sunday clothes to attend the
funeral. Divine service is sometimes performed in
the little chapel on the plantation, at which not only
the slaves but the members of the white family are
present. A Presbyterian clergyman recently informed
me that he had been sent for by a native
planter, to attend the funeral of one of his slaves
and preach his funeral sermon. He went, though
twelve miles distant from his residence, and remarked
that he was never present on a more interesting
occasion. On most plantations females are
allowed a month's cessation from field labour, before
and after confinement. But it cannot be denied that
on some plantations nothing but actual confinement
releases them from the field; to which the mother
soon after returns, leaving an infant a few days old
at the “quarters,” which she is permitted to visit
three or four times in the day. Sometimes, when
a little older, infants are brought into the field, under
the care of an old nurse, to save the time which
the mothers would otherwise consume in walking
to and from the “quarters.” Once, on riding through
a plantation, I noticed, under a China tree, which
shaded the shelter-house—a rude building, in the
centre of extensive cotton fields, in which negroes
seek shelter on the approach of a storm—a group
of infants and children, whose parents I discovered
at work more than half a mile distant. Several
little fellows, not two years old, and as naked as

young frogs, were amusing themselves in rolling
over the grass, heedless of the occasional warning
of their gouvernante, “Take care de snake.”—
Slung from a limb in a blanket reposed two others,
very snugly, side by side, mumbling corn bread;
while, suspended from the tree, in a rude cradle,
were three or four more of this band of nurslings,
all in a pile, and fast asleep. I am indebted to this
scene for a correct application of the nursery song,
which I had never before been able exactly to understand,
commencing—

These little candidates for “field honours,” are
useless articles on a plantation during the first five
or six years of their existence. They are then
made to take the first lessons in the elementary
part of their education. When they have learned
their manual alphabet tolerably well, they are placed
in the field to take a spell at cotton-picking. The
first day in the field is their proudest day. The
young negroes look forward to it, with as much restlessness
and impatience as school-boys to a vacation.
Black children are not put to work so young
as many children of poor parents at the north. It
is often the case that the children of the domestic
servants become pets in the house, and the playmates
of the white children of the family. No
scene can be livelier or more interesting to a
northerner, than that which the negro quarters of a

well regulated plantation present, on a Sabbath
morning, just before church hour. In every cabin
the men are shaving and dressing—the women, arrayed
in their gay muslins, are arranging their
frizzly hair, in which they take no little pride, or
investigating the condition of their children's heads
—the old people neatly clothed are quietly conversing
or smoking about their doors, and those of
the younger portion, who are not undergoing the
infliction of the wash-tub, are enjoying themselves
in the shade of the trees or around some little pond,
with as much zest as though “slavery” and “freedom”
were synonymous terms. When all are
dressed and the hour arrives for worship, they lock
up their cabins, and the whole population of the
little village proceeds to the chapel, where divine
worship is performed, sometimes by an officiating
clergyman, and often by the planter himself, if a
church member. The whole plantation is also frequently
formed into a Sabbath class, which is instructed
by the planter or some member of his
family; and often such is the anxiety of masters that
they should perfectly understand what they are
taught—a hard matter in the present state of African
intellect—that no means calculated to advance
their progress are left untried. I was not long since
shown a manuscript catechism, drawn up with great
care and judgment by a distinguished planter, on a
plan admirably adapted to the comprehension of
negroes. The same gentleman, in conjunction with
two or three neighbouring planters, employs a
Presbyterian clergyman, formerly a missionary
among the Choctaws at the Elliott station before
their dispersion, to preach to the slaves, paying him
a salary for his services. On those plantations
which have no chapel, and no regular worship on
the Sabbath, negroes are permitted to go to the
nearest town to church; a privilege they seldom
know how to appreciate, and prefer converting their
liberty into an opportunity for marketing or visiting.
Experience, however, has convinced planters that
no indulgence to their slaves is so detrimental as
this, both to the moral condition of the slave, and
the good order of the plantation, for there is no vice
in which many of them will not become adepts, if
allowed a temporary freedom from restraint, one
day in seven. Hence this liberty, except in particular
instances, is denied them on some estates;
to which they are confined under easy discipline
during the day, passing the time in strolling through
the woods, sleeping, eating, and idling about the
quarters. The evenings of the Sabbath are passed
in little gossipping circles in some of the cabins, or
beneath the shade of some tree in front of their
dwellings, or at weddings. The negroes are usually
married by the planter, who reads the service from
the gallery—the couple with their attendants standing
upon the steps or on the green in front. These
marriages, in the eye of the slave, are binding.
Clergymen are sometimes invited to officiate by
those planters who feel that respect for the marriage
covenant, which leads them to desire its strict
observance, where human legislation has not provided
for it. On nuptial occasions the negroes partake
of fine suppers, to which the ladies add many
little delicacies, and handsome presents of wearing
apparel to the married pair. When the negroes
desire a clergyman to perform the ceremony for
them, planters seldom refuse to comply with their
request.

When negroes leave the plantation, for whatever
purpose, whether to attend church, class meeting or
market, visit their husbands, wives, or sweethearts,
or are sent on errands, they must carry with them
a written permission of absence from their master,
stating the object for which his slave leaves his
plantation, the place or places to which he is going,
and the time to which his absence is limited. This
written authority is called a “pass,” and is usually
written somewhat after this form:

“Oakland — June — 18—

“Pass J — to Natchez and back again by
sunset,” or “E — has permission to visit his wife
on Mr. C —'s plantation, to be absent till 9
o'clock.”

In such fluctuating property as slaves, it often
happens that husband, wife, and children may all
belong to different owners; and as negroes belonging
to different plantations intermarry, such a provision,
which is a state law, is necessary to preserve
discipline, and embrace within the eye or
knowledge of the master, every movement of his
slave. Were slaves allowed to leave the estates
without the knowledge of their masters, during a
certain portion of every week, an immense body of
men in the aggregate, consisting of a few from every

plantation in the state, would be moving among the
plantations, at liberty to plan and execute any mischief
they might choose to set on foot. If negroes
leave the plantation without a “pass,” they are liable
to be taken up by any white person who suspects
them to be runaways, and punishment is the
consequence. The law allows every white man in
town or country this kind of supervision over negroes;
and as there are always men who are on
the lookout for runaways, for the purpose of obtaining
the reward of several dollars for each they can
bring back to his master, the slave, should he leave
the plantation without his “pass”—the want of
which generally denotes the runaway—is soon apprehended.
You will see that this regulation is a
wise legal provision for the preservation both of private
and public security. An anecdote connected
with this subject was recently related to me by a
planter whose slave was the hero. “A gentleman,”
said he, “met one of my negroes mounted on horseback,
with a jug in his hand, riding toward Natchez.
Suspecting him from appearances to be a runaway,
he stopped him and asked for his “pass.” The
slave unrolled first one old rag—an old rag is a negro's
substitute for a pocket—and then another
without success. “I `spec' me loss me pass, master.”
“Whom do you belong to?” “Mr. —,”
giving the wrong person. “Where are you going?”
“To Natchez, get whiskey, master.” At the moment,
my brand upon the horse struck the eye of
the gentleman; “You are a runaway, boy—you belong
to Mr. D —.” Instantly the negro leaped
from his horse, cleared the fence, and fled through
the woods like a deer toward home. The gentleman
on arriving at his own house, sent a servant to
me with the horse which the runaway had deserted.
I immediately assembled the whole force of the
plantation and not one of the negroes was missing;
the culprit having managed to arrive at the plantation
before I could receive any intimation of his absence.
I tried a long time to make the guilty one
confess, but in vain. So at last, I tried the effect
of a ruse. “Well, boys, I know it is one of you,
and though I am not able to point out the rogue,
my friend who detected him will recognize him at
once. So you must walk over to his house. Fall
in there—march!”

“They proceeded a short distance, when I ordered
a halt. “Mind, boys, the guilty one shall not only
be punished by me, but I will give every `hand' on
the plantation the liberty of taking personal satisfaction,
for compelling them to take a walk of three
miles.—So, march!” They moved on again for
about a quarter of a mile, when they came to a full
stop—deliberated a few moments and then retraced
their steps. “Hie! what now?” “Why, master,
Bob say he de one.” Bob, who it seems had confessed
to his fellow-slaves as the best policy, now
stepped forward, and acknowledged himself to be
the runaway.”