V A KEEPSAKE FOR THE ANGELS
When we went home Uncle Charles came to the wharf to meet us. He was dressed in the clothes left to him by my grandfather's will and, dangling from his watch-chain, glaring at us in bold relief against his black velvet vest, a set of artificial teeth grinned in ghastly manner from their gold settings. In those days artificial teeth were not common, and when Mr. Durkee, a dentist from Connecticut, came into our neighborhood and hung out his sign, all of a certain class who could raise money enough had their teeth taken out and replaced by false ones.
That year when my grandmother asked Uncle Charles what he would like for a Christmas present he chose "a p'ar of dem sto' teef," explaining that his were "moughty nigh wo' out, chawin' 'backer en a gnashin' de mules of a week days en de sinners of a Sundays."
My grandmother reasoned with him on the folly of making the exchange but he had set his heart upon it and she, with her habit of spoiling her servants by indulging them, permitted him to be measured and fitted for his "sto' teef," of which he was so proud that he wore them more for ornament than use, displaying them at all special functions.
As Uncle Charles drove us home he had many confidences to make to my grandmother. The most important was about little Sara Elizabeth.
"Dem blin' en deef chu'ch visitors of we-alls—I don' mean no disrespect to dar reflictions—but dey's spilin' dat li'l Sara 'Lizbef. You knows, dey 'lowed dat gal to play on de spinet of a Sunday mornin's?—En dance chunes, at dat? En dat ain't all; dey 'sputes so wif deyse'fs over her dat it's scan'lous, en dar ain't no gittin' along wid 'em."
Little Sara, the bone of contention between the two, as Uncle Charles said, proved in a fair way to be spoiled. On my return she looked upon me as an intruder, but when she was made to feel that her rights were not to be infringed upon she welcomed me into the old companionship. I took great comfort in her, but often (though I kept the secret in my heart) the unguarded words of my mammy, "dat chile bleeged fer ter die anyhow," occurred to me and made me sorry and afraid, yet I knew not why, for I had no idea of death.
One night I was awakened by the sound of voices and, peeping from under the covers, saw the bald head of our old family physician, Dr. Finney, and the anxious face of my grandmother, who was holding the big brass nursery candlestick. I caught the word "croup." Then their voices were lowered to a whisper as they looked toward my bed. They went out and closed the door and I lay awake a long time thinking, wondering who or what was "croup."
Next morning I awakened long after my usual hour and was told that I must be very quiet for my grandmother had a headache. While my mammy was dressing me she sighed and looked mysteriously wise, and between the fastening of my buttons and the curling of my hair repeated over and over again, "Lord a massy on us! We're here to-day but gone to-morrow!"
As I was tiptoeing down the hall my grandmother called me. She was sitting in her wrapper before a corn-cob fire. Taking me upon her lap and rocking me she tenderly stroked my hair. Mammy, shaking her head, leaned against the mantel and moaned and groaned. I turned away and looked into the crackling fire till presently the beautiful pictures in the burning coals made me break the solemn silence, and I said:
"Look, grandmother! See! A ship of coals loaded with falling stars and Jack-er-my-lanterns—Oh, and see! There is a city of gold! See that old castle tumbling down. See the silver cloud going so fast to the city and white flowers and sunshine all falling down and——"
"Yes, I see, my darling," replied my grandmother, pressing me closely to her.
"I knowed dat chile was gwine to be pestered seein' sperits, but, Mistis, dar p'intedly ain't no occasion of yo 'couragin' her in it lak you is," objected my mammy, throwing on an armful of fresh cobs and destroying my golden glory pictures.
"Now, go along, darling, and eat your breakfast," said my grandmother, "and then you may tell Ole-Granny-Aggie that she may let you go into the weaving room and give you the old cards and some of the waste wool to card, and if you are very good she may let you run the shuttle awhile. Tell her she need not 'toker' off her stent to-day, but just take care of you."
I stopped for a minute and looking up at her said, "And little Sara, too, please, marm?" She shook her head and shivered; then mammy took me away.
It was always enchanting to watch Ole-Granny-Aggie weave, but to be allowed to sit at the loom and slide the shuttle through with my own hands was a special rapture. Yet this day I did not enjoy it, for I felt that something unusual had happened and associated it with my little friend.
The next morning mammy got out my new silk reins and hitched up Mary Frances and Arabella, my "match of blacks," for me to drive, and as we returned after a long race I saw an old gentleman with bent back carrying a beautiful white box into the house.
"Oh, how pretty! What is it for?" I asked my grandmother.
"A little jewel casket, my darling, to hold a keepsake that I am going to send to the angels. There, there; run along now and play."
I went into the garden where our own little bed of white violets was in full bloom, and suddenly remembering with a pang that my little Sara had wanted to gather them all and that I would let her have only what I saw fit she should have, I said, "She shall have every one now," and gathering my apron almost full I ran into the house.
The door of the room which had been closed to me for two days had been accidentally left ajar and, hearing my grandmother's voice, I ran in.
She and poor Miss Sophia and "Miss Mary" and several of the neighbors and servants were standing around that little white casket resting on a table in the center of the room.
"Is the keepsake in it?" I asked.
My grandmother lifted me up and there, sweetly sleeping, was my little Sara Elizabeth. I whispered my wish to put the violets into her lap so that she could see them the first thing when she awakened and know that I was sorry and had brought her both our shares. My grandmother held me while I gently, and with no word, lest I should awaken her, put my violets into her arms so as to "s'prise her when she waked." Then I whispered to my grandmother as she carried me away, "Do angels want little children for keepsakes?"
VI AFRICAN ROYALTY
One of the enchantments of my childhood was the old cabin in the vale at the entrance to the grounds of the mansion house at Holiday's Point, where the gate-keeper, Uncle Bosun Keeling, and his wife, Aunt Charity, lived. I used to run down the cypress-bordered path to the old lodge to hear him tell "dem Bible-tales" and to see Aunt Charity's shining black face surmounted by her flaming red "haid-hankcher," a combination artistic and beautiful. She would take me on her lap and tell the old legends that had come down through generations of dusky story-tellers.
"Yas, honey," she would say, telling me one of the five versions of the origin of her race, "we was all niggers once. Dar wa'n't no white folks at all, 'twel one day de Lord was tekin' a interview of His wu'ks to see ef dey was good, when He tuk notus dat we-all didn't 'preciate what He'd done for us, so He mekt up His mind to come down to de earf en test our lub en gratichude en faif in His holy word en 'vide de sheeps fum de goats. He put on His patum leather boots en beaver hat en tuck His gold-headed cane en come 'long down de golden stairs en th'oo de golden gate, down de golden lane to whar de road forked to come to de ye'th.
"'Twas de springtime of de yeah en de whole face of de ye'th was a bloomin' en a buddin'. De paschers was all green en bescattered wid buttercups en clover blossoms en de cattles on a t'ousan' plains was a grazin' on 'em. De birds was all a singin' chunes, de roses a buddin' en de violets en Johnny-quils en hyercinfs a bloomin', de trees was all white-washed en kivered wid leaves, de grape-wines was a perfumin' up de air, en de orchards was pink en white en green all over. De hens was all a cacklin', en de chickens en ducks en goslin's all a hatchin'. All de ole sheeps had li'l lambs en some of 'em had two, en all de cows was givin' three gallons to de pail.
"De Lord was s'prized hisse'f at de glorification of His handywu'k. He bowed His haid in humble somilichude, en was jest gwine to pray, when He heard sump'n go kerchunk-kerchunk. He drapped His eyes en, lo! dar was a mud-tuckle mekin' for a pond of muddy water. He looked at de tuckle en He looked at de pond. Den He tuk some yeast powders en flung 'em in de pond. Dat 'sturbed de waters, en dey riz en bubbled, riz en bubbled, 'twel dey was as cl'ar as cryslum. Den He blessed de pond en named it de Pool of 'Thesda.
"He went 'long den to de co'tehouse, for 'twuz co'te day en He knowed dem niggers was gwine to be dar ef dey could git dar. En dey was, sho' 'nough. 'Co'se de niggers didn' know de Lord was dar, en ef dey had He was inwisible en dey couldn't see 'Im nohow. But de Lord could see dem, dough, en dey was behavin' scan'lous. Some of 'em was magestricks en constubles en auctioneers; some was swiggin' cider en drams en 'simmon beer. Some was racin' hosses en fightin' chickens or playin' games or whittlin' sticks or swoppin' knives or eatin' hoss-cakes en watermillions. Some was 'sputin' en quarlin' en foughtin' en some was sittin' on dar ham-bones gossickin' 'bout one nuther.
"De Lord's heart suttin'ly was troubled. He spuk out in a loud woice en tole 'em to go to de Pool of 'Thesda en bave darse'fs. Now dem niggers knowed ebby inch of dat groun' en dey knowed dar wan't no Pool of 'Thesda dar; but dem dat lubbed en serbed de Lord en feared His holy name didn' queschify 'bout de pool. Dey went as fars' as dey could en baved darse'fs en dey come out jest as white as ef dey had been libin' in town all dar libes en wearin' sun-bonnets. Dar lub en faif had washed away dar brack skins en mekt 'em white as de blood of de lamb.
"When dey went back to de co'tehouse de yuthers wanted to git obedient den, too, so dey tuck off en run to de pon'. De supples' en de swif'es dey got dar firs' en come out mos' as white as dat firs' passel, sep'n dar eyes en dar hyar en dar eye-brows stayed brack.
"De Chinesers en Injuns en Italyuns en yuther furriners dey sticked dar haids in firs' en unkinked dar hyar, en dey come out 'twix' a brindle en a brown. But dem dar lazy niggers dat didn' lub de Lord stayed at de co'tehouse drinkin' drams en projickin' en cussin' en cyarin' on 'twel 'twas jamby sundown, den dey jest amble darse'fs, sa'nterin' 'long lak dey had de whole day befo' 'em—a singin' chunes en a chawin' terbacker en smokin' dar pipes, en when dey reached de pon' dar wan' no pon' dar. It had all dried up.
"Dey suttinly was one s'prized passel of niggers, for dey'd allus called demse'fs de rambunkshunners en dey couldn't b'lieve dar eyes. Ebby now en den dey come 'cross a li'l moisch place yer en a li'l moisch place dar en dey'd run en pat it wid de palms of dar han's en de soles of dar foots, en dat's all de white dar is 'bout a nigger fum dat day to dis—jest de palms of dar han's en de soles of dar foots."
When Aunt Charity would tell these old legends Uncle Bosun would sit spell bound as if it were the first time he had ever heard them and when she would finish he would shake his head with pride and say:
"My ole woman she sho' kin talk lak a readin' book, en she ain't one er dem kin' dat licks de 'lasses offn yo' bread en den calls you nigger. Needer do she bek de bread en give you de crus', nor eat de meat en give you de hus'. She gives you de white meat ebby time. En she never follows de jay-bird's trade, needer, a carryin' news, en dress—she allus dresses sincerely."
He was a very pious old man, cherishing extreme reverence for the works of God, with small respect for the innovations of man. When Doctor Durkee, the "tooth doctor," appeared in the neighborhood Uncle Bosun's rigid principles arose in opposition. He looked with both scorn and fear upon the glistening teeth that were the pride of Uncle Charles's heart—and plead with him "not to 'courage dat ole doctor in de imitation of de Lord's handy wu'ks, fer he was a back-slider en a robber, en den ag'in don't de Lord say, 'Dou shalt not mek any graven image or lakness of anyt'ing dat is in de heaven above or dat is in de earf beneaf or dat is in de water under de earf,' en dat means yo' teef jest de same as ef de good Lord had specified teef en said, 'Charles 'Rastus Thessalonians, yo' teef is a graven image,' en ain't yo' teef under de earf beneaf?"
"No," said Uncle Charles, "He wouldn' say dat kase my teefs is in my mouf."
This frivolous reasoning was contemptuously set aside by the logical mind of Uncle Bosun, and later when Dr. Durkee committed various thefts and took his departure in undignified haste, my father asked the gate-keeper how he knew that the doctor was a rascal.
"Lor, Marse Dae," he said, "I lives so close to de things dat God made in de woods en on de water dat I kin scent de bad fum de good ev'y time."
Uncle Bosun claimed royal blood, having descended from Uncle Jack, the son of a king, who was brought over from Africa in the last slaveship that deposited its cargo at Old Osborne on the James River. We loved to hear him tell of his royal ancestor.
"Yes, chillun," he would say, "yo' Uncle Jack, my ancestor, was hired out to de oldes' college in de United States, William en Mary, named atter Marse William en Miss Mary from London who give 'em de groun' to build de college on, en de town what 'twas built in was de capital in dem days en was de oldes' corporal town in ole Virginny. De firs' newspaper, too, was printed dar. Yo' Uncle Jack had charge of all de books at de college en dey says ev'y time he'd dus' de books dat Marse Robert Dinsmore give to de college he'd stop en read de adbertisement writ on 'em, 'Ubi Libertas Ibi Patria,' en say to hisse'f, 'I wonder why on earf Marse Robert Dinsmore want to separate dat po' couple for, when he was rich en could a bought Libi en Pat bofe hisse'f 'stead a orderin' de yuther man to buy Libi en sayin' he was gwine to buy Pat.'"
Uncle Bosun told us how the preachers of all denominations, though they were half-starved in those days, had joined together and bought Uncle Jack from his owners and given him his freedom. He was not only good but brave and always spoke his mind without fear, telling the negroes when they would shout at revival meetings that it was scandalous for them to make so much fuss about such a calm and serious thing as religion, that they put him in mind of the little brooks after a rain, soon full, then noisy, roaring and rushing, then just as soon empty again. He asked them to try to be more dignified with their religion and more like the great, broad, deep river, for he said he had noticed that the more ignorant folks were, the more shallow their religion was, and the more noise they made over it, just like the dry and no account leaves, he said, that always make more noise when the wind blows through them than the green ones do.
A rich man, Mr. Haxall, owner of Haxall's mills—the mills that made the only flour in the United States in those days that could be carried across the ocean without spoiling—had, like many gentlemen of that time, a habit of profanity. One day when he was swearing Uncle Jack asked if he wouldn't please, being a rich and mighty man, set an example to the world and quit swearing. Mr. Haxall replied:
"Jack, old man, what for? I'm very well satisfied with myself as I am. I don't know what more I want than I have. In fact, as far as I can see, Jack, I'm just as well off as any of you Christians."
"Jest so, Marser, jest so wid de horgs," said Uncle Jack. "You know, suh, I's often stood en watched 'em rootin' 'mongst de leaves in de woods en findin' as many acorns as dey could pos'bly eat en stuff en I ain't never yet seed one of dem horgs look up to de tree fum whar de acorns drapped."
Mr. Haxall, leaning on his cane, walked up and down the floor and then stopped in front of Uncle Jack and said:
"Well, old man, what you say is all true and after this I am going to look up to the tree."
VII OUR FIRST CURRENCY
Among my childish recollections is an intricate combination of great-grandfathers, white mulberries, gold dollars, a lone eye, guinea eggs, pipes, and bloody massacres, all centering around a visit from my own great-grandfather, Dr. John Phillips, and his friend, Judge John Y. Mason.
"Somebody's comin' down de lane en it's ole Marser, kase I knows him by his high-top gig en his star-face critter," called out a little colored boy, George Washington Cæsar Napoleon Bonaparte, whose keen eyes had caught sight of an approaching gig. "Dar's anudder gemman alongside of him en anudder li'l boy settin' in de foots of de gig."
By the time the visitors were at the gate, heralded by the barking dogs and the little colored children calling "H-y-e-r comes ole Marser, h-y-e-r comes ole Marser!" the whole family had assembled on the veranda to welcome the guests.
The first to alight was a graceful, courtly old man with the bearing of a soldier—my great-grandfather. The artificial eye which had taken the place of one of those provided by Nature was a badge of heroism, reminiscent of the war of 1812. After affectionate greetings from children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, servants and dogs, he held out his hands to his companion and assisted him to alight.
"This," he said, "is my young friend, Judge John Y. Mason, whom you know."
From my great-grandfather's point of view, Judge Mason may have been youthful, but from mine he was of great age, less venerable than his friend and companion only because he lacked the distinguishing title of patriarchal relationship, and looked out upon the world, like ordinary people, through two eyes.
"And this," he said, jumping the little boy out, "is my still younger friend, Ned Drewry, whose family you know."
Then began the unpacking of the gig-box, which we eagerly watched. I remember being especially interested in a bucket of white mulberries and a basket of guinea eggs.
Later, as a reward for reciting "Little Drops of Water," I received a shiny gold dollar, one of the first minted.
When I hear the lament of to-day, that there is no money in poetry, I recall my early lesson to the contrary. My first effort having been so successful I gave "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" as a voluntary, in the mercenary hope that the twinkles, like the drops, might be transmuted into gold. After curtseying to my great-grandfather my thanks for the dollar I ran across the room and, looking inquiringly at Judge Mason, asked:
"Are you anybody's great-grandfather? No, 'course you couldn't be, 'cause you've got two eyes."
As my own great-grandfather was the only relation of that rank whom I had ever seen, it had been borne in upon my mind that a single eye was the distinguishing characteristic of great-grandfathers.
Judge Mason's manner of smoking next attracted my attention. I had never seen a pipe used except by the negroes on the plantation.
"Did you run off and play with the little colored children and not mind your black mammy and learn bad habits when you were a little boy is the reason you smoke pipes now?"
"No," he replied. "I never learned any bad habits from the negroes. They have very few bad habits. All the bad habits I have ever learned were from white people."
Knocking the ashes out of his pipe he said:
"My child, when great-grandfathers were little babies this—" taking out his tobacco-bag and filling his pipe from it—"was the only real money in this country and was of greater value than the kind which you now hold in your little hand."
Then he went on to tell me in words that a child could understand that money debts were not even recoverable. Tobacco debts only were valid, and to sell bad tobacco or pay a debt with it was a crime, precisely as it is now to sell or pay counterfeit money. Tobacco was the currency, and an excess was as injurious as an over-issue of bank paper, depreciating on the market and causing everything to rise in price. Great care was taken to burn bad tobacco, and it was as important to the uniformity of the currency in those days as is now the exclusion of counterfeits. All the viewings, censorships, inspections and regulations of the amount of tobacco to be cultivated by each planter, the quality to be gathered from each plant, the rules prescribed, were as important as the laws of the mint are now.
Judge Mason's tobacco-bag was the next subject of my inquiry.
"'Tisn't cloth-cloth. Is it tobacco-cloth?" I asked. "Did people have tobacco-cloth as well as tobacco-money in those days?"
"No; this is rattlesnake skin. The snake was killed by Charles Lewis, who lived a long time ago in my county, Augusta. The Indians caught him, tied his hands behind him and made him walk two hundred miles. As they were going along a high precipice he broke the cords and jumped down. The Indians followed and he escaped by springing over a fallen tree, landing among the tall weeds. His pursuers did not see him fall and they jumped over both the tree and the man and ran on as fast as they could. Lying there he heard the hissing of a snake and opening his eyes saw a large rattlesnake almost touching him. It moved its rattles and twice they rested upon his ear and neck. He was so numbed with fright that he could not move, luckily for him, for if he had moved a muscle or breathed the snake would have bitten him. Its eyes glared into his and it seemed to think he was dead, and so wriggled away. He picked up a stone and hit it upon the head, killing it, and carried home the rattles and skin and this bag was made from a piece of that skin."
The mother of this Charles Lewis was the beautiful daughter of the Laird of Loch Lyn, and to his father, John Lewis, was accredited the introduction of red clover. The white or wild clover was of indigenous growth and abounded in great plenty, but the red clover was not known until the blood of the red man, shed by the Lewises and their followers, suddenly dyed the trefoil to its sanguinary hue. The Indians fully believed this legend and superstitiously held the red clover sacred. The superstition spread among the settlers and for a long time the milk of a cow that had eaten the blood-stained blossom was believed to be tainted with blood.
Little Ned Drewry, the third occupant of the gig, with a boy's natural indifference to poetic effusion, had slipped away during my "twinkle little star" and was playing "paterroller" with the colored children and the bloodhounds, and my elders began to talk of the man for whom he was named, a victim of the Nat Turner insurrection. I was not usually permitted to hear such gruesome stories, but if they thought of me at all they must have supposed that I was too young to understand or too sleepy to notice. So they told some of the painful incidents connected with the startling episode of 1832, while I leaned back in my chair and drooped my little head. Judge Mason's sister, Mrs. Boykin, my grandmother's friend at Old Point Comfort, had come near being killed in the insurrection. She was saved by her maid, who hid her in a woodpile till the danger was over.
Thus the simple-hearted, modest, unassuming old man sat with his long fig-stem Powhatan clay pipe in his mouth, smoking and talking and making history for a little child who never forgot the stories he told. Judge Mason was given all the honors of his State—ten years a Member of the Virginia Assembly, six years her Representative in Congress, a Judge of the United States Court for Virginia, Secretary of the Navy under President Tyler, Attorney-General and Secretary of the Navy under President Polk, Minister to France in the Pierce administration, one of the three who drew up the Ostend Manifesto—all these he was to the world.
To me he has always remained the gentle-mannered man with sweet face and soft voice who told the old-time stories in my plantation home while all, from the master to the humblest servant and the smallest child, listened with eager attention and delighted hearts. Two years before the opening of the war between the States my grandmother's heart was saddened by the news from Paris of the death of this old friend.
VIII YULETIDE
It was Christmas Eve at Holiday's Point and, in accordance with the custom of generations, the children and grandchildren were gathered in an unbroken circle around the old hearthstone.
In my grandfather's day the neighbors called the old home Holiday's Point because of the numerous holidays given to the servants. The community held that if my grandfather had framed the almanac he would have put into it twice as many days as did the Arabs and Romans, that he might have more holidays to bestow upon his slaves.
The old-fashioned house on the Nansemond River, between Suffolk to the right and Norfolk to the left, was built of brick imported from England. In shape like an L, the four rooms on the first floor were divided by a passage fifteen feet wide; dining-room and library on one side, parlor and chamber on the other. Four large open fireplaces gave warmth and cheerfulness to the corridor. On the first floor of the L was the nursery and above it the children's room, the name of which was never changed because, in relation to the household, its occupants remained children to the end of the chapter, however the years might age them in the view of the outside world.
The house fronted the river, which was concealed by a heavy growth of trees until the door was reached through long lanes of cypress lined with rows of cedar, when a full view of the water for miles was presented. Hidden in the woods was one of the stables, in which old Starlight had her home near enough to the cabin to answer "Ung' Bosun's" whistle.
My mother, as usual, had permitted me to come to Holiday's Point the day before Christmas, the lighting of the Yule Log being one of my greatest joys. Away back in the early dawn of my infantile mind lurked a hazy memory of the time when my little hand had held the candle that lit the old log at the back of the great fireplace. That privilege was no longer mine. Other children had since entered the family circle, and the youngest child on the plantation, whether white or black, was the one always selected to touch off the Yule Log.
Another delightful sensation preliminary to Christmas day at Holiday's Point was the sight of "Uncle Charles" driving up from the river waving a paper above the load of Christmas things and warning us that it contained instructions from Santa Claus that all the contents of the cart should be put away in the storehouse until he should come on Christmas eve, and if anyone should touch any of the boxes or ask questions about what was inside of them all the good things would turn to ashes and sawdust and there would be nothing left when Christmas came, adding, "'Member what Santa Claus did to Miss Cinderelly when she didn't mind him, stayin' out late at night."
Though the awesome paper was only a bill of lading, which Uncle Charles knew very well, believing him we shrank before it in terror. I watched the unloading curiously, and the colored children, huddled together on the quarter-kitchen doorsteps, pulled down each other's heads and whispered mysteriously as the boxes and barrels were taken out and their contents announced. There was the hogshead of New Orleans molasses, with its thick layer of sugar at the bottom, the long peaked loaves of white sugar under their thin blue "fool's-caps," the cases of raisins, dates, figs and tamarinds, barrels of nuts, oranges and crackers, boxes of cheese and, slyly pushed behind them, hampers mysteriously marked "sundries," which we at once associated with the coming visit of Santa Claus himself.
When the rays of the sun were long in the west the cheerful note of the Yule Log was heard. The great hickory log, which had lain on its forked branch support through months of golden sunshine and mellowing rain, was carried in on the shoulder of the strongest negro on the plantation, followed by a rollicking troop of Christmas revelers, white and black, and next year's log was put on the Yule Log fork, which was never left empty.
The Yule Log was laid at the back of the great fireplace and in front of it were piled cobs, chips and kindling wood, known to the plantation servants as "light 'ood," a contraction for "light wood," which was the heart of the pine. It was lit with a wax candle made in the home kitchen by Aunt Dilsey, a candle in which I felt a proprietary interest, having watched with fascinated eyes the process of its manufacture. Aunt Dilsey had let me draw one of the doubled and twisted cotton strands through a tube in the tin mould to form the wick, and I felt like a conquering hero when the end of the string emerged from the point of the tube. There were six of these tubes in Aunt Dilsey's mould, and when they were all provided with wicks she allowed me to thrust through the loops at the top of the mould the little sticks which rested on the frames and held the strands in place. Then she tied the wicks very tightly at the ends. I watched the melted white wax poured into the tubes, feeling as if I were assisting at a magic incantation. The time of greatest excitement was when, after the carefully built structure had stood all night in a cool place to harden, Aunt Dilsey would cut off the knots at the bottom of the tube, take hold of the cross-sticks and pull till six long, beautiful white waxen cylinders would come out, each with a tuft of soft white cotton at the end. Every time I saw them emerge from their cells a separate and distinct miracle seemed to have been wrought. I have yet a pair of these moulds.
One of the candles was lighted and placed in the hand of my little brother, the youngest of the family group. My father guided the tiny hand until the flame formed a cross around which the tongues of fire leaped and caught the log, embracing it lovingly, climbing upward and turning blue and crimson and golden and white and then mingling in a glorified web of color. Myriads of sparkles shot up the old chimney, like Christmas prayers flying heavenward. The crackling of the wood and the fluttering of the flames joined in a Christmas carol for all the world.
Not the smallest fragment of the log must be left over after the twelve-day feast. It had lain seasoning in the sunshine and the starshine, in the rain and in the wind, in the frost and in the dew, in winter cold and summer heat, that it might be well prepared to give itself wholly to the sacrifice. Had a remnant remained in the ashes, disaster would have marked the year until the next Yule Log had removed the ban by entirely disappearing. Virginia had not received, with the traditional heritage, the Old World custom of preserving a fragment of one Yule Log to serve as a lighting torch for the next and to ward off evil demons until Christmas came again. The servants were to have holiday while there was a scrap of it left.
The ashes of the Yule Log were carefully saved apart from the others, as they were of peculiar sacredness. Lye made from them was of magic efficacy in the manufacture of soap, bringing it to a much-desired degree of hardness and excellence. The negroes used the lye to kill evil spirits and free themselves from the sins they had committed during the year.
Old Santa Claus's rack, the "chimbly rack," made of black walnut and handsomely decorated, with nails driven into it on which the stockings were to be hung, was brought in by Uncle Charles and placed above the marble mantelpiece. Over each nail was printed the name of the one for whom it was intended. Aunt Serena brought in the basket of stockings that she had knit of the finest spun cotton or wool and hung them on the nails, singing her Christmas incantation, "Christmas comes but once't a yeah, En ebby las' niggah has his sheah." The loved ones who had gone before were remembered and stockings for them were hung upon the rack. Their gifts were of money to be used in providing Christmas cheer for the unfortunate, the bereaved and the lonely. Thus was the memory of those who had passed beyond kept in grateful hearts.
From the wall above the portrait of my grandfather Underwood, with long hair and velvet-flowered vest and rolls of cravat, looked seriously down. I had never seen him, but my grandmother said that "he believed in God, woman and blood; was proud but not haughty, hospitable, generous, firm and unchangeable in his opinions, quiet and commanding, affectionate, courting responsibilities instead of shirking them."
For weeks all had been busy with preparations. The wood had been cut and piled, the corn gathered, the pigs killed, the mince-meat and souse and fruit cake prepared, the sausage chopped and the hominy beaten, the winter clothes all spun, woven and made. We sat by the fire with rest, peace and wonder in our hearts, cracking nuts and roasting apples, the old silver punch-bowl of apple-toddy steaming on the table, while we listened to stories of olden times and of times that never were. My uncle in his cadet uniform, home for the holidays on furlough from the Virginia Military Institute, told us fascinating tales of soldier-boy life, sending delicious thrills of joy and terror through every nerve.
Presently my black mammy took me in her motherly arms and carried me along the hall through the middle of the house, flanked by doors opening into the living rooms, up the wide stairway into another long corridor bounded by the same number of doors leading into bedrooms all in their Christmas dress of arbor-vitæ, holly and mistletoe. In each of the fireplaces were wood and kindling to be lit when the guests should arrive on the morrow. Into the prettiest and smallest room she carried me and put me into my little eider-downy trundle bed.
The next morning I was awakened by the music of the Christmas horns and the popping of firecrackers. When I had been dressed I was taken to the dining-room, where my grandmother stood by a table whereon was a large bowl of egg-nog from which, with a silver ladle, she was filling glasses for us all, for even the babies in old Virginia were given a taste of egg-nog on Christmas morning.
After breakfast my grandmother went to service and would return with guests who were to come to us after the Christmas sermon in the lavishly decorated village church.
Soon the first carriage rolled into the yard, the coachman proudly flourishing the whip, which he used merely as an insignia of his office. "Dar dey come! Dar dey come! Dar dey come!" We all ran out to welcome the visitors. The carriage doors were opened, the steps folded up on the inside were let down, and the servants called out "Christmus gif', Marse, Christmus gif', Missus," all holding out their hands and clamoring as my uncle emerged from the coach, "I cotch him firs'! I cotch him firs'! I cotch Miss firs', didn' I, Marse?" each claiming the reward, regardless of actual priority in time.
My uncle was immaculate in frock coat and trousers of black broadcloth, new boots, snowy linen front trimmed profusely with ruffles, high collar and stock and shining silk hat. He turned with courtly grace and helped Auntie from the carriage.
Auntie was the wonder of my childhood. I fancied that if I should be very good and learn my lessons perfectly and avoid giving trouble to my elders, and say my prayers and read my Bible at the rate of one chapter every day and five on Sunday maybe the Lord would let me grow up as proper and as smart, but never as religious, as Auntie. In the meantime I liked to stand in remote corners unobserved and imagine that I was forming myself upon her. Her speckless, wrinkleless, swishing new black brocaded silk frock looked as if it had been moulded around her. Her crinoline stood out in a perfectly balanced symmetrical balloon of unapproachable beauty. Her oval face held just the right proportion of pink and white and her mouth was bowed at the temperance curve. Her sharp gray eyes looked into the center of things. She was a strict Methodist, a fierce Whig, an uncompromising moralist.
A little boy was handed out and then a screaming bundle which turned out to be a baby girl.
The carriage was laden with boxes and packages of Christmas gifts—a present for each servant and other articles to be put with our Christmas stockings still hanging on the rack.
From the next carriage my father and mother alighted—my father, always my ideal, tall, stately, erect as an Indian, seemed to me more than usually handsome as he lifted me up to a level with his classic face. His holiday attire, snowy ruffles, rigid stock, black broadcloth and, above all, the flowers of his brocaded vest, were to me an inexhaustible source of delight. My beautiful mother's coal-black hair, without wave or crinkle, was carried plainly from her face and wound in a plaited coil. She was very fair and her cheeks looked as if they had stolen two of the pink roses from the garden of May. Her eyes were like sparkling sapphires. Her black moire-antique dress had wide bishop sleeves, and she wore a white crêpe shawl that, falling back, revealed the square of fine embroidered white thread cambric around her neck, crossing in front to form a V.
When all the family carriages had come a stranger might have wondered if grandmother's house could hold the many who claimed her Yuletide hospitality. We knew that her home was measured by her heart.
My father, the oldest son-in-law, was the first to take down his Christmas stocking from Santa's rack. He was always sure of a knife, a black stock and a silk bandanna, whatever else old Santa might have left for him. His last year's knife was then given to the foreman. We who could not reach so high were held up to take down our stockings.
The plantation servants never failed to offer their tributes of affection to the Master and his family and to receive gifts from them. Among their numerous presents were always a plug of tobacco, a pipe and a bandanna handkerchief for each. All the servants who had been working away from home came back at Christmas and added their gifts to those "w'at Marse Santa had done fotch down de chimbly." Many of my grandmother's servants had been away from the home plantation, being allowed to choose their places of service and to return if they did not find them satisfactory.
Dinner was the great event that followed. Every leaf had been put into the old mahogany table, and another table added at each end. A turkey which had been penned up for weeks to fatten and become tender, stuffed with pecan nuts, lay in delicious brownness on a china platter. Opposite was a roast pig with an orange in its mouth, "kase pigs kin have apples every day, but come Christmus 'course even pigs must have sump'n extra," my mammy explained. On one side of the table was a huge dish of fried oysters, on the other an old Smithfield ham, baked as it could be only by one born to the art. Sweet and sour pickles and preserves, for which Aunt Dilsey was famous, were scattered about among all the vegetables known to a Virginia plantation. On a side table were a saddle of mutton, a round of beef and a bowl of chicken salad. On another table was the dessert—sillibub, tipsy-cake, charlotte-russe, mince-pies, plain cake and fruit cake, to be followed by the plum pudding, flaming with magic fires which must be left to burn out of themselves, lest some of the glow they held in their fiery hearts should fail to be diffused throughout our lives in the coming year. The sideboard glistened with decanters and glasses and great bowls of apple-toddy and egg-nog.
All the good things left were sent to supplement the feast of the servants which they had spent days in preparing. It was spread in the wide old weaving-room, the loom being hidden by decorations of holly and mistletoe. We went in to see their table with its beautiful ornamentations, loaded with goodies, 'possum and sweet potatoes at each end. The 'possums had been caught early and fed in a lavishly hospitable manner, that they might wax fat and juicy for the feast.
After dinner papa and the uncles, followed by the boy friends and cousins, went out to the office in the yard a short distance from the mansion house and soon such mirthful peals issued therefrom that curiosity called us all out and the house was deserted while we sat listening to such stories and jokes as we shall never enjoy again. Then they talked of fox hunts, of the prancing gray and the good old red that had carried them to victory, the music of the horns, the baying of the hounds, the laughing girls, all eager for the brush. Crouched by my grandmother's side, I heard about last year's crops, the condition of the roads, the neighborhood news, the latest styles in collars and stocks, politics, bits of history and appreciations of literature.
At night "Fiddling Jim" was called in, and in the room where the Yule-fire burned there was a dance, opening with the minuet and winding up with the Virginia reel. In all the dances my grandmother joined with a lightness and grace that would have done honor to sixteen. Youth no more than age served as a bar to pleasure, and I danced the Highland fling and other fancy dances.
Then the sandman came by and mammy took me up to my little trundle bed. Half lost between waking and sleeping, I heard the crunching of the snow beneath the tread of horses and the roll of wheels and knew that some of the guests who lived near were returning to their homes. Melodies, dance-songs and the shuffling and pattering of feet, mingled with the thrum of the banjo, bones and fiddle, floated from the negro quarters.
Soon old mammy and her turban, the black faces, the hand-fed lamb, the goats and dogs, the coons and the rabbits, the peacocks' gorgeous big-eyed tails, and long-whiskered Santa Claus, my grandmother, my mothers lovely eyes and the Blessed Babe in the manger, all got mixed up in a tangle of shadows and came sliding between the peeping, twinkling stars on a moonbeam into the room and danced around my trundle bed.
With my tender little heart full of child love and unwavering faith, my wee soul borne on the higher sentiments of adoration, faith and spiritual sympathy, my Christmas dolly clasped close in my arms, my lips wreathed in mysterious smiles, I laughed and—a-n-d—a-n—Christmas was over.
IX GREENBRIER WHITE SULPHUR SPRINGS
Only twice had I seen my Soldier since with tearful eyes I watched the United States transport, St. Louis, bear him away to join in the frontier warfare, and later to play his important part in holding San Juan and other Pacific Islands against the British. Occasionally letters came from that far-off sunset shore in answer to my little printed notes before I had learned to write well.
The last time I had seen him was at the Greenbrier White Sulphur Springs, where, though still a child, I held that he was pledged to me and resented his attentions to the belles nearer his own age. Amused and pleased by this, he humored me by devoting most of his mornings to joining in my games and assisting me in sketching, and by dancing in the evening with no one but me until the children's bed-time came, when the ballroom was reluctantly given up to the grown people. One Baltimore beauty took my Soldier to task for his bad taste in dancing with a child, thereby cancelling the little friendship which had existed between them.
White Sulphur Springs, situated in a valley surrounded by hills and mountains, was the most celebrated watering-place in Virginia. It was known to the Indians as the most important lick of the deer and elk. Its medicinal qualities first became known in 1772, when an Indian maiden, suffering from a disease which baffled the skill of the "medicine men," was healed by its waters. It is a beautiful and enchanting spot, the valley opening half a mile in breadth, winding in graceful undulations from east to west beyond the line of vision. The fountain issues from the foot of a gentle slope which ends in the low interval of a beautiful river. The ground ascends from the spring eastward, spreading into a lawn covering fifty acres. Over the fountain was a stately Doric dome, supported by twelve large pillars and surmounted by a statue of Hygeia looking toward the rising sun. A short distance from the spring were the hotel, dining-hall and ballroom. The rest of the ground was occupied by cottages, some of brick, some of wood, and a few of logs, whitewashed. The cabins were all painted white.
The winding roads, leading away into an enchanted world of greenery, were veritable Cupid's paths, opening sometimes into the springtime vales of gay flirtation, sometimes into the warm, deep dells of love. Many were the belles and beaux who met their fate amid the leaf-walled environment of Greenbrier and more matches were made there than in heaven.
My Soldier's furlough soon came to a close and he left, by chance, the day we did. I shall never forget the ride on the top of the old stagecoach, the wonderful red and gold foliage, the birds that sang in the autumn trees, the good dinner at the hotel, the stories told me by my Soldier, who knew everything, I thought. Of the name Greenbrier he said:
"Old Colonel John Lewis, whose grandson you danced with this summer, named this river in 1751 because of its thick growth of green-briers in which his son, Andrew, was once entangled. It had been owned by the French. In 1749 a hunter, wandering through the woods, came to the river-bank and observed that the water ran in a direction opposite from the usual course and reported it, exciting the curiosity of two New Englanders, Jacob Martin and Stephen Sewall. They took up land there, living together in a little cabin until one day they quarreled and separated. One made his home in a hollow tree, the other keeping the cabin in which they had formerly dwelt in peace with the world, themselves and each other. They agreed never to say anything to each other but 'Good morning, Mr. Martin,' 'Good morning, Mr. Sewall,' confining themselves to this limited conversation for the remainder of their years."
My Soldier told me of the Indian wars after peace had been confirmed between England and France, the Dunmore wars, the massacre at Muddy Creek where, under the guise of friendship, the Indians had descended upon the settlers and destroyed their village, the attack of two hundred Indians upon Donnally Fort, and the bravery of the old negro, Dick Pointer, whose freedom was purchased by the State of Virginia in reward for his services. In his helpless old age an unsuccessful effort was made to secure a pension for him. Comparing his fate with that of alleged soldiers of later years who volunteered to do guard duty around their homes for three days, receiving pensions for their courageous efforts, one might wish that he had lived in a later period and served a more appreciative government.
From White Sulphur I returned to my father's home, brightened now by three brothers and two sisters, all of whom had seen so little of "Sister" that they knew nothing of her shortcomings and thought she was the greatest thing in the world.
Then lessons began in earnest and stern duties came to interrupt childish diversions. When the course laid out for me at home was completed, my father decided to take me to Lynchburg Seminary. It was a serious epoch for me, as I was to go among strangers for the first time, so the farewells were solemn.
As a parting present, "Uncle Charles" brought me a nest of guinea eggs, a box of sweet gum which he had been collecting for months, a string of chinquapins and some dried haws, saying as he gave them to me:
"Honey, don't fergit de ole man en bring him sump'n, en remember you's born but you ain't dead yit."
Others of the servants came with blessings and farewell gifts. Mary-Frances, who always received more presents than her twin sister and was noted for her stinginess, bade me a pathetic good-bye, assuring me that she was "gwine to be good en 'vide her light'ood and things wid Arabella." As I had disapproved of her selfish refusal to share her "light'ood" with her sister she thought this promise of generosity would be the best gift she could bestow upon me as a parting keepsake.
After tender farewells from mother, sisters, and brothers I started off with my father on what seemed to me a long, long journey.
At Richmond a man in uniform boarded the train. I looked at him with admiration as he came down the aisle. He was tall and walked erectly with graceful carriage and a commanding air not dependent upon his military dress. He stopped and spoke to my father, who arose, greeted him cordially and, turning back the seat, invited him to join us. He accepted and my father introduced "Colonel Robert E. Lee." The Colonel shook hands with me in a gentle way and began to barter for one of my long curls. In my diffidence I did not close with any of his offers, though I would have given every curl on my head for the asking, for even then, to my romantic vision, Colonel Lee was a hero.
He said that he had just returned from Harper's Ferry, where there had been great excitement. John Brown had descended upon the town and taken possession of the United States Arsenal. Colonel Lee, home on furlough from the West, had been sent with the marines from the Washington barracks and four companies of troops from Fortress Monroe to dispossess them and restore quiet to the little town in the Virginia hills. It was not alone Harper's Ferry that had been terrorized; the entire state had been thrown into a turmoil of excitement.
To a child whose infancy had shuddered at the story of the Nat Turner insurrection of 1832, the John Brown raid in 1859 was a subject of horrible fascination, and I listened intently as Colonel Lee talked of this strange old fanatic and his followers.
"What do you think would be the effect upon the negro, Mr. Corbell," Colonel Lee asked my father, "if we should be compelled to hang John Brown?"
My father replied, "Well, I've thought of that, too, Colonel, and I asked my foreman, who is a representative of his race, if he did not think we ought to hang old John Brown." He looked at me earnestly for a while then, shaking his head slowly, said, "I knows, Marse Dae, dat po' Marse John done en bruk de law, killin' all dem mens; but den, Marse Dae, even ef po' Marse John did bre'k de law, don't you think, suh, dat hangin' him would be a li'l abrupt?"
Colonel Lee laughed and replied, "I think that just about expresses the sentiment not only of the colored people but of many others." They agreed that John Brown was an honest, earnest, courageous old man and that his friends ought to put him where he would be cared for.
My eyes were turned steadily toward Colonel Lee with a large measure of that admiration he won from observers older and more experienced than I. Yet I could not have told what manner of man he was, except that he was impressive in appearance and that he drew people toward him with a subtle attraction which was indescribable as well as irresistible.
The story of John Brown was graphically told and heard with absorbed attention, but it is not likely that the Virginia planter with all his knowledge of history and character, nor the great soldier with his military training, recognized signs of the impending storm any more than did the wide-eyed child lost in breathless wonderment over the thrilling episode.
At the next station the Colonel left us and I went on into the hill country.
X THE BREAKING OF THE STORM
I was a student at Lynchburg Seminary when the storm that had begun to lower at Harper's Ferry broke in full force. To a few prescient minds I think it brought no shock of surprise. Some had watched the little cloud on the horizon till it had overspread the zenith. But most of us, old as well as young, had felt secure "in the land where we lay dreaming."
Virginia held longest by the Union, the bonds of which had clasped the States together until the Old Dominion had forgotten that political ties are not eternal. Since the brave Thirteen had banded together to fight for liberty, Virginia had clung with unswerving tenacity to the central idea that had kept the States together through many severe tests of loyalty. Forged in the fires of the Revolution, the chain that bound her to the Union of States had grown stronger with the years and with the blood of many battles. The Mother of Presidents and of patriotic Statesmen, her devotion to the welfare of the nation was of unusual depth and ardor. Politicians sought to drag her allegiance from the flag whose stars lit the path of her great sons, Washington, Jefferson, Madison, and the many who had worthily represented her in the work of building up the nation, but the people stood firmly by their historic and hereditary faith. There was but one thing that could shake her fidelity. When she was called upon for aid in a contest against her sister States loyalty to the nation gave way to loyalty to the South and home and kindred, and Virginia joined the Confederacy.
To some the bells which rang out the tidings of the rising of the new star in the Southern flag were joy-bells of victory; to many they tolled the death-knell of a long, proud era. But the new banner floated gloriously to the breeze, huzzas rang out triumphantly and all was glowing to the vision of hope.
The fires of patriotism burned hotly in the heart of youth and there were Stars and Bars enough in Lynchburg Seminary to light a world of new-born nations to victory and set up invincible barriers to the universe. Some weeks later when the news of the battle of Manassas came surging along the line, we felt that events had justified our enthusiasm. In imagination we beheld our flag floating over a great new country that should rival the nations of the world in beauty and glory.
We saw then only the bonfires of joy and heard only the pæans of victory, but a few days later, when my friend, Major John W. Daniel, was brought to his home in Lynchburg with a wound received in that battle which we had celebrated with such triumphant delight, I began to feel that war meant something more than the thrill of martial music and the shouts of victory. Major Daniel had been my friend from childhood, strong, handsome and gallant, and when I saw him in suffering helplessness I felt for the first time something of the power of war to strike down life with all its hopes and dreams and ambitions. He was soon able to return to the field, doing brave service for the cause until he was so badly wounded in the battle of the Wilderness that he was forced to retire. Even more gratefully does Virginia cherish the courageous work he has since done in the United States Senate, and lovingly does she hold him in her heart now that his brave and beautiful life has passed into the great Memorial Hall of her proudest history. Through all the years he has been a loyal friend to me and mine.
The passing of the ordinance of secession was the signal for the return of the martial sons of Virginia. Every Federal post gave them up to us, from Arlington, where Colonel Robert E. Lee laid down his allegiance to the old flag, to the Pacific, where my Soldier had upheld the integrity of his country against hostile Indians and foreign foes.
In July, 1861, Captain Pickett resigned from the United States Army, made a perilous journey from San Juan, passing by sea around to New York, going thence to Canada and then southward, barely escaping arrest three times. From the window of a railway car along a Kentucky road is seen an old home where he spent a night in his long journey. Government officers called there in search of him, but he was protected by a ruse of his host and rode on the next morning, reaching Richmond September 13, 1861. He at once enlisted as a private, being immediately afterward commissioned as Captain and a few days later promoted to a Colonelcy. His military life from Richmond to Appomattox belongs to the history of the nation.
By this time everyday life in Virginia had become invested with difficulties even for those who might have been regarded as outside the sphere of war. Not only the soldiers in the field had obstacles to encounter; they loomed in the pathway of the school-girl.
My home being within the Federal lines, I spent a part of my vacations with friends in Richmond. There I used to see General Robert E. Lee riding along the street in the graceful way that years before had brought people to their windows to see "the handsomest man in the United States Army" ride down Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington. The eyes of Richmond followed him with equal admiration in these war days and I used to recall my first meeting with him when the war was a dim prophecy. In a short time he was sent away to Western Virginia, where he fought a valiant but losing battle against mountains, rain, starvation, and Southern editors who were gifted with a military genius never known to the leaders of armies.
"I see that we have made a great mistake," the General lamented. "We ought to have put the editors in the field and set the Generals to managing the newspapers."
The streets of Richmond knew him no more until he returned in the late autumn with no new laurels on his brow but with a strength of soul that could abide the appointed time.
In our study halls we had fancied that we knew something of war. We had cheered our flag, trembled for our soldiers at the front even while we prophetically gloried in their future triumph, and celebrated with great enthusiasm the battle of Manassas. We had made sacrifices for our country, every girl of us having entrusted her jewelry to the principal of the school to be sold for the benefit of our cause. She had accepted the trust, saying that we might redeem our possessions if we wished. Only one piece was ever reclaimed, a ring given to one of the girls by her lover. When he was killed in battle she took back the ring, paying in money for her treasure. Now I was to learn something of what war meant.