NO one can be more
fully aware of the shortcomings of this brief sketch of Social Life in the
South before the War than is the writer. Its slightness might readily have
excused it from republication. And yet it has seemed well to let it go
forth on its own account, to take such place as it may in the great world
of books. One reason is the partiality of a few friends who have desired
to see it in this form. Another is the absolute ignorance of the outside
world of the real life of the South in old times, and the desire to
correct the picture for the benefit of the younger generation of
Southerners themselves. One of the
factors in that life was slavery. The most renowned picture of Southern
life is one of it as it related exclusively to that institution. As an
argument in the case then at bar, it was one of the most powerful ever
penned. Mrs. Stowe did more to free the slave than all the politicians.
And yet her picture is not one which any Southerner would willingly have
stand as a final portrait of Southern life. No one could understand that
life who did not see it in its entirety.
The old life at the
South passed away in the flame of war and in the yet more fiery ordeal of
Reconstruction. So complete was this devastation that now unless one knows
where to go he may search in vain for its reality. Its remnants lie
scattered in far-off neighborhoods; its fragments almost overgrown with
the tangles of a new life. The picture of it which at present is mainly
presented is wholly
unreal. The Drama is one of the accepted modes of judging of passing
life. It is assumed to be a reasonably true reflection of the life it
pretends to portray. If this standard shall be accepted, what a life that
must have been which existed in the South! The bloodhounds, brute and
human, that chased delicate women for sport, have mainly been given up.
But their place has been taken by a different species of barbarian if
possible even more unreal than those they supplanted. Quite a large crop
of so-called Southern plays, or at least plays in which Southerners have
figured, has of late been introduced on the stage, and the supposititious
Southerner is as absurd a creation as the wit of ignorance ever devised.
The Southern girl is usually an underbred little provincial, whose chief
characteristic is to say "reckon" and "real," with strong emphasis, in
every
other sentence. And the Southern gentleman is a sloven whose linen has
never known starch; who clips the endings of his words; says "Sah" at the
end of every sentence, and never uses an "r" except in the last syllable
of "nigger." With a slouched hat, a slovenly dress, a plentiful supply of
"sahs," and a slurred speech exclusively applied to "niggers," he is
equipped for the stage. And yet it is not unkindly meant: only
patronizingly, which is worse. That Thackeray, Matthew Arnold, Lawrence,
and other visitors whose English passes current, declared after a visit to
America that they found the purest English speech spoken in Virginia, goes
for nothing.
If the writers of the
plays referred to would attend one of the formal assemblies under one of
the old social associations in the South, - for instance,
the St. Cecilia Ball in Charleston, one of the final refuges of
old-fashioned gentility and distinguished manners, - they would get some
idea of what old-time good breeding and high courtesy were.
It is perhaps partly to
correct this erroneous idea of the Old South that this little essay has
been attempted. But mainly it has been from sheer affection.
LET me see if I can
describe an old Virginia home recalled from a memory stamped with it when
a virgin page. It may, perhaps, be idealized by the haze of time; but it
will be as I now remember it.
The mansion was a plain
"weatherboard" house, one story and a half above the half-basement ground
floor, set on a hill in a grove of primeval oaks and hickories filled in
with ash, maples, and feathery-leafed locusts without number. It was built
of timber cut by the "servants " (they were never termed slaves except in
legal documents) out of the virgin forest, not long after the Revolution,
when that branch of the family moved from Yorktown. It had quaint dormer
windows, with small
panes, poking out from its sloping upstairs rooms, and long porches to
shelter its walls from the sun and allow house life in the open air.
A number of magnificent
oaks and hickories (there had originally been a dozen of the former, and
the place from them took its name, "Oakland"), under which Totapottamoi
children may have played, spread their long arms about it, sheltering
nearly a half-acre apiece; whilst in among them and all around were ash
and maples, an evergreen or two, lilacs and syringas and roses, and
locusts of every age and size, which in springtime filled the air with
honeyed perfume, and lulled with the "murmur of innumerable bees."
There was an "office"
in the yard; another house where the boys used to stay, and the right to
sleep in which was as eagerly looked forward to and as highly prized as
was by the youth of Rome the wearing of the toga virilis.
There the guns were kept; there the
dogs might sleep with their masters, under, or in cold weather even on,
the beds; and there charming bits of masculine gossip were retailed by the
older young gentlemen, and delicious tales of early wickedness related,
all the more delightful because they were veiled in chaste language
phrased not merely to meet the doctrine, maxima reverentia pueris
debetur, but to meet the higher truth that no gentleman would use
foul language.
Off to one side was the
orchard, in springtime a bower of pink and snow, and always making a
pleasant spot in the landscape; beyond which peeped the ample barns and
stables, and farther yet lay the wide green fields.
Some of the fields that
stretched around were poor, and in places where the rains had washed off
the soil, red "galls" showed through; but the tillage was careful and
systematic, and around the house were rich hay-fields where the cattle
stood knee-deep in clover.
or flowered bowl or two with glorious roses; bookcases filled with
brown-backed, much-read books. This was all.
The servants' houses,
smoke-house, wash-house, and carpenter-shop were set around the "back
yard," with "mammy's house" a little nicer than the others; and farther
off, upon and beyond the quarters hill, "the quarters," - whitewashed,
substantial buildings, each for a family, with chicken-houses hard by, and
with yards closed in by split palings, filled with fruit trees, which
somehow bore cherries, peaches, and apples in a mysterious profusion even
when the orchard failed.
Beyond the yard were
gardens. There were two, - the vegetable garden and the flower garden. The
former was the test of the mistress's power; for at the most critical
times she took the best hands on the place to work it. The latter was the
proof of her taste. It was a strange affair: pyrocanthus hedged it on the
outside; honeysuckle ran riot
over its palings, perfuming the air; yellow cowslips in well-regulated
tufts edged some borders, while sweet peas, pinks, and violets spread out
recklessly over others; jonquilles yellow as gold, and, once planted,
blooming every spring as certainly as the trees budded or the birds
nested, grew in thick bunches; and here and there were tall lilies, white
as angels' wings and stately as the maidens that walked among them; big
snowball bushes blooming with snow, lilacs purple and white and sweet in
the spring, and always with birds' nests in them with the bluest of eggs;
and in places rosebushes, and tall hollyhock stems filled with rich
rosettes of every hue and shade, made a delicious tangle. In the autumn
rich dahlias and pungent-odored chrysanthemums ended the sweet procession
and closed the season.
But the flower of all
others was the rose. There were roses everywhere; clambering roses over
the porches and windows, sending their fragrance into
the rooms;
roses beside the walks; roses around the yard and in the garden; roses of
every hue and delicate refinement of perfume; rich yellow roses thick on
their briery bushes, coming almost with the dandelions and buttercups,
before any others dared face the April showers to learn if March had truly
gone, sweet as if they had come from Paradise to be worn upon young
maidens' bosoms, as they might well have done - who knows ? - followed by
the Giant of Battles on their stout stems, glorious enough to have been
the worthy badge of victorious Lancastrian kings; white Yorks, hardly less
royal; cloth-of-golds; dainty teas; rich damasks; old sweet hundred-leafs
sifting down their petals on the grass, and always filling with two the
place where one
had fallen. These and many more whose names have faded made the air
fragrant, whilst the catbirds and mocking-birds fluttered and sang among
them, and the robins foraged in the grass for their greedy yellow-throats
waiting in the hidden nests.
Looking out over the
fields was a scene not to be forgotten.
Let me give it in the
words of one who knew and loved Virginia well, and was her best
interpreter: l -
"A scene not of
enchantment, though contrast often made it seem so, met the eye. Wide,
very wide fields of waving grain, billowy seas of green or gold as the
season chanced to be, over which the scudding shadows chased and played,
gladdened the heart with
serried army lush and strong. The rich, dark soil of the gently
swelling knolls could scarcely be seen under the broad lapping leaves of
the mottled tobacco. The hills were carpeted with clover. Beneath the
tree-clumps fat cattle chewed the cud, or peaceful sheep reposed, grateful
for the shade. In the midst of this plenty, half hidden in foliage, over
which the graceful shafts of the Lombard poplar towered, with its
bounteous garden and its orchards heavy with fruit near at hand, peered
the old mansion, white, or dusky red, or mellow gray by the storm and
shine of years.
"Seen by the tired
horseman halting at the woodland's edge, this picture, steeped in the
intense quivering summer moonlight, filled the soul with unspeakable
emotions of beauty, tenderness, peace, home.
"How
calm could we rest
In
that bosom of shade with the friends we love
best!
"Sorrows and care were
there - where do they not penetrate? But, oh! dear God, one day in those
sweet, tranquil homes outweighed a fevered lifetime in the gayest cities
of the globe. Tell me nothing; I undervalue naught that man's heart
delights in. I dearly love operas and great pageants; but I do know - as I
know nothing else - that the first years of human life, and the last, yea,
if it be possible, all the years, should be passed in the country. The
towns may do for a day, a week, a month at most; but Nature, Mother
Nature, pure and clean, is for all time, - yes, for eternity itself."
The life about the
place was amazing. There were the busy children playing in groups, the
boys of the family mingling with the little darkies as freely as any other
young animals, and forming the associations which tempered slavery and
made the relation one not to be understood save by those who saw it. There
they were, stooping
down and jumping up; turning and twisting, their heads close together,
like chickens over an "invisible repast," their active bodies always in
motion: busy over their little matters with that ceaseless energy of
boyhood which could move the world could it but be concentrated and
conserved. They were all over the place; in the orchard robbing birds'
nests, getting into wild excitement over catbirds, which they ruthlessly
murdered because they "called snakes"; in spring and summer fishing or
"washing" in the creek, riding the plough-horses to and from the fields,
running the calves and colts, and being as mischievous as the young mules
they chased.
There were the little
girls in their great sunbonnets, often sewed on to preserve the wonderful
peach-blossom complexions, with their small female companions playing
about the yard or garden, running with and wishing they were boys, and
getting half scoldings
from mammy for being tomboys and tearing their aprons and dresses.
There, in the shade, near her "house," was the mammy with her assistants,
her little charge in her arms, sleeping in her ample lap, or toddling
about her, with broken, half-formed phrases, better understood than
framed. There passed young negro girls, blue-habited, running about
bearing messages; or older women moving at a statelier pace, doings with
deliberation the little tasks which were their "work;" whilst about the
office or smoke-house or dairy or
wood-pile there was always some movement and life. The peace of it all
was only emphasized by the sounds that broke upon it: the call of
ploughers to their teams; the shrill shouts of children; the chant of
women over their work, and as a bass the recurrent hum of spinning-wheels,
like the drone of some great insect, sounding from cabins where the
turbaned spinners spun their fleecy rolls for the looms which were
clacking in the loom-rooms making homespun for the plantation.
laughter of women and the shrill, joyous voices of children came. Far
off, in the fields, the white-shirted "ploughers" followed singing their
slow teams in the fresh furrows, wagons rattled, and oxcarts crawled
along, or gangs of hands in lines performed their work in the corn or
tobacco fields, loud shouts and peals of laughter, mellowed by the
distance, floating up from time to time, telling that the heart was light
and the toil not too heavy.
At special times there
was special activity: at ice-getting time, at corn-thinning time, at
fodder-pulling time, at threshing-wheat time, but above all at
corn-shucking time, at hog-killing time, and at "harvest." Harvest was
spoken of as a season. It was a festival. The severest toil of the year
was a frolic. Every "hand" was eager for it. It was the test of the men's
prowess and the women's skill. For it took a man to swing his cradle
through the long June days and keep pace with the bare-necked,
knotted-armed leader as he strode and swung his ringing cradle through
the heavy wheat. So it demanded a strong back and nimble fingers in the
binding to "keep up" and bind the sheaves. The young men looked forward to
it as young bucks look to the war-path. How gay they seemed, moving in
oblique lines around the "great parallelograms," sweeping down the yellow
grain, and, as they neared the starting-point, chanting with mellow voices
the harvest song "Cool Water"! How musical was the cadence as, taking time
to get their wind, they whet in unison their ringing blades!
Though the plantations
were large, so large that one master could not hear his neighbor's dog
bark, there was never any loneliness: it was movement and life without
bustle; whilst somehow, in the midst of it all, the house seemed to sit
enthroned in perpetual tranquillity, with outstretched wings under its
spreading oaks, sheltering its children like a great gray dove.
Even at night there was
stirring about: the ring of an axe, the infectious music of the banjos,
the laughter of dancers, the festive noise and merriment of the cabin, the
distant, mellowed shouts of 'coon or 'possum hunters, or the dirge-like
chant of some serious and timid wayfarer passing along the paths over the
hills or through the woods, and solacing his lonely walk with religious
song.
Such was the outward
scene. What was there within ? That which has been much misunderstood, -
that which was like the roses, wasteful beyond measure in its unheeded
growth and blowing, but sweet beyond measure, too, and filling with its
fragrance not only the region round about, but sending it out unmeasuredly
on every breeze that wandered by.
The life within was of
its own kind. There were the master and the mistress: the old master and
old mistress, the young masters and young mistresses,
first, as she was the most important personage about the home, the
presence which pervaded the mansion, the centre of all that life, the
queen of that realm; the master willingly and proudly yielding her entire
management of all household matters and simply carrying out her
directions, confining his ownership within the cartilage solely to his old
"secretary," which on the mistress's part was as sacred from her touch as
her bonnet was from his. There were kept mysterious folded papers, and
equally mysterious parcels, frequently brown with the stain of dust and
age. Had the papers been the lost sibylline leaves instead of old receipts
and bills, and had the parcels contained diamonds instead of long-dried
melon-seed or old flints, now out of date but once ready to serve a useful
purpose, they could not have been more sacredly guarded by the mistress.
The master usually had to hunt for a long period for any particular paper,
whilst the mistress could in a
half-hour have arranged everything in perfect order; but the chaos was
regarded by her with veneration as real as that with which she regarded
the mystery of the heavenly bodies.
On the other hand,
outside of this piece of furniture there was nothing in the house of which
the master even pretended to know. It was all in her keeping. Whatever he
wanted he called for, and she produced it with a certainty and promptness
which struck him as a perpetual miracle. Her system appeared to him as the
result of a wisdom as profound as that which fixed and held the firmament.
He would not have dared to interfere, not because he was afraid, but
because he recognized her superiority. It would no more have occurred to
him to make a suggestion about the management of the house than about that
of one of his neighbors; simply because he knew her and acknowledged her
infallibility. She was, indeed, a surprising creature - often delicate in
frame,
and of a nervous organization so sensitive as perhaps to be a great
sufferer; but her force and character pervaded and directed everything, as
unseen yet as unmistakably as the power of gravity controls the particles
that constitute the earth.
It has been assumed by
the outside world that our people lived a life of idleness and ease, a
kind of "hammock-swung," "sherbet-sipping" existence, fanned by slaves,
and, in their pride, served on bended knees. No conception could be
further from the truth. The ease of the master of a big plantation was
about that of the head of any great establishment where numbers of
operatives are employed, and to the management of which are added the
responsibilities of the care and complete mastership of the liberty of his
operatives and their families. His work was generally sufficiently
systematized to admit of enough personal independence to enable him to
participate in the duties of hospitality; but any master who had a
successfully
conducted plantation was sure to have given it his personal supervision
with an unremitting attention which would not have failed to secure
success in any other calling. If this was true of the master, it was much
more so of the mistress. The master might, by having a good overseer and
reliable headmen, shift a portion of the burden from his shoulders; the
mistress had no such means of relief. She was the necessary and invariable
functionary; the keystone of the domestic economy which bound all the rest
of the structure and gave it its strength and beauty. From early morn till
morn again the most important and delicate concerns of the plantation were
her charge and care. She gave out and directed all the work of the women.
From superintending the setting of the turkeys to fighting a pestilence,
there was nothing which was not her work. She was mistress, manager,
doctor, nurse, counsellor, seamstress, teacher, housekeeper, slave,
all at once. She was at the beck and call of every one, especially of
her husband, to whom she was "guide, philosopher, and friend."
One of them, being told
of a broken gate by her husband, said, "Well, my dear, if I could sew it
with my needle and thread, I would mend it for you."
What she was, only her
husband divined, and even he stood before her in dumb, half-amazed
admiration, as he might before the inscrutable vision of a superior being.
What she really was, was known only to God. Her life was one long act of
devotion, - devotion to God, devotion to her husband, devotion to her
children, devotion to her servants, to her friends, to the poor, to
humanity. Nothing happened within the range of her knowledge that her
sympathy did not reach and her charity and wisdom did not ameliorate. She
was the head and front of the church; an unmitred bishop in
partibus, more effectual than the vestry or deacons, more
earnest than the rector; she managed her family, regulated her
servants, fed the poor, nursed the sick, consoled the bereaved. Who knew
of the visits she paid to the cabins of her sick and suffering servants!
often, at the dead of night, "slipping down" the last thing to see that
her directions were carried out; with her own hands administering
medicines or food; ever by her cheeriness inspiring new hope, by her
strength giving courage, by her presence awaking faith; telling in her
soft voice to dying ears the story of the suffering Saviour; with her hope
soothing the troubled spirit, and lighting with her own faith the path
down into the valley of the dark shadow. What poor person was there,
however inaccessible the cabin, that was sick or destitute and knew not
her charity! Who that was bereaved that had not her sympathy!
The training of her
children was her work. She watched over them,
inspired them, led them, governed them; her will impelled them; her
word to them, as to her servants, was law. She reaped the reward. If she
admired them, she was too wise to let them know it; but her sympathy and
tenderness were theirs always, and they worshipped her.
There was something in
seeing the master and mistress obeyed by the plantation and looked up to
by the neighborhood which inspired the children with a reverence akin to
awe which is not known at this present time. It was not till the young
people were grown that this reverence lost the awe and became based only
upon affection and admiration. Then, for the first time, they dared to
jest with her; then, for the first time, they took in that she had been
like them once, young and gay and pleasure-loving, with coquetries and
maidenly ways, with lovers suing for her; and that she still took pleasure
in the recollection, - this gentle,
classic, serious mother among her tall sons and radiant daughters. How
she blushed as they laughed at her and teased her to tell of her
conquests, her confusion making her look younger and prettier than they
remembered her, and opening their eyes to the truth of what their father
had told them so often, that not one of them could be as beautiful as she.
She became timid and
dependent as they grew up and she found them adorned with new fashions and
ways which she did not know; she gave herself up to their guidance with an
appealing kind of diffidence; was tremulous over her ignorance of the
novel fashions which made them so charming. Yet, when the exactions of her
position came upon her, she calmly took the lead, and, by her instinctive
dignity, her wisdom, and her force, eclipsed them all as naturally as the
full moon in heaven dims the stars.
to the master himself, it is hard to generalize. Yet there were indeed
certain generic characteristics, whether he was grave and severe, or
jovial and easy. There was the foundation of a certain pride based on
self-respect and consciousness of power. There were nearly always the firm
mouth with its strong lines, the calm, placid, direct gaze, the quiet
speech of one who is accustomed to command and have his command obeyed;
there was a contemplative expression due to much communing alone, with
weighty responsibilities resting upon him; there was absolute
self-confidence, and often a look caused by tenacity of opinion. There was
not a doubtful line in the face nor a doubtful tone in the voice; his
opinions were convictions; he was a partisan to the backbone; and not
infrequently he was incapable of seeing more than one side. This prevented
breadth, but gave force. He was proud, but rarely haughty except to
dishonor. To that he was inexorable.
He believed in God, he believed in his wife, he believed in his blood.
He was chivalrous, he was generous, he was usually incapable of fear or of
meanness. To be a Virginia gentleman was the first duty; it embraced being
a Christian and all the virtues. He lived as one; he left it as a heritage
to his children. He was fully appreciative of both the honors and the
responsibilities of his position. He believed in a democracy, but
understood that the absence of a titled aristocracy had to be supplied by
a class more virtuous than he believed any aristocracy to be. He purposed
in his own person to prove that this was practicable. He established the
fact that it was. This and other responsibilities made him grave. He had
inherited gravity from his father and grandfather. The latter had been a
performer in the greatest work of modern times, with the shadow of the
scaffold over him if he failed. The former had faced the
weighty problems of the new government, with many unsolved questions
ever to answer. He himself faced problems not less grave. The greatness of
the past, the time when Virginia had been the mighty power of the New
World, loomed ever above him. It increased his natural conservatism. He
saw the change that was steadily creeping on. The conditions that had
given his class their power and prestige had altered. The fields were
worked down, and agriculture that had made his class rich no longer paid.
The cloud was already gathering in the horizon; the shadow already was
stretching towards him. He could foresee the danger that threatened
Virginia. A peril ever sat beside his door. He was "holding the wolf by
the ears." Outside influences hostile to his interest were being brought
to bear. Any movement must work him injury. He sought the only refuge that
appeared. He fell back behind the Constitution that his fathers
had helped to establish, and became a strict constructionist for
Virginia and his rights. These things made him grave. He reflected much.
Out on the long verandas in the dusk of the summer nights, with his wide
fields stretching away into the gloom, and "the woods" bounding the
horizon, his thoughts dwelt upon serious things; he pondered causes and
consequences; he resolved everything to prime principles. He communed with
the Creator and his first work, Nature.
This communion made him
a wonderful talker. He discoursed of philosophy, politics, and religion.
He read much, generally on these subjects, and read only the best. His
bookcases held the masters (in mellow Elzevirs and Lintots) who had been
his father's friends, and with whom he associated and communed more
intimately than with his neighbors. Homer, Horace, Virgil, Ovid,
Shakespeare, Milton, Dryden, Goldsmith, "Mr. Pope," were his
poets; Plutarch, Bacon, Burke, and Dr. Johnson were his philosophers.
He knew their teachings and tried to pattern himself on them. These "new
fellows" that his sons raved over he held in so much contempt that his
mere statement of their inferiority was to his mind an all-convincing
argument.
In religion he was as
orthodox as the parson. He might not be a professing member of the church;
but he was one of its pillars: ready to stand by, and, if need were, to
fight to the death for the Thirty-nine Articles, or the Confession of
Faith. Yet, if he was generally grave, he was at times, among his
intimates and guests, jovial, even gay. On festive occasions no one
surpassed him in cheeriness. To a stranger he was always a host, to a lady
always a courtier. When the house was full of guests, he was the life of
the company. He led the prettiest girl out for the dance. At Christmas he
took her
under the mistletoe, and paid her gracious compliments which made her
blush and courtesy with dimpling face and dancing eyes. But whatever was
his mood, whatever his surroundings, he was always the exponent of that
grave and knightly courtesy which under all conditions has become
associated with the title "Virginia gentleman."
Whether or not the sons
were, as young men, peculiarly admirable may be a question. They possessed
the faults and the virtues of young men of their kind and condition. They
were given to self-indulgence; they were not broad in their limitations;
they were apt to contemn what did not accord with their own established
views (for their views were established before their mustaches); they were
wasteful of time and energies beyond belief; they were addicted to the
pursuit of pleasure. They exhibited the customary failings of their kind
in a society of an aristocratic character.
But they possessed in full measure the corresponding virtues. They were
brave, they were generous, they were high-spirited. Indulgence in pleasure
did not destroy them. It was the young French noblesse who affected to
eschew exertion even to the point of having themselves borne on litters on
their boar-hunts, and who yet, with a hundred pounds of iron buckled on
their frames, charged like furies at Fontenoy. So these same languid,
philandering young gentlemen, when the crucial occasion came, suddenly
appeared as the most dashing and indomitable soldiery of modern times. It
was the Norfolk company known as the "Dandies" that was extirpated in a
single day.
But, whatever may be
thought of the sons, there can be no question as to the daughters. They
were like the mother; made in her own image. They filled a peculiar place
in the civilization; the key was set to them. They held by
a universal consent the first place in the system, all social life
revolving around them. So generally did the life shape itself about the
young girl that it was almost as if a bit of the age of chivalry had been
blown down the centuries and lodged in the old State. She instinctively
adapted herself to it. In fact, she was made for it. She was gently bred:
her people for generations (since they had come to Virginia) were
gentlefolk. They were so well satisfied that they had been the same in the
mother country that they had never taken the trouble to investigate it.
She was the incontestable proof of their gentility. In right of her blood
(the beautiful Saxon, tempered by the influences of the genial Southern
clime), she was exquisite, fine, beautiful; a creature of peach-blossom
and snow; languid, delicate, saucy; now imperious, now melting, always
bewitching. She was not versed in the ways of the world, but she had no
need to be; she was better than
that; she was well bred. She had not to learn to be a lady, because she
was born one. Generations had given her that by heredity. She grew up
apart from the great world. But ignorance of the world did not make her
provincial. Her instinct was an infallible guide. When a child she had in
her sunbonnet and apron met the visitors at the front steps and
entertained them in the parlor until her mother was ready to appear. Thus
she had grown up to the duties of hostess. Her manners were as perfectly
formed as her mother's, with perhaps a shade more self-possession. Her
beauty was a title which gave her a graciousness that well befitted her.
She never "came out," because she had never been "in;" and the line
between girlhood and youngladyhood was never known. She began to have
beaux certainly before she reached the line; but it did her no harm: she
would herself long walk "fancy free." A protracted devotion
was required of her lovers, and they began early. They were willing to
serve long, for she was a prize worth the service. Her beauty, though it
was often dazzling, was not her chief attraction.
That was herself: that indefinable charm; the result of many
attractions, in combination and perfect harmony, which made her herself.
She was delicate, she was dainty, she was sweet. She lived in an
atmosphere created for her, -
the pure, clean, sweet atmosphere of her country home. She made its
sunshine. She was generally a coquette, often an outrageous flirt. It did
not imply heartlessness. It was said that the worst flirts made the most
devoted wives. It was simply an instinct, an inheritance; it was in the
life. Her heart was tender towards every living thing but her lovers; even
to them it was soft in every way but one. Had they had a finger-ache, she
would have sympathized with them. But in the matter of love she was
inexorable, remorseless. She played upon every chord of the heart. Perhaps
it was because, when she gave up, the surrender was to be absolute. From
the moment of marriage she was the worshipper. Truly she was a strange
being. In her muslin and lawn; with her delicious, low, slow, musical
speech; accustomed to be waited on at every turn, with servants to do her
every bidding; unhabituated often even to putting on her dainty slippers
or combing
her soft hair, - she possessed a reserve force which was astounding.
She was accustomed to have her wishes obeyed as commands. It did not make
her imperious; it simply gave her the habit of control. At marriage she
was prepared to assume the duties of mistress of her establishment,
whether it were great or small.
Thus, when the time
came, the class at the South which had been deemed the most supine
suddenly appeared as the most efficient and the most indomitable. The
courage which the men displayed in battle was wonderful; but it was
nothing to what the Southern women exemplified at home. There was,
perhaps, not a doubtful woman within the limits of the Confederacy. Whilst
their lovers and husbands fought in the field, they performed the harder
part of waiting at home. With more than a soldier's courage they bore more
than a soldier's hardship. For four long years they listened
to the noise of the guns, awaiting with blanched faces but undaunted
hearts the news of battle after battle; buried their beloved dead with
tears, and still amid their tears encouraged the survivors to fight on. It
was a force which has not been duly estimated. It was in the blood.
She was indeed a
strange creature, that delicate, dainty, mischievous, tender, God-fearing,
inexplicable Southern girl. With her fine grain, her silken hair, her
satiny skin, her musical speech; pleasure-loving, saucy, bewitching - deep
down lay the bedrock foundation of innate virtue, piety, and womanliness,
on which were planted all for which human nature can hope, and all to
which it can aspire. Words fail to convey an idea of what she was; as well
try to describe the beauty of the rose or the perfume of the violet. To
appreciate her one must have seen her, have known her, have loved her.
without mention of which no picture of the social life of the South
would be complete: the old mammies and family servants about the house.
These were important, and helped to make the life. The Mammy was the
zealous, faithful, and efficient assistant of the mistress in all that
pertained to the care and training of the children. Her authority was
recognized in all that related to them directly or indirectly, second only
to that of the Mistress and Master. She tended them, regulated them,
disciplined them: having authority indeed in cases to administer
correction; for her affection was undoubted. Her regime extended
frequently through two generations, occasionally through three. From their
infancy she was the careful and faithful nurse, the affection between her
and the children she nursed being often more marked than that between her
and her own offspring. She may have been harsh to the latter; she was
never anything but tender with the others.
Her authority was, in a measure, recognized through life, for her
devotion was unquestionable. The young masters and mistresses were her
"children" long after they had children of their own. When they parted
from her or met with her again after separation, they embraced her with
the same affection as when in childhood she "led them smiling into sleep."
She was worthy of the affection. At all times she was their faithful ally
and champion, excusing them, shielding them, petting them, aiding them,
yet holding them up too to a certain high accountability. Her influence
was always for good. She received, as she gave, an unqualified affection.
If she was a slave, she at least was not a servant, but was an honored
member of the family, universally beloved, universally cared for - "the
Mammy."
Next to her in
importance and rank were the Butler and the Carriage-driver, These with
the Mammy were the aristocrats of the family, who trained the
children in good manners and other exercises; and uncompromising
aristocrats they were. The Butler was apt to be severe, and was feared;
the Driver was genial and kindly, and was adored. I recall a butler,
"Uncle Tom," an austere gentleman, who was the terror of the juniors of
the connection. One of the children, after watching him furtively as he
moved about with grand air, when he had left the room and his footsteps
had died away, crept over and asked her grandmother, his mistress, in an
awed whisper, "Grandma, are you 'fraid of Unc' Tom?"
The Driver was the ally
of the boys, the worshipper of the girls, and consequently had an ally in
their mother, the mistress. As the head of the stable, he was an important
personage. This comradeship was never forgotten; it lasted through life.
The years might grow on him, his eyes might become dim; but he was left in
command even when he was too feeble to hold the
horses; and though he might no longer grasp the reins, he at least held
the title, and to the end was always "the Driver of Mistiss's carriage."
Other servants too
there were with special places and privileges, - gardeners and "boys about
the house," comrades of the boys; and "own maids," for each girl had her
"own maid." They all formed one great family in the social structure now
passed away, a structure incredible by those who knew it not, and now,
under new conditions, almost incredible by those who knew it best.
The social life formed
of these elements combined was one of singular sweetness and freedom from
vice. If it was not filled with excitement, it was replete with happiness
and content. It is asserted that it was narrow. Perhaps it was. It was so
sweet, so charming, that it is little wonder if it asked nothing more than
to be let alone.
and pleasure-loving people; but, as in most rural communities, their
festivities were free from dissipation. There was sometimes too great an
indulgence on the part of young men in the State drink, the julep; but
whether it was that it killed early, or that it was usually abandoned as
the responsibilities of life increased, an elderly man of dissipated
habits was almost unknown. They were fond of sport, and excelled in it,
being generally fine riders, good shots, and skilled hunters. Love of
horses was a race characteristic, and fine horsemanship was a thing little
considered only because it was universal.
The life was gay. In
addition to the perpetual round of ordinary entertainment, there was
always on hand or in prospect some more formal festivity, - a club
meeting, a fox-hunt, a party, a tournament, a wedding. Little excuse was
needed to bring people together where every one was social, and where the
great honor was to be the host.
Scientific horse-racing was confined to the regular race-tracks, where
the races were not dashes, but four-mile heats which tested speed and
bottom alike. But good blood was common, and even a ride with a girl in an
afternoon meant generally a dash along the level through the woods, where,
truth to tell, Miss Atalanta was very apt to win. Occasionally there was
even a dash from the church. The highswung carriages, having received
their precious loads of lily-fingered, pink-faced, laughing girls with
teeth like pearls and eyes like stars, helped in by young men who would
have thrown not only their cloaks but their hearts into the mud to keep
those dainty feet from being soiled, would go ahead; and then, the restive
saddle-horses being untied from the swinging limbs, the young gallants
would mount, and, by an instinctive common impulse, starting all together,
would make a dash to the first hill, on top of which the dust still
lingered, a golden nimbus thrown from the wheels that rolled their
goddesses.
The chief sport,
however, was fox-hunting. It was, in season, almost universal. Who that
lived in that time does not remember the fox-hunts, - the eager chase
after "grays" or "old reds"! The grays furnished more fun, the reds more
excitement. The grays did not run so far, but usually kept near home,
going in a circuit of six or eight miles. "An old red," generally so
called irrespective of age, as a tribute to his prowess, might lead the
dogs all day, and end by losing them as evening fell, after taking them a
dead stretch for thirty miles. The capture of a gray was what men boasted
of; a chase after "an old red" was what they "yarned" about. Some old reds
became historical characters, and were as well known and as much discussed
in the counties they inhabited as the leaders of the bar or the crack
speakers of the circuit. The wiles and guiles of each
veteran were the pride of his neighbors and hunters. Many of them had
names. Gentlemen discussed them at their club dinners; lawyers told
stories about them in the "Lawyers' Rooms" at the court-houses; young men,
while they waited for the preacher to get well into the service before
going into church, bragged about them in the churchyards on Sundays. There
was one such that I remember: he was known as "Nat Turner," after the
notorious leader of "Nat Turner's Rebellion," who remained in hiding for
weeks after all his followers were taken.
Great frolics these
hunts were; for there were the prettiest girls in the world in the country
houses round about, and each young fellow was sure to have in his heart
some brown or blue-eyed maiden to whom he had promised the brush, and to
whom, with feigned indifference but with mantling cheek and beating heart,
he would carry it if, as he counted on doing, he should
win it. Sometimes the girls came over themselves and rode, or more
likely were already there visiting, and the beaux simply followed them by
a law as immutable as that by which the result follows the premises in a
mathematical proposition.
Even the boys had their
lady-loves, and rode for them on the colts or mules: not the small girls
of their own age (no "little girls" for them!). Their sweethearts were
grown young ladies, with smiling eyes and silken hair and graceful mien,
whom their grown cousins courted, and whom they with their boys' hearts
worshipped. Often a half-dozen were in love with one - always the
prettiest one - and, with the generous spirit of boys in whom the selfish
instinct has not yet awakened, agreed among themselves that they would all
ride for her, and that whichever got the brush should present it on behalf
of all.
of the hunters on the far hill, in the evening, with their packs
surrounding them! Who does not recall the excitement at the house; the
arrival in the yard, with horns blowing, hounds baying, horses prancing,
and girls laughing; the picture of the young ladies on the front portico
with their arms round each other's dainty waists, - the slender, pretty
figures, the bright faces, the sparkling eyes, the gay laughter and
musical voices, as with coquettish merriment they challenged the riders,
demanding to blow the horns themselves or to ride some specially handsome
horse next morning! The way, the challenge being accepted, they tripped
down the steps, - some with little screams shrinking from the bounding
dogs; one or two with stouter hearts, fixed upon higher games bravely
ignoring them and leaving their management to their masters, who at their
approach sprang to the ground to meet them, hat in hand and the telltale
blood mounting
to their sunburned faces, handsome with the beauty and pride of youth!
I am painfully aware of
the inadequacy of my picture. But who could do justice to the truth!
It was owing to all
these and some other characteristics that the life was what it was. It was
on a charming key. It possessed an ampleness and generosity which were not
splendid because they were too genuine and refined.
Hospitality had become
a recognized race characteristic, and was practiced as a matter of course.
It was universal; it was spontaneous. It was one of the distinguishing
features of the civilization; as much a part of the social life as any
other of the domestic relations. Its generosity secured it a distinctive
title. The exactions it entailed were engrossing. Its exercise occupied
much of the time, and exhausted much of the means. The constant
intercourse of the neighborhood, with its perpetual
round of dinners, teas, and entertainments, was supplemented by visits
of friends and relatives from other sections, who came with their
families, their equipages, and personal servants, to spend a month or two,
or as long a time as they pleased. A dinner invitation was not so
designated. It was, with more exactitude, termed "spending the day." On
Sundays every one invited every one else from church, and there would be
long lines of carriages passing in at the open gates.
It is a mystery how the
house ever held the visitors. Only the mistress knew. Her resources were
enormous. The rooms, with their low ceilings, were wide, and had a holding
capacity which was simply astounding. The walls seemed to be made of
india-rubber, so great was their stretching power. No one who came,
whether friend or stranger, was ever turned away. If the beds were full -
as when were they not! - pallets were put down on the
floor in the parlor or the garret for the younger members of the
family, sometimes even the passages being utilized. Frequently at
Christmas the master and mistress were compelled to resort to the same
refuge.
It was this
intercourse, following the intermarriage and class feeling of the old
families, which made Virginians clannish, and caused a single
distinguishable common strain of blood, however distant, to be recognized
and counted as kinship.
Perhaps this universal
entertainment might not now be considered elegant. Let us see.
It was based upon a
sentiment as pure and unselfish as can animate the human mind, - upon
kindness. It was easy, generous, and refined. The manners of entertainers
and entertained alike were gentle, cordial, simple, with, to strangers, a
slight trace of stateliness. The best the hosts had was given; no more was
required.
The conversation was
surprising; it was of the crops, the roads, history, literature, politics,
mutual friends, including the entire field of neighborhood matters,
related not as gossip, but as affairs of common interest, which every one
knew or was expected and entitled to know.
Among the ladies, the
fashions came in, of course, embracing particularly "patterns."
Politics took the place
of honor among the gentlemen, their range embracing not only State and
national politics, but British as well, as to which they possessed
astonishing knowledge, interest in English matters having been handed down
from father to son as a class test. "My father's" opinion was quoted as
conclusive authority on this and all points, and in matters of great
importance historically "my grandfather, sir," was cited. The peculiarity
of the whole was that it was cast on a high plane, and possessed a
literary
flavor of a high order; for, as has been said, the classics, Latin and
English, with a fair sprinkling of good old
French authors were in the bookcases, and were there not for show, but
for companionship. There was nothing for show in that life; it was all
genuine, real, true.
They had preserved the
old customs that their fathers had brought with them from the mother
country. The great fête of the people was Christmas. Spring had its
special delights, - horse-back rides through the budding woods, with the
birds singing; fishing parties down on the little rivers, with
out-of-doors lunches and love-making; parties of various kinds from house
to
house. Summer had its pleasures, - handsome dinners, and teas with
moonlight strolls and rides to follow; visits to or from relatives, or
even to the White Sulphur Springs, called simply "the White." The Fall had
its pleasures. But all times and seasons paled and dimmed before the
festive joys of Christmas. It had been handed down for generations; it
belonged to the race. It had come over with their forefathers. It had a
peculiar significance. It was a title. Religion had given it its
benediction. It was the time to "Shout the glad tidings." It was The
Holidays. There were other holidays for the slaves, both of the
school-room and the plantation, such as Easter and Whit-Monday; but
Christmas was distinctively "The Holidays." Then the boys came home from
school or college with their friends; the members of the family who had
moved away returned; pretty cousins came for the festivities; the
neighborhood grew merry. The
negroes were all to have holiday, the house-servants taking turn and
turn about, and the plantation, long before the time, made ready for
Christmas cheer. It was by all the younger population looked back to half
the year, looked forward to the other half. Time was measured by it: it
was either so long "since Christmas," or so long "before Christmas." The
affairs of the plantation were set in order against it. The corn was got
in; the hogs were killed; the lard "tried;" sausage-meat made; mince-meat
prepared; turkeys fattened, with "the big gobbler" specially devoted to
the "Christmas dinner;" the servants' winter clothes and new shoes stored
away ready for distribution; and the plantation began to be ready to
prepare for Christmas.
In the first place,
there was generally a cold spell which froze up everything and enabled the
ice-houses to be filled. (The seasons, like a good many other
things, appear to have changed since that old time before the war.)
This spell was the harbinger; and great fun it was at the ice-pond, where
the big rafts of ice were floated along, with the boys on them. The rusty
skates with their curled runners and stiff straps were gotten out and
maybe tried for a day. Then the stir began. The wagons all were put to
hauling wood - hickory. Nothing but hickory now; other wood might do for
other times. But at Christmas only hickory was used; and the wood-pile was
heaped high with the logs; while to the ordinary wood-cutters "for the
house" were added three, four, a half-dozen more, whose shining axes rang
around the wood-pile all day long. (With what a vim they cut, and how
telling was that earnest "Ha'nh!" as they drove the ringing axes into the
hard wood, sending the big white chips flying in all directions! It was
always the envy of the boys, that simultaneous, ostentatious expulsion of
the
breath, and they used to try vainly to imitate it.
In the midst of it all
came the wagon or the ox-cart from "the depot," with the big white boxes
of Christmas things, the black driver feigning hypocritical indifference
as he drove through the choppers to the storeroom. Then came the rush of
all the cutters to help him unload; the jokes among themselves, as they
pretended to strain in lifting, of what "master" or "mistis" was going to
give them out of those boxes, uttered just loud enough to reach their
master's or mistress's ears where they stood looking on, whilst the driver
took due advantage of his temporary prestige to give many pompous cautions
and directions.
The getting the
evergreens and mistletoe was the sign that Christmas had come, was really
here. There were the parlor and hall and dining-room to be "dressed," and,
above all, the old church. The last was the work of the
neighborhood; all united in it, and it was one of the events of the
year. Young men rode thirty and forty miles to "help" dress that church.
They did not go home again till after Christmas.
The return from the
church was the beginning of the festivities.
Then by "Christmas
Eve's eve" the wood was all cut and stacked high in the wood-house and on
and under the back porticos, so as to be handy, and secure from the snow
which was almost certain to come. It seems that Christmas was almost sure
to bring it in old times; at least it is closely associated with it. The
excitement increased; the boxes were unpacked, some of them openly, to the
general delight; others with a mysterious secrecy which stimulated
curiosity to its highest point and added immeasurably to the charm of the
occasion. The kitchen filled up with assistants famed for special skill in
particular branches of the cook's art, who bustled about with glistening
faces
and shining teeth, proud of their elevation and eager to prove their
merits and add to the general cheer.
It was now Christmas
Eve. From time to time the "hired out" servants came home from Richmond or
other places where they had been hired or had hired out themselves, their
terms having been by common custom framed, with due regard to their rights
to the holiday to expire in time for them to spend the Christmas at home.
1 There was much hilarity over their arrival, and
they were welcomed like members of the family as, with their new winter
clothes donned a little ahead of time, they came to pay "bespec's to
master and mistis."
Then the vehicles went
off to the distant station for the visitors - the visitors and the boys.
Oh the excitement of that! at first the drag of the long hours, and then
the eager expectancy as the time approached for their return; the
"making up" of the fires in the visitors' rooms (of the big fires;
there had been fires there all day "to air" them, but now they must be
made up afresh); the hurrying backwards and forwards of the servants; the
feverish impatience of every one, especially of the children, who are sure
the train is "late" or that something has "happened," and who run and look
up towards the big gate every five minutes, notwithstanding the mammy's
oft-repeated caution that a "watch' pot never b'iles." There was one
exception to the general excitement: the Mistress, calm, deliberate,
unperturbed, moved about with her usual serene composure, her watchful eye
seeing that everything was "ready." Her orders had been given and her
arrangements made days before, such was her system. The young ladies,
having finished dressing the parlor and hall, had disappeared. Satisfied
at last with their work, after innumerable final touches,
every one of which was an undeniable improvement to that which had
already appeared perfect, they had suddenly vanished - vanished as
completely as a dream - to appear again later on at the parlor door,
radiant visions of loveliness, or, maybe, if certain visitors unexpectedly
arrived, to meet accidentally in the less embarrassing and safer precincts
of the dimly lighted halls or passages. When they appeared, what a
transformation had taken place! If they were bewitching before, now they
were entrancing. The gay, laughing, saucy creature who had been dressing
the parlors and hanging the mistletoe with many jests and parries of the
half-veiled references was now a demure or stately maiden in all the
dignity of a new gown and with all the graciousness of a young countess.
But this is after the
carriages return. They have not yet arrived. They are late - they are
always late - and it is dark before they come; the glow of
the fires and candles shines out through the windows on the snow, often
blackened by the shadows of little figures whose noses are pressed to the
cold panes, which grow blurred with their warm breath. Meantime the
carriages, piled outside and in, are slowly making their way homeward
through the frozen roads, followed by the creaking wagon filled with
trunks, on which are haply perched small muffled figures, whose places in
the carriages are taken by unexpected guests. The drivers still keep up a
running fire with their young masters, though they have long since been
pumped dry as to every conceivable matter connected with "home," in return
for which they receive information as to school and college pranks. At
last the "big gate" is reached; a half-frozen figure rolls out and runs to
open it, flapping his arms in the darkness like some strange, uncanny
bird; they pass through; the gleam of a light shines away off on a far
hill. The
shout goes up, "There she is; I see her!" The light is lost, but a
little later appears again. It is the light in the mother's chamber, the
curtains of the windows of which have been left up intentionally, that the
welcoming gleam may be seen afar off by her boys on the first hill - a
blessed beacon shining from home and her mother's heart.
Across the white fields
the dark vehicles move, then toil up the house hill, filled with their
eager occupants, who can scarce restrain themselves; approach the house,
by this time glowing with lighted windows, and enter the yard just as the
doors open and a swarm rushes out with joyful cries of, "Here they are!"
"Yes, here we are!" comes in cheery answer, and one after another they
roll or step out, according to age and dignity, and run up the steps,
stamping their feet, the boys to be taken fast into motherly arms, and the
visitors to be given warm handclasps and cordial welcomes.
Later on the children
were got to bed, scarce able to keep in their pallets for excitement; the
stockings were all hung up over the big fireplace; and the grown people
grew gay in the crowded parlors. There was no splendor, nor show, nor
style as it would be understood now. Had there been, it could not have
been so charming. There were only profusion and sincerity, heartiness and
gayety, cordiality and cheer, and withal genuineness and refinement.
Next morning the stir
began before light. White-clad little figures stole about in the gloom,
with bulging stockings clasped to their bosoms, opening doors shouting
"Christmas gift!" into dark rooms at sleeping elders, and then scurrying
away like so many white mice, squeaking with delight, to rake open the
embers and inspect their treasures. At prayers, "Shout the glad tidings"
was sung by fresh young voices with due fervor.
How gay the scene was
at breakfast! What pranks had been performed in the name of Santa Claus!
Every foible had been played on. What lovely telltale blushes and glances
and laughter greeted the confessions! The larger part of the day was spent
in going to and coming from the beautifully dressed church, where the
service was read, and the anthems and hymns were sung by every one, for
every one was happy.
But, as in the
beginning of things, "the evening and the morning were the first day."
Dinner was the great event. It was the test of the mistress and the cook,
or, rather, the cooks; for the kitchen now was full of them. It is
impossible to describe it. The old mahogany table, stretched diagonally
across the dining-room, groaned; the big gobbler filled the place of
honor; a great round of beef held the second place; an old ham, with every
other dish that ingenuity, backed by long
experience, could devise, was at the side, and the shining sideboard,
gleaming with glass, scarcely held the dessert. The butler and his
assistants were supernaturally serious and slow, which bespoke plainly too
frequent a recourse to the apple-toddy bowl; but under the stimulus of the
mistress's eye, they got through all right, and their slight unsteadiness
was overlooked.
It was then that the
fun began.
After dinner there were
apple-toddy and egg-nog, as there had been before.
There were games and
dances - country dances, the lancers and quadrilles. The top of the old
piano was lifted up, and the infectious dancing-tunes rolled out under the
flying fingers. Haply there was some demur on the part of the elder
ladies, who were not quite sure that it was right; but it was overruled by
the gentlemen, and the master in his frock coat and high collar started
the ball by catching the prettiest girl by the hand and leading her to the
head of the room right under the noses of half a dozen bashful lovers,
calling to them meantime to "get their sweethearts and come along." Round
dancing was not yet introduced. It was regarded as an innovation, if
nothing worse. It was held generally as highly improper, by some as
"disgusting." As to the german, why, had it been known, the very name
would have been sufficient to damn it. Nothing foreign in that
civilization! There was fun enough in the old-fashioned country dances,
and the "Virginia reel" at the close. Whoever could not be satisfied with
that was hard to please.
But it was not only in
the "great house" that there was Christmas cheer. Every cabin was full of
it, and in the wash-house or the carpenter-shop there was preparation for
a plantation supper.
At this time, too,
there were the negro parties, where the ladies and gentlemen went to look
on, the supper
having been superintended by the mistresses, and the tables being
decorated by their own white hands. There was almost sure to be a negro
wedding during the holidays. The ceremony might be performed in the
dining-room or in the hall by the master, or in one of the quarters by a
colored preacher; but it was a gay occasion, and the dusky bride's
trousseau had been arranged by her young mistress, and the family was on
hand to get fun out of the entertainment, and to recognize by their
presence the solemnity of the tie.
Other weddings there
were, too, sometimes following these Christmas gayeties, and sometimes
occurring "just so," because the girls were the loveliest in the world,
and the men were lovers almost from their boyhood. How beautiful our
mothers must have been in their youth to have been so beautiful in their
age!
young married folk in those times; the travelling was usually done
before marriage. When a wedding took place, however, the entire
neighborhood entertained the young couple.
Truly it was a charming
life. There was a vast waste; but it was not loss. Every one had food,
every one had raiment, every one had peace. There was not wealth in the
base sense in which we know it and strive for it and trample down others
for it now. But there was wealth in the good old sense in which the litany
of our fathers used it. There was weal. There was the best of all wealth;
there was content, and "a quiet mind is richer than a crown."
We have gained
something by the change. The South under her new conditions will in time
grow rich, will wax fat; nevertheless we have lost much. How much only
those who knew it can estimate; to them it was inestimable.
That the social life of
the Old South had its faults I am far from denying. What civilization has
not? But its virtues far outweighed them; its graces were never equalled.
For all its faults, it was, I believe, the purest, sweetest life ever
lived. It has been claimed that it was non-productive, that it fostered
sterility. Only ignorance or folly could make the assertion. It largely
contributed to produce this nation; it led its armies and its navies; it
established this government so firmly that not even it could overthrow it;
it opened up the great West; it added Louisiana and Texas, and more than
trebled our territory; it christianized the negro race in a little over
two centuries, impressed upon it regard for order, and gave it the only
civilization it has ever possessed since the dawn of history. It has
maintained the supremacy of the Caucasian race, upon which all
civilization seems now to depend. It produced a people whose heroic fight
against the forces of the world has enriched the annals of the human
race, - a people whose fortitude in defeat has been even more splendid
than their valor in war. It made men noble, gentle, and brave, and women
tender and pure and true. It may have fallen short in material development
in its narrower sense, but it abounded in spiritual development; it made
the domestic virtues as common as light and air, and filled homes with
purity and peace.
It has passed from the
earth, but it has left its benignant influence behind it to sweeten and
sustain its children. The ivory palaces have been destroyed, but myrrh,
aloes, and cassia still breathe amid their dismantled ruins.
