Journal of a Residence on a Georgian Plantation in 1838-1839 | ||
Dear E——,—This letter has remained unfinished, and my journal interrupted for more than a week. Mr. —— has been quite unwell, and I have been traveling to and fro daily between Hampton and the rice-island in the
The only exception that I have met with, yet among our boat voices to the high tenor which they seem all to possess is in the person of an individual named Isaac, a basso profondo of the deepest dye, who nevertheless never attempts to produce with his different register any different effects in the chorus by venturing a second, but sings like the rest in unison, perfect unison, of both time and tune. By-the-by, this individual does speak, and therefore I presume he is not an ape, ourang-outang, chimpanzee, or gorilla; but I could not, I confess, have conceived it possible that the presence of articulate sounds, and the
You cannot think (to return to the songs of my boatmen) how strange some of their words are: in one, they repeatedly chanted the ‘sentiment’ that ‘God made man, and man makes’—what do you think?—‘money!’ Is not that a peculiar poetical proposition? Another ditty to which they frequently treat me they call Caesar’s song; it is an extremely spirited war-song, beginning ‘The trumpets blow, the bugles sound—Oh, stand your ground!’ It has puzzled me not a little to determine in my own mind whether this title of Caesar’s song has any reference to the great Julius, and if so what may be the negro notion of him, and whence and how derived. One of their songs displeased me not a little, for it embodied the opinion that ‘twenty-six black girls not make mulatto yellow girl;’ and as I told them I did not like it, they have omitted it since. This desperate tendency to despise and undervalue their own race and color, which is one of the very worst results of their abject condition, is intolerable to me.
While rowing up and down the broad waters of the Altamaha to the music of these curious chants, I have been reading Mr. Moore’s speech about the abolition of slavery in the district of Columbia; and I confess I think his the only defensible position yet taken, and the only consistent argument yet used in any of the speeches I have hitherto seen upon the subject.
I have now settled down at Hampton again; Mr. —— is quite recovered, and is coming down here in a day or
I have now to tell you of my hallowing last Sunday by gathering a congregation of the people into my big sitting-room, and reading prayers to them. I had been wishing very much to do this for some time past, and obtained Mr. ——’s leave while I was with him at the Rice Island, and it was a great pleasure to me. Some of the people are allowed to go up to Darien once a month to church; but, with that exception, they have no religious service on Sunday whatever for them. There is a church on the Island of St. Simon, but they are forbidden to frequent it, as it leads them off their own through neighboring plantations, and gives opportunities for meetings between the negroes of the different estates, and very likely was made the occasion of abuses and objectionable practices of various kinds; at any rate, Mr. K—— forbade the Hampton slaves resorting to the St. Simon’s church; and so, for three Sundays in the month they are utterly without Christian worship or teaching, or any religious observance of God’s day whatever.
I was very anxious that it should not be thought that I ordered any of the people to come to prayers, as I particularly desired to see if they themselves felt the want of any Sabbath service, and would of their own accord join in any such ceremony; I therefore merely told the house servants that if they would come to the sitting-room at eleven o’clock, I would read prayers to them, and that they might tell any of their friends or any of the
I have resumed my explorations in the woods with renewed enthusiasm, for during my week’s absence they have become more lovely and enticing than ever: unluckily, however, Jack seems to think that fresh rattlesnakes have budded together with the tender spring foliage, and I see that I shall either have to give up my wood walks and rides, or go without a guide. Lovely blossoms are
This morning I drove up to the settlement at St. Annie’s, having various bundles of benefaction to carry in the only equipage my estate here affords,—an exceedingly small, rough, and uncomfortable cart, called the sick house wagon, inasmuch as it is used to convey to the hospital such of the poor people as are too ill to walk there. Its tender mercies must be terrible indeed for the sick, for I who am sound could very hardly abide them; however, I suppose Montreal’s pace is moderated for them: to-day he went rollicking along with us behind him, shaking his fine head and mane, as if he thought the more we were jolted the better we should like it. We found, on trying to go on to Cartwright’s Point, that the state of the tide would not admit of our getting thither, and so had to return, leaving it unvisited. It seems to me strange that where the labor of so many hands might be commanded, piers, and wharves, and causeways, are not thrown out (wooden ones, of course, I mean), wherever the common traffic to or from different parts of the plantation is thus impeded by the daily rise and fall of the river; the trouble and expense would be nothing, and the gain in convenience
Journal of a Residence on a Georgian Plantation in 1838-1839 | ||