Recollections of a southern matron

Front matter

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Preface

The " Southern Matron" was penned in the same spirit, and with the same object, as the "New-England Housekeeper" — to present as exact a picture as possible of local habits and manners. Every part, except the "love-passages," is founded in events of actual occurrence. Should it be thought that the views of human life in the two works, as has been suggested in private, have too much sunshine about them, I can only reply, that, to have made different descriptions, I must have resorted to imagination instead of fact, as far as my personal observation is concerned.

Perhaps, had I examined the details of the police-courts for my Northern sketch, or the registry of the magistrate-freeholders for my Southern, I might have found gloomier scenes ; but they would not have been such as Clarissa Packard and Cornelia Wilton would recognise in their daily experience.

Some apology may be necessary, as a matter of

taste, for the frequent introduction of the negro di-

• alect ; but the careful reader will perceive that it

j- has only been done when essential to the develop-

V ment of individual character.

tr

Vlll PREFACE.

I am indebted to one Northern and two Southern friends for the original materials of the story of Betsey, the servant-maid, the Deer Hunt, and My brother Ben's education, all of which I have modified to my narrative.

C. G.

Charleston, S. C, 1837.

RECOLLECTIONS

CHAPTER i. OLD JACQUE

" Onward, O'ershadowed more by the green underwood, Some slight-raised mounds showed where the dead were laid. Few gravestones told who slept beneath the turf. (Perchance the heart that deeply mourns needs not Such poor remembrancer.) The forest flowers Themselves had fondly clustered there — and white Azahas with sweet breath stood round about, Like fair young maidens mourning o'er their dead. In some sweet solitude like this I would That I might sleep my l?st long dreamless sleep."

Anna Maria Wells.

" He sought him through the bands of fight,

Mid many a pile of slaughtered dead, Beneath the pale moon's misty light,

With form that shuddered at each tread : For every step in blood was taken."

W. G. SIMMS.

I write in my paternal mansion. The Ashley, with a graceful sweep, glitters like a lake before me, reflecting the sky and the bending foliage. Occasionally a flat, with its sluggish motion, or a boat, with its urging sail, passes along, and the woods echo to the song or the horn of the negro, waking up life in the solitude. The avenue of noble oaks, under which T sported in childhood, still spread their strong arms, and rustle in the passing breeze. My children are frolicking on the lawn where my first footsteps were watched by tender parents, and one of those parents rests beneath yonder circling cedars. Change ! Sameness ! What a perpetual chime those words ring on the ear of memory ! My children love to lead me to the spot where they may spell the inscription on one princely monument to my grandfather, and hear the tale I have to tell of the fair, the good, and the brave who sleep in that enclosure, sacred to the domestic dead. There is but one inscription there, for we were as one.

I sometimes feel a joy that all are here — my grandparents ; the mother who gave me being ; the baby-sister, who looked like a sunbeam on the world and passed away ; my first-born, he who was twined to my heart's pulses by ties as strong as those which call up its natural vibration ; my noble brothers, and my poor cousin Anna, who planted herself the rose that blossoms on her grave ! The sun gilds the cedars with his brightest morning hue ; they shelter the sleepers from his noonday beams ; and when the moon rises over the cleared fields, showing an amphitheatre of distant woods, the cedar-mound stands out in full relief, and those dark sentinels seem to guard the dead. I thank thee, Heaven, that all I love are here ! — that stranger-dust mingles not with mine ! The tumult o.ffcthe city rolls not across this sanctuary ; careless curiosity treads not on these secluded graves ; nor does the idler cull the blossoms that affection has planted, or that time, with unsparing hand, has hung in graceful wreaths or clustered beauty around. No rude sound disturbs the silence. The whippoorwill softens, by her melancholy lay, the mockbird's tale of love and joy. The hare steals lightly over the hillocks, and the serpent twines his silken folds among the herbage ; yet do they not mar, like man, the sacred relics of memory, nor with jest and profanity disturb the gloom.

My grandfather fell early in our national struggle for liberty, and his bones might have whitened on the battlefield, had not a locket, containing the fair hair of my grandmother, suspended from his neck, revealed him to a faithful servant. Good old Jacque ! How often have I climbed his knees to hear his stories of the past! I even love to recall the peculiar accent with which he begulled our evenings, when appointed by our parents to superintend the younger servants in their absence. I can fancy I see him now, in winter, throwing the oak logs or lightwood knots on the wide hearth, standing (for he never would sit in the house, even in the presence of the children, unless when holding us on his knees) with a perpetual habit of conscientious trust ; or, in summer, seeking some sunny spot, and, with his blue handkerchief tied round his head, employing his feeble hands in net or basket making. Rarely could he resist our Southern entreaty of, Do, if you please, daddy Jacque, tell us about grandpapa's locket, and how he died.

Jacque had been intrusted with the entire control of his young master's household during the term of his education in Europe ; and while the confidence placed in him had somewhat increased his self-conceit, it never induced him to take a liberty beyond those which his peculiar situation authorized. Roseland, from the beauty of its location and its valuable paintings, was frequently Visited by strangers in the absence of its orphan proprietor, and it is a singular fact that Jacque was never known to ascend the hall stairs on such occasions. He pointed out the way with a bow and flourish of profound respect, and met the guests by a private stairway after they had ascended.

His master returned, married a lovely and highly-educated Southern girl, and the following year Roseland was made doubly beautiful by the birth of a noble boy, the pride of the house and plantation. This happiness was not of long duration, for the times approached which tried American souls, and the young father was called from the peaceful sunshine of his home, from the caresses of his wife and the prattle of his child, to the wild and stormy hardships of war. The night before his departure his wife led him to his likeness by Copley, which still hangs in the hall, and perused his lineaments long and earnestly. She gazed on the manly form beside her, then on the graceful but inanimate representative, took in the loving glance of the living eye, and compared it with its calmer image ; then, with a bitter sigh, sank into

12 RECOLLECTIONS OF

his arms. The young soldier comforted her with a husband's love, and drew her to the bedside of their sleeping boy. Little Henry started from his repose as they bent over him with whispered words, clung to his father's neck a moment, and then closing his eyes like the bell of a twilight flower, sank upon his pillow.

With his beautiful wife still resting on his arm, the fa* ther took from his desk a locket containing her hair, threw the black riband from which it was suspended about his neck, and kissed it fondly. The night passed heavily away, and darkness heavier than night hung over Roseland, when, on the following morning, he departed, attended by Jacque.

In an engagement with the British, Jacque lost sight of his master ; the enemy were victorious, and the Americans retreated, leaving their dead unprotected. When the pursuers were exhausted, Jacque searched with anxiety among the living, and, finding no trace of him, returned with sad, cautious, but resolute steps to the field of death. Among the disfigured remains he vainly endeavoured for a long time to distinguish him ; he who had so lately reposed in the arms of happy love, had found a cold and bloody bed with the promiscuous slain, among whom not even faithful friendship could detect his semblance. At length Jacque found on a mutilated form a locket, with its braid of auburn hair. He shook his head with an expression of satisfied grief, and wiped the bloody jewel with his coat sleeve. Then bearing the body to a stream, cleansed it reverently, dug a grave, and laid it in its place of rest. Touched and kindled by affectionate remembrance, he knelt on the pliant mould, and offered up an untutored prayer.

It was a dark and stormy evening when he returned, and my grandmother had kept her young son awake, with gentle artifice, for companionship. A footstep was heard, m the piazza, and Dash gave a growl between warning and recognition, while Henry, clapping his hands, exclaimed, " Papa ! papa !" His mother started as Jacque entered, and exclaimed, "Where is your master1?"

Jacque was silent, and stood wiping from his cheeks the streaming tears.

" Tell me, Jacque, for the love of God," cried she, clasping the negro's arm, " where is your master !"

" Jacque got no maussa now," said he, sobbing, " but little Maus Henry."

A long and piercing shriek broke forth from the widow's stricken heart, and she fell senseless on the floor beside her frightened son.

The intelligence spread rapidly through the plantation. Shrieks and lamentations were heard from hut to hut — wild gesticulations were seen by the kindled torchlights among the young, as they cried, " My maussa dead, poor me !" — while the old, rocking on their seats and lifting their hands, responded, " The Lord's will be done. He knows."

The following day all was calm but the widow's heart ; there the bitter strife of a new sorrow raged like a tempest. Even Henry's presence was intolerable. Poor boy ! his very step was harsh to her, as, with a paper cap and wooden sword, he marched about her apartment, threatening to revenge his father's death.

Jacque was for several days revolving a measure of importance in his own mind ; and at length, determining to give it utterance, went to claim a few moments' attention from his mistress.

She could only shade her eyes, as if to shut out too painful an object, and with one hand pressed closely on her heart, as though to hush its tumult.

" Jacque don't mean no disrespec," said the negro, bowing, as if his errand had something in it of dignity ; " my missis know dat as my missis is poorly, and Maussa Henry an't got of no size, Jacque has to turn over what is best to be done for de family ; and one great trouble it is on my mind, dat my maussa, what provide like one lord even for niggers, let alone white folks, should lay out mong de wolf and varmin, when we could gie 'em such good commodation here, and keep our eye on him, to say nothing of Christian buryin."

My grandmother was instantly roused ; and, starting up, B with an animated voice she said, " My dear, good Jacque, can he be brought to me 1 God bless you for the thought !"

A motive for action was now given her, and her heart seemed lightened of a part of its burden. It was a consolation to her to take Henry by the hand, and go forth in search of an appropriate spot for her husband's grave. It seemed to her excited imagination like preparing an apartment for an absent friend.

" Here, mamma," said her prattling boy, " is a pretty place. Papa used to stand under this tree and throw chips into the pond for Dash to bring to me."

" No, my son," said his mother, musingly ; " it is too far. I must see the spot from my window. Look, Henry, at the cluster of cedars on that slightly-rising ground. See how the sun shines on the tree-tops, while all beneath is gloom ! Like my hopes," she continued, mentally, " so lately seeming bright when all was darkness. That shall be the spot, Henry," she continued, " and you must see that I am laid there too."

The boy looked wistfully at her, and said, "And where shall I go, mamma'?"

He had unconsciously touched the right string; and, as she stooped to kiss his forehead, she patiently resolved to wait God's will, and live for him.

While these scenes of tenderness were beguiling the feelings of the widow, Jacque, with a band of fellowservants, went on his melancholy errand. Even to the imagination, which only partially illuminated the uneducated mind of the negro, the contrast was strong between the aspect of that now silent field, and the recent period when contending forces, with weapons flashing in the sun, and faces tinged with expectation, and footsteps timed to the march of war, had passed before him. It was a moonlight night, one of those nights which seem to exaggerate brightness and stillness, when Jacque led the way to his master's rude grave.

" 'Tis a pretty sight, my young maussas and missis," he used to say, when relating this story, while we stood with inward tremour, almost expecting the pictures of

■our grandparents to start from their frames ; " 'tis a pretty thing for see one corpse lay out handsome on he natural bed, wid he head to de east, and he limb straight, and he eye shut, and he white shroud, and de watchers sing psalm ; but 'twas altogedder onnatural to see my poor maussa wid de ragiments on, and de varmin busy bout him, and de moonlight shine down, and de owl hoot. Dem niggers (natural fools) get scare when we get to maussa self ; den says I, ' My men, how you been let folks say dat we have Christian grave, while our maussa, what fed us and kivered us, was laying mong wolf? It's an ugly job, but to it, my men ; and as it is a disrespec to sing " heave ho," one of you strike up a hymn to help us on.' "

There was no ear to listen to those sounds as they rose up on the midnight air, no eye to appreciate that intrepidity which could conquer the dread of superstitious ignorance. I am wrong. He who formed hearts in one mould did not disregard them.

They placed the remains of the soldier in the coffin brought for them, and closed it reverently.

The widow, nerved for the obsequies of her husband, reclined in silence, with Henry by her side. Friends from the city and neighbouring plantations sat or stood in whispering circles, shrouded by scarfs, and hoods, and weepers, each holding a sprig of rosemary twined with white paper ; the glasses and pictures were turned to the wall, and every article of taste covered with a white cloth. Labour was suspended, the household servants stood in the piazza clothed ifi mourning, and the fieldslaves, with such little testimonials of external respect as they could beg or borrow, arranged themselves .below. The coffin was brought to the piazza, its costly ornaments riveted, and little Henry held up to see the inscription. In the city, after a recent decease, the widow would have remained secluded in the formality of grief; but in this case there seemed to be a call for a representative mourner ; and, taking Henry's hand, she followed the six negro female waiters dressed in white, with napkins pinned over their shoulders, who were preceded by the coffin, which was borne by his people, attended by the pall-bearers, friends of the deceased. The procession passed on, followed by the servants, to Cedar Mound. The coffin was lowered, " dust to dust" was pronounced over it, and the earth fell upon its glittering decorations. Henry clung to his mother, crying, " Papa, come back," while the lamentations and shrieking howl of the negroes filled the air. The widow looked on with zealous scrutiny until the last spadeful of earth was deposited on the swelling mound ; then taking her son home, retired to her apartment, where her heart only knew its own bitterness.

The boy soon forgot, in childish blessedness, the funeral of his father, and his notes of happiness rang through the mansion ; but how achingly did his mother's thoughts for lingering years dwell in sad revery on her husband's grave. And it is on that spot that my eye now turns. She trained the various vines over its white paling, and planned the monument sacred to her first beloved. There little Henry loved to play with the falling leaves, or gather spring flowers ; there his mother laid her head, crowned with reverend honours ; there my mother lies ; and there may my limbs be borne when God shall call my spirit. But no gloom rests upon it. It has always been a favourite scene for the children of our household. It is not enough that grief should go there and lay down its earthly treasure, or that old age should moralize beneath its shades ; happy voices, like Henry's, may still be heard in its enclosure, and the crisp and fresh winter rose that*my own Lewis has thrown in my lap he gathered from poor cousin Anna's grave.

Chapter II. College Friendship And College Love

*' Look, when I vow I weep ; and vows so born, In their nativity all truth appears."

Midsummer Night's Dream.

" Too soon, oh all too soon — will come In later years the spell,-* Touching with changing huas the path Where once but sunlight fell."

Frances S. Osgood.

From the day of his father's death, Henry was monarch of all he surveyed ; his mother gazed on him with eyes of untiring love ; the elder servants fostered him with protecting pity ; and a troop of young ones followed his steps, to serve and sport with him.

The softness inspired by constant indulgence was counteracted by the scenes of danger to which this very indulgence permitted him to resort. He managed a horse incredibly soon, and, long before a city boy had poised a gun, was in the fields winning his own dinner. Though startled by his daring, his mother soon felt pride in the deer's horns and fox's skins that he suspended from the hall, and the fish caught by him tasted fresher than from any other hands. Henry was one of the busiest beings on the wide earth. His horse, his hounds, his rabbits, his terapins, his birds, &c, gave him incessant occupation between his hours of study. He was a lad of wild and warm affections, and no one knew whether he threw his arms around his horse's or his mother's neck with the most ardour. With great quickness of capacity he contrived to glean an education from his private tutor, and was fitted for college. Long were the discussions on his future destination ; at length it was decided that he should enter Harvard College, and his mother, with a sweet magnanimity, consented to give up her boy for those long, long four years.

B2

It was Henry's sixteenth birthday, on a spring morning, when his travelling apparatus was deposited in the piazza, and he stood with his mother to see Jacque turn the last key. The field-hands who could form any excuse had gathered to bid him farewell. They were all very sad, and one (his nurse) was weeping bitterly. The negro children stood on the lawn with a thoughtful air, watching the preparations for his departure. Henry was f" determined to bear the separation like a man, but Jacque 1 was unusually irritable. He kicked the dogs, called the little boy who held the travelling bag a " black-faced nigger," and hit the leading horse such a blow on the side of the head, that his mistress called him to order.

" Eberyting go wrong to-day, missis," said Jacque in an apologetic tone.

Grandmamma and Henry dared not trust a long embrace. Why should they, when her arms had encircled him sixteen years, and when she had stolen to his room the night before and slept on his very pillow, while his cheek unabashed nestled close to hers 1 He shook hands with all the people, and " God bless my young maussa !" was heard from one to the other as they courtesied or bowed low at his farewell. " Don't cry, Nanny," said he to his nurse, as her audible sobs struggled through the apron she had thrown over her face.

" Old Nanny an't gawing for see Maus Henry no more - in dis worl !" said she. " Nanny live long enough now, if Maus Henry no stay wid dem dat raise him."

Jacque had stood somewhat aloof, as if he did not consider himself as belonging to the general group ; and it was not until after Henry was seated in the carriage with his tutor, that, with an. evident struggle and a preparatory hem ! he said,

" Good-by, Maus Henry. Take care you no dishonour de family. Keep straight, my young maussa, walk close.* Jacque can manage missis bery well, and notting an't gawing for trouble she ; but who gawing for take care Maus Henry but God Almighty V

* These expressions are very common among the negroes, and signify, be correct ; be pious.

Henry was admitted pretty fairly at Harvard, and his collegiate life flowed on happily. No one rode such spirited horses as he ; his coat was cut with the latest touch of fashion ; the tie of his cravat was a study, his flute inimitable ; the graceful solemnity of his bow supplied the Want of deeper knowledge ; and a happy facility of expression carried him over his recitations ; many a poor student blessed his liberality, and many a dull one his quickness ; the cheerfulness of his manners won him golden opinions ; and he who had been attended by slaves from infancy was seen carrying his own bowl of milk* or chocolate across the college-yard, with a bow and jest for all ; his classmates caressed him, the fair smiled upon him, and Henry Wilton, the southerner, was pronounced a noble fellow.

He graduated with a secondary college honour, but it was sufficient to hang a splendid dinner upon. Happy they to whom his invitations came before any other sealed up the avenue of acceptance !

The young graduate was the star of commencementday. His sparkling countenance, graceful manner, fine oratory, and a few appropriate compliments to the ladies, bore off peals of applause, while more elaborate essays were unheeded by the audience. He had secured for his entertainment the splendid line of Boston belles, who, in floating veils and flower-wreathed curls, with " lips apart," leaned from the crowded galleries to listen to — him !

A richly-prepared table was laid under a decorated awning on a green in an enclosure, about a quarter of a mile from the colleges. Thither his guests resorted after the exercises were concluded ; and Henry, flushed with success, floating on the very clouds of youthful excitement, led the way, with the mother of Lucy Sullivan on his arm. And Lucy followed with his friend Winthrop. Was it an August sun that kindled up her cheek in such a glow of rosiness, or was it that Henry, as he guided the -mother,

* A custom for which the meals in the commons hah is now a substitute.

looked back on the beautiful girl, and catching a fold of her veil, retained it gently in his hand ]

It required no little circumspection to thread the mazes of the Cambridge common on commencementday. At one moment they justled against a squarecapped professor ; at another came in contact with a crowd around a merry-andrew ; now a gowned orator, with his coloured riband or medal, the badge of a society, swept by ; and now they were impeded by flocks of children hurrying to the booths for confectionary ; here was a mob of rioters simply kept from violence by constables, and there pressed a bevy of laughing girls in the airy dress of a ball-room, escorted by young collegians.

The excitement was increased by the ordinarily quiet habits of the Cambridge residents. Over that wide, I open common, then diversified only by a few graceful elms, usually brooded the deepest silence and monotony, scarcely interrupted by the thoughtful student conning to the air his appointed task, or the laggard hurrying to his recitation. And the airy-decorated figures of the" city ladies were equally opposed to the simple costume of the Cambridge girls. Indeed, until within a few years, one might almost know a Cambridge lady by the plainness of her attire and the absence of external accomplishments, contrasted with the cultivation of her mind.

Henry soon saw his guests seated at his rich banquet, and attended them with cheerful grace, while the little pleasantries of untasked intellect flew around. What was wanting to his happiness 1 On one side was Lucy Sullivan, with a mingled look of trust and bashfulness varying on her young cheek, and on the other his classmate Winthrop, pledged a friend for weal or wo.

But, as the festivity rose, Lucy's brow began to sadden. " You are silent, Miss Sullivan," whispered Henry. " I go the day after to-morrow, and this day should be sacred to smiles."

He stopped, for he saw a tremulous motion on her lips ; and, before she could control herself, a tear stole down her burning cheek. He withdrew his eyes from hers ;

and, selecting a piece of myrtle from a bouquet near him, carried it, unobserved but by her, to his lips, and laid it on her ungloved hand.

A few honeyed words were spoken as at the close of the dinner he committed her to the care of a Cambridge friend, and Winthrop and himself sallied to the college hall to join the commencement dinner-party, to which they were entitled as graduates. The company had dined, and were just rising to unite in the hymn which, from an early period, has thrown a sacred charm over this literary festival. The venerable president, clergymen collected from every quarter, statesmen, lawyers, graduates, and invited guests, all stood reverently, and responded with the tune of St. Martin's, as two lines at a fttime were read by one of the professors.*

There was no coldness in the solemn strain that uprose from that assembly, but busy associations were in every breast, as they thus linked their alma mater with religious responsibilities.

* PSALM.

Sung statedly at the Commencement-dinner in Harvard College, to the tune of St. Martin's ; the company standing.

" Give ear, ye children ; to my law Devout attention lend ; Let the instructions of my mouth Deep in your hearts descend.

" My tongue, by inspiration taught, Shall parables unfold ; Dark oracles, but understood,

And own'd for truths of old :

•

" Which we from sacred registers Of ancient times have known ; And our forefathers' pious care To us has handed down.

" Let children learn the mighty deeds Which God perform'd of old ; Which, in our younger years, we saw, And which our fathers told.

" Our lips shall tell them to our sons, And they again to theirs ; That generations yet unborn May teach them to their heirs."

This feeling was a happy preparation to Henry and Winthrop, when, retiring from the hall linked arm in arm, they resolved to visit Sweet Auburn,* to view the glories of a dying sunset together, and pledge again their , vows of friendship. They were full of sweet communing, and poured out those feelings which youth only knows. ' They carved their names in a circle on a tree, and exchanged books, those precious ties for intellectual friendship. Henry had traced on a Horace the trite but expressive couplet —

" Where'er I go, whatever realms I see, My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee" —

and Winthrop wrote on a rich edition of Gray's poems the following extract : —

Horace.

They lingered in this heart intercourse until the rising moon lighted up the distant spires of the city, and tinged the Charles with its quiet beauty. How often had they on that very spot looked to this moment as a bright and verdant point in their existence ! It had come ; the ties of four years spent in growing manhood were to be severed. Were they happy 1 If they were, happiness has sighs and tears. With hand clasped in hand they looked far down into each other's hearts, more busy with memory than hope. They could not tear themselves away. Again they gazed on the Giant's Grave — they lingered on Moss Hill ; they plighted solemn vows in the Dell, and a tenderness, shaded like the parting twilight, stole over their souls.

It was a sultry night ; and the moon's rays, usually so clear and cool, were like the noon sun to Lucy Sullivan, as they came through her curtained window and shone