University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
THE NATIONAL ANNIVERSARY.

The event with which I have closed the last
chapter, took place on the morning of the Fourth of
July, a day that is never without its interest even in
the most secluded parts of our country. It was to be
celebrated at “The Landing,” a place about a mile
and a half distant, on the bank of the river, where
the small river boats are usually moored to take in
their cargoes. To this spot Ned proposed that we
should ride after dinner.

It was a holiday; so Rip had permission to accompany
us, and Carey was directed to have our
horses at the door. We were amused to find that
the old groom had not only brought out our own cavalry,
but also a horse for himself: and there he
stood, holding our bridles, arrayed in his best coat,
with a pair of old top-boots drawn over loose pantaloons
of striped cotton which were scrupulously
clean. He wore his spurs, and carried also a riding-whip.
His mien was unusually brisk, and, after an
ancient fashion, coxcombical. He ventured to tell
us that Master Frank thought he ought to attend us
to the Landing, “as there was goings on down there,
upon account of the fourth of July.” The truth

was, that learning our destination, he had slipped off
to Meriwether to ask his permission to go with us.

Our aged squire rode at a mannerly distance behind
us; and Rip, on a hard-mouthed and obstinate
colt, that belonged to him, trotted by our sides, with
both hands pulling in the bridle, and his legs thrust
forward to enable him to counteract the constant
tendency of his steed to run away. Rip protests that
Spitfire—for so he calls his colt—is the easiest-going
animal on the place, although each particular step
lifted him at least six inches above his saddle, and
almost entirely stopped his talking, because the motion
shook the words out of his mouth somewhat in
the same manner that water comes out of a bottle.
However, no man ever thinks ill of his horse.

Our road lay through thickets of pine, in the shade
of which we advanced rapidly, and we soon reached
the Landing. There are very few villages in the
tide-water country of Virginia: it is intersected by
so many rivers, that almost every plantation may be
approached sufficiently near by trading vessels to
gratify the demands of the population, without the
assistance of those little towns which, in other
parts of the United States, sprout up like mushrooms.
There are yet, therefore, to be seen the vestiges
of former trading stations on all the principal rivers;
and the traveller is not unfrequently surprised,
when, having consulted his map, and been informed
of some village with a goodly name, he learns that
he has unwarily passed over the spot, without being
conscious of any thing but a ruinous tenement standing

on the bank of a river, embowered in deep and
solitary shade.

The Landing, which we had now reached, had originally
been used for a foreign trade, in which vessels
of a large class, a long time ago, were accustomed
to receive freights of tobacco, and deposit the
commodities required by the country, in return. It
is now, however, nothing more than the place of resort
for a few river craft, used in carrying the country
produce to market. There were two or three
dilapidated buildings in view, and, among these, one
of larger dimensions than the rest, a brick house, with
a part of the roof entirely gone. A rank crop of
Jamestown weed grew up within, so as to be seen
through the windows of the first story. Indian corn
was planted on the adjacent ground up to the walls,
and extended partly under the shelter of a few straggling
old apple trees, that seemed to stand as living
mementoes of an early family that had long since
been swept from beneath their shade. An air of additional
desolation was given to this ruin by an extensive
swamp that reached almost up to the rear of the
building, and over which the river spread its oozy
tide, amongst a thick coat of bulrushes. This tenement,
tradition says, was once the mansion of an
emigrant merchant from Glasgow, who here ruminated
in quiet over his slow gains, and waited with
a disciplined patience for the good ship which once
a year hove in sight above the headland that bounded
his seaward view. I can imagine now, how that
harbinger of good tidings greeted his eye in the gloom

of the great forest; and with what stir and magnified
importance the fitting arrangements were made
for her reception! How like a winged deity she
came fluttering into this little road, with all her pomp
of apparel—with foam upon her breast, and shouts
upon her deck—gliding in upright stateliness to her
anchorage, as she gathered up her sails in the presence
of the wondering eagle and frightened heron!

What was once the warehouse, but now used for
a ferry house, stood with its gable end at the extremity
of a mouldering wharf of logs. In this end
there was a door studded with nails, and another
above it opening into the loft. The ridge of the roof
projected over these doors and terminated in a beam,
where were yet to be seen the remains of a block
and tackle. On the land side the building was enlarged
by sheds, to which was appended a rude
porch. A sun-dried post supported what was once
a sign, whereon a few hieroglyphics denoted that this
was a place of entertainment, notwithstanding its
paper-patched windows and scanty means of accommodation.

Some thirty or forty persons were collected at the
Landing. The porch of the shabby little hostelry was
filled by a crowd of rough looking rustics, who were
laughing boisterously, drinking, and making ribald
jokes. A violin and fife were heard, from within the
building, to a quick measure, which was accompanied
with the heavy tramp of feet from a party of
dancers. A group of negroes, outside of the house,
were enjoying themselves in the same way, shuffling

through the odd contortions of a jig, with two sticks
lying crosswise upon the ground, over which they
danced, alternately slapping their thighs and throwing
up their elbows to the time of the music, and
making strange grimaces. A few tall, swaggering
figures, tricked out in yellow hunting-shirts trimmed
with green fringe, and their hats, some white and
some black, garnished with a band of red cloth and
ragged plumes of the same colour, that seemed to
have been faded by frequent rains, stood about in
little knots, where they talked loudly and swore hard
oaths. Amongst these were mingled a motley collection
of lank and sallow watermen, boys, negroes
and females bedizened in all the wonders of country
millinery. At the fences and about the trees, in the
vicinity of the house, was to be seen the counterpart
of these groups, in the various assemblage of horses
of every colour, shape and degree, stamping, neighing
and sleeping until their services should be required
by their maudlin masters. Occasionally, during
our stay, some of these nags were brought forward
for a race, which was conducted with increased
uproar and tumult.

Contrasted with this rude and busy scene was the
voluptuous landscape around us. It was a picture
of that striking repose, which, I think, is peculiar
to the tide water views; soft, indolent and
clear, as if nature had retreated into this drowsy
nook, and fallen asleep over her own image, as it was
reflected from this beautiful mirror. The river was
upwards of a mile in width, and upon its bosom

were seen, for many a rood below, those alternate
streaks of light and shade that are said to point out
the channel, where its smooth surface was only ruffled
by the frequent but lonely leap of some small
fish above the water. A few shallops were hauled
up on the beach, where some fishing nets were
stretched upon stakes, or spread upon the fences on
the bank. At the distance of two or three hundred
yards from the shore there was a slim pole planted
in the river, probably to mark a fishing ground, and
upon the very top of this was perched, with a whimsical
air of unsociableness, a solitary swallow, apparently
ruminating on the beauteous waste of waters
below him: and above this glittering expanse, some
night-hawks skimmed, soared and darted in pursuit
of the hordes of insects that bickered through the atmosphere.

The sun was within half an hour of his journey's
end—and, nearer to theirs, were two negroes, who
were rapidly approaching the shore with a boat load
of crabs and cucumbers, the regular stroke of their
oars falling on the ear as if measuring the stillness
of the evening. Far below, and seemingly suspended
in air amongst the brilliant reflexions of the heavens,
lay a small schooner at anchor, fixed as by a
spell, and, nevertheless, communicating a sense of
animation to this tranquil world by its association
with the beings that trod its noiseless deck.

We had wandered, after dismounting from our
horses, all round the purlieus of the crowd. Rip had
recognized some familiar features amongst the country

volunteers, and had already found out the drummer,
who had hung his martial instrument around his
shoulders; and the delighted boy was beating away
at it with all his might. Carey had collected about
him a set of his old cronies, to whom he was delivering
a kind of solemn harangue, of which we could
only observe the energy of his gesticulations. The
ferry-boat lay attached to the wharf, and on the stern
benches were seated three or four graver looking
men in coarse attire, who were deeply discussing
questions that occasionally brought them into a high
tone of voice, and, now and then, into a burst of loud
laughter. Ned had led me up to this group, and, in
the careless indolence of the moment, we had thrown
ourselves out at full length across the seats; Ned
with his legs dangling over the gunwale, with Wilful
lying close by, and reposing his head upon his
lap.

The principal personage in this collection was
Sandy Walker, a long, sun-burnt waterman, who
was the proprietor of the hotel, and evidently a man
of mark amongst his associates. One of the others
was a greasy gentleman in a blue coat, out at elbows,
with a nose lustrous with living fire. These
two were the principal speakers, and they were debating
an intricate point of constitutional law, with
more vehemence than perspicacity. At length, an
appeal was made to Ned, by Sandy, who was infinitely
the most authoritative in his manner of the
whole group.

“Can't Congress,” said Sandy, “supposing they

were to pass a law to that effect, come and take a
road of theirn any where they have a mind to, through
any man's land? I put it to Mr. Ned Hazard.”

“Not by the Constitution,” said the gentleman in
the greasy coat, with marked emphasis.

“Well,” said Ned, “we'll hear you, Sandy.”

Sandy rose up, and lifting his hand above his head,
as he began,—

“I say it stands to reason —”

“It stands to no such thing!” rejoined the other,
interrupting him, “if it's against the Constitution,—
which I say it is undoubtedly,—to come and take a
man's land without saying, by your leave; if I may
be allowed the expression, Mr. Ned Hazard, it's
running against a snag.”

“Silence,” said Ned, “Mr. Walker has the plank;
we can only hear one at a time!”

“Why, sir,” continued Sandy, argumentatively,
and looking steadfastly at his opponent, with one eye
closed, and, at the same time, bringing his right hand
into the palm of his left; “they can just cut off a
corner, if they want it, or go through the middle,
leaving one half here, and tother there, and make
you fence it clean through into the bargain; or,” added
Sandy, giving more breadth to his doctrine, “go
through your house, sir.”

“Devil a house have I, Sandy!” said the other.

“Or your barn, sir.”

“Nor barn nother.”

“Sweeping your bed right from under you, if Congress
says so. Arn't there the canal to go across the

Allegheny mountain? What does Congress care
about your state rights, so as they have got the
money!”

“Canals, I grant you,” said his antagonist; “but
there's a difference between land and water,” evidently
posed by Sandy's dogmatic manner, as well
as somewhat awed by the relation of landlord, in
which Sandy stood, and whom, therefore, he would
not rashly contradict. “But,” said he, in a more
softened tone, and with an affected spice of courtesy
in his accost, “Mr. Walker, I'd be glad to know if
we could'nt nullify.”

“Nullify!” exclaimed Sandy, “nullify what?”
said he, with particular emphasis on the last word.
“Do you know what old Hickory said down there
in the Creek nation, in the war, when the Indians
pretended they were going to have a ball play?”

“No.”

“ `If you don't go and wash all that there paint
from your faces, I'll give you the shockingest ball
play you ever had in all your lives.' ”

“You don't tell me so!” exclaimed the red-nosed
gentleman with animation, and bursting out into a
tremendous laugh.

“Did'nt he say so, Ned Hazard? I beg your pardon,
Mr. Ned Hazard?” ejaculated Sandy, and
turning to Ned.

“I think I have heard so,” said Ned, “though I
don't believe he used that exact expression.”

“It was something like it,” said Sandy: “well,
that's the sort of nullification you'd get.”

“Things are getting worse and worse,” replied the
other. “I can see how it's going! Here, the first
thing General Jackson did when he came in, he
wanted to have the President elected for six years;
and, by and by, they will want him for ten! and
now they want to cut up our orchards and meadows,
whether or no; that's just the way Bonaparte
went on. What's the use of states if they are all to
be cut up with canals and rail-roads and tariffs? No,
no, gentlemen! you may depend, Old Virginny's not
going to let Congress carry on in her day!”

“How can they help it?” asked Sandy.

“We hav'nt fout and bled,” rejoined the other,
taking out of his pocket a large piece of tobacco, and
cutting off a quid, as he spoke in a somewhat subdued
tone, “we hav'nt fout and bled for our liberties
to have our posterity and their land circumcised after
this rate, to suit the figaries of Congress. So let
them try it when they will!”

“Mr. Ned Hazard, what do you call state rights?”
demanded Sandy.

“It's a sort of a law,” said the other speaker, taking
the answer to himself, “against cotton and wool.”

“That's a fact,” cried Sandy, “and, in my thinking,
it's a very foolish sort of a business.”

“There's where you and me differs,” responded
the other.

“Well,” said Ned, “it's a troublesome question.
Suppose we wait until we hear what Old Virginia
says about it herself! And as for us, Sandy, it is getting
late, and we must go.”

These words concluded the colloquy; and, soon
after, having summoned our cavalcade, we set out
on our return to Swallow Barn, where we arrived
some time after night-fall.

Ned detailed the dialogue I have just described to
Frank Meriwether, in the course of the evening,
and, from what Frank let fall,—for he grew grave
on the subject,—I have reason to think that he has
some fearful misgivings of the ambitious designs of
the general government. He is decidedly of the
state rights party.