Dr. Rice lived in a large, old-fashioned house, on a plantation7 of two thousand acres or more. An oak grove8, alive with chattering9 squirrels which had been held sacred for two generations, surrounded the house. The squirrels held conventions in the trees, and 147 doubtless expressed their opinions of the family below, whom they had good reason to consider inferior beings, inasmuch as they were slow-motioned, heavy creatures, utterly10 destitute11 of grace and agility12, and with small appreciation13 of hickory-nuts.
The Doctor cultivated tobacco, and when I arrived the fields stretched as far as the eye could reach, now a vast level sea of green, now covering the low, gently rounded, undulating hills as they sloped down to the Staunton River. There was never a season when these fields were not alive with laborers14 of every age; for the regal plant so beloved of men—and ranking with opium15 and hemp16 as a solace17 for the ills of mankind—has enemies from the hour it peeps from the nursery of the hot bed. It can never be forgotten a moment. Children can hunt the fly which seeks to line the leaf with eggs, or destroy the unhatched eggs, or aid the great army which must turn out in haste when the ravenous18 worm is born. The earth must be turned frequently at the roots, the flower buds pinched off, the shoots or "suckers" removed. The Doctor's tobacco field was an enlivening spectacle, and very picturesque19 did the ebony faces of the little workers look, among the broad leaves. No lady's garden was ever kept so clean, so free from sticks, errant bits of paper, or débris of any kind.
I do not claim that Dr. Rice (my uncle) was a typical planter—as far as the government of his slaves was concerned. He had inherited liberal ideas with these inherited slaves. His grandfather, David Rice, had written the first published protest 148 in this country against slavery as "inconsistent with religion and policy." His father had ruled a plantation where severe punishment was unknown, where the cheerful slaves rarely needed it. The old gentleman was considered eccentric—and eccentric it surely was for a master to punish a fault by commanding the culprit to stand in his presence while he recited a long passage from Homer or Virgil! The punishment was effective. For fear of it, the fault was rarely repeated.
It was my uncle's custom to assemble every slave on his plantation on Sunday morning, and to speak a few words to each one, commending the women if their families appeared in clean, well-kept garments, rewarding with a pair of shoes the urchins20 reported by "Uncle Moses" as having been orderly and useful, exchanging a pleasant jest here and there.
He presented a tight, comfortable house to every newly married pair, with timber for the bridegroom to add to it, or to enclose the piece of land for a garden or a poultry21 yard which went with it. Every mother at the birth of a child was presented with a pig. The plantation, which was large and fruitful, and from which nothing but tobacco and wheat was ever sold, yielded vegetables, poultry, mutton, beef, bacon in lavish22 abundance, while the orchards23 and vines were equally productive.
Some hundreds of the negroes of the neighborhood were members of the Presbyterian church of the whites. In the old church books may be seen to-day records of their marriages and funerals, and how (for example) "Lovelace Brown was brought 149 before the session for hog-stealing and suspended for one month." But there were better records than this. These Presbyterian negroes were at one time led by an eminent24 patriarch, Uncle Abel, who deserves more than a passing notice. He had been taught to read and had been well drilled in the Shorter Catechism. But his marriage ceremonies were always read from the Episcopal Prayer-book, every word of which he held sacred, not to be changed or omitted to suit any modern heresy25. "I M, take thee N," was the formula for Jack26 or Peter, Dilsey or Dicey—and "with this ring I thee wed27" must be pronounced with solemnity, ring or no ring, the latter being not at all essential.
My uncle's old family coach, punctual to the minute, swept around the circle on the lawn every Sunday morning, with Uncle Peter proudly guiding the horses from his high perch28. And high-swung was the coach, to be ascended29 (as we ascended our four-poster beds) by three carpeted steps,—in the case of the carriage, folding steps, which were tucked inside after we had disposed of ourselves, with our ample hoops30. There was plenty of room inside. Pockets lined the doors, and these were filled by my aunt with beaten biscuit and sugar-cakes "for the little darkies on the road."
Arriving at the church, the gentlemen from the adjacent plantations31, who had been settling the affairs of the nation under the trees, came forward to hand us from our carriage, after the manner of old-time cavaliers and sedan-chairs; and my aunt and I would be very gracious, devoutly32 hoping in 150 our hearts that my uncle and his sons would not forget a reciprocal courtesy when Mrs. Winston Henry, Mrs. Paul Carrington, and Mrs. Sarah Carrington should arrive.
The women all seated themselves on the right side of the church, while the men, during the singing of a preliminary hymn33, came in like a processional and took the left as their portion,—all of which (except the advertisements on the church doors) was conducted precisely34 according to the customs of Revolutionary times, when Patrick Henry and John Randolph, now sleeping a few miles away, were themselves (we trust) church-goers.
Church dinners at home were simple, but abundant,—so that if three or four carriages should arrive from distant plantations in the neighborhood, there could be welcome and refreshment35 for all, but on the great days when my uncle and aunt received the neighborhood, when the Carringtons and Patrick Henry's sons, John and Winston, came with their families to spend the day, the dinner was something to be remembered. Perhaps a description verbatim from an old family servant will be better than anything I can furnish from memory.
"Yes, sir! We had fine dinners in them days. The butter was moulded like a temple with pillars, and a rose stuck in the top. There was a wreath of roses roun' all the dessert dishes. Viney biled the ham in cider. We had roas' pig, biled turkey, chickens fried an' briled, spring lam', ducks an' green goslin'. An' every cut-glass dish in the house was 151 full of preserves, an' the great bowl full of ice-cream, an' floatin' island, an' tipsy-cake, an' cheese-cakes, an' green sweetmeats, an' citron. John was bothered where to set all the dishes."
THE OAKS.
Our guests would remain late, that they might have the cool evening hours for their long drives. Mr. John Henry, with his family of gifted sons and beautiful daughters, lived at Red Hill, the home of his father, the great orator37 and patriot38, under the trees his father had planted and near the grave where he sleeps. Mr. Winston Henry had also an interesting family, and lived in an old colonial house not far away, surrounded by grounds filled in summer with pomegranates and gardenias39, and with lemon and orange trees in tubs, also great trees of heliotrope40, and vines of jessamine—a paradise of beauty and sweetness. Rosalie Henry would bring her guitar to my uncle's and sing for us by the hour. She was so loved, so cherished by her parents, that they gave her a bedroom over their own, to which she ascended by a stairway from their own apartment—all that they might be near her. But one morning early, pretty Rosalie changed gowns with her maid, put a pail on her head, and slipped past her trusting, adoring parents to join her lover in the jessamine bower41, and in a bridal robe of linsey-woolsey was married at the next town! Then it was that my good uncle had his opportunity. The sublime42 teaching of forgiveness was respected from his kindly43 lips.
In the early summer of '61 Virginia planters were not all d'accord on political questions; and 152 like Agag, it behooved44 us to "walk delicately" in conversation. One thing they would not endure. Politics were to be kept out of the pulpit. Never had the pastor45 such attentive46 congregations; they were watching him, keenly alive to the remotest hint or allusion47 to the war. His business was with the spiritual kingdom of God. He must not interfere48 with C?sar's. He found it expedient49 to omit for the present the warlike aspirations50 of David, in which he beseeches51 the Lord's attention to his enemies, and, among other things calculated to comfort and soothe52 his pious53 feelings, prays that they may be as "stubble before the wind," as "wood before fire," and be "rooted forever out of the land of the living."
"Enemies" were not to be alluded54 to in the pulpit. Nor, indeed, not yet in private! It was proper and in good taste to speak of them as "Federals"; but at no very distant day these same polite gentlemen called them "enemies" with a will; when scornfully disposed, they were "Yankees," and when they wished to be positively55 insulting, "Yanks."
Across the river from the Oaks was "Mildendo," the home of the Carrington family. From this home went every man capable of bearing arms—Fontaine, the fine young surgeon so well placed in the United States Navy, and his brother, the grave head of the house upon whom everybody depended; and one, a cousin, leaving his bride at the altar. Patrick Henry's grandsons all enlisted56. Mr. Charles Bruce left his baronial castle on Staunton Hill near 153 the Oaks, equipped the "Staunton Hill Artillery57 Company" at his own expense, placed himself at its head and shared all its hardships. His brother, Mr. James Bruce, cut up his rich carpets and curtains for the soldiers' blankets. These were but a few of the gallant58 neighbors of my uncle, who exchanged homes of luxury for the hardships of war—all of whom probably shared General Lee's keen sorrow at the necessity forced upon Virginia to withdraw her allegiance from the union.
My uncle had a son already in the cavalry59 service—and another, Henry, a fine young fellow of sixteen, was at Hampden-Sidney College, Virginia. Presently a letter from the latter filled the family at the Oaks with—yes, anxiety—but at the same time a proud sense of how old Revolutionary "blood will tell." Henry was on the march! At the first tocsin of war the students of Hampden-Sidney had rushed to arms—most of them under age; and when their president, the venerated60 Rev6. John Atkinson, found they would go, he placed himself at their head as their captain. Military tactics had not been included in his theological training. So promptly61 had he responded to the call of his country he had no opportunity to drill his young soldiers according to the rules of Hardee and Jomini; but he did more for them than this. His fatherly care and his example of courage, fortitude62, and faith in the cause inspired them to bear hardships which were severe almost beyond their powers of endurance. 154
Notwithstanding the inexperience of their captain, these boys, fresh from their college halls, were often publicly complimented as they headed the column in the long marches over the mountains of Virginia.
When they were called to Richmond their patriotic64 ardor65 received a shock. Governor Letcher seriously took under consideration the propriety66 of sending them back to school on account of their youth. A committee from the company waited upon him, and he was finally prevailed upon to allow them to go to the front.
They soon learned what war was—these beardless college boys, and bore themselves gallantly67 in several engagements. But their military career was brief. McClellan flanked their position at Rich Mountain, July 12, 1861, and cut off every avenue of retreat. The whole command, after a sharp engagement, were made prisoners of war. For the time being the boys felt their military career to have been an inglorious failure.
While they were thus disappointed and depressed68, a Federal officer, presumably a lieutenant69, visited them in the prison camp. He said he had heard so much of the boy soldiers led by their college president that he wished to make their acquaintance.
The boys were not by way of being over anxious to receive visits from their victors. The officer asked, "Why in the world are you here?"
"We are here to fight!" said they. "What do you suppose we came for?"
"Well, boys," said the officer, pleasantly, "make 155 yourselves easy. I'll send you home to your mothers in a few days."
The officer was General McClellan!
The company was paroled, but was not exchanged for a year. This prolonged parole, they always thought, was due to General McClellan's influence in order to give them a whole year at college.
They all returned to the army after their exchange, but never as the "Hampden-Sidney Boys." They never forgot the little interview with the General. He won all their hearts.
Our own Hampden-Sidney boy, Henry Rice, soon afterward70 wrote from a hospital in Richmond that he was ill with fever. My uncle ordered him home, and I took the great family coach and Uncle Peter and went to the depot, fourteen miles away, to fetch him. He looked so long, that I doubted whether I could bestow71 him in the carriage; and as he was too good a soldier for me to suggest that he be "doubled up," I entered the carriage first, had his head and shoulders placed in my lap, then closed the door and swung his long legs out of the window!
My uncle was a fine specimen72 of a Christian gentleman—always courteous73, always serene74. I delighted in following him around the plantation on horseback. When he winnowed75 his wheat, Uncle Moses, standing63 like an emperor amid the sheaves, filled the hearts of my little boys with ecstasy76 by allowing them to ride the horses that turned the great wheel. Finally the wheat was packed in bags, and we stood on the bank of the river to see it piled into flat-bottomed boats on the way to market. 156
The next morning Moses appeared at the dining room door while we were at breakfast.
"Good morning, Moses," said my uncle. "I thought you were going with the wheat."
"Dar ain't no wheat," said the old man. "Hit's all at de bottom of the river."
"How did that happen?"
"We jest natchelly run agin a snag; when de boat turn over, hit pulled all de others down. 'Cose you know, Marster, dey was tied together, an' boat ain' got no eyes to see snags."
"Well—get out your chains and grappling hooks, Moses, and save all you can. It will do to feed the chickens."
"Why, Uncle!" I exclaimed, "how calmly you take it."
"Certainly," said he; "because I've lost my crop is that any reason I should lose my temper? Here, Pizarro, have our horses saddled. We'll go down to the river and encourage Moses to resurrect his wheat." (Pizarro was John's son. John had studied with the boys of the family, and knew some history and Latin. One of the women bore the classic name of "Lethe"; others were "Chloe" and "Daphne"; another name, frequently repeated, was "Dicey"—a survival, according to Mr. Andrew Lang, of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, which was found among the Indians and the Virginia negroes of colonial times. Orpheus seems to have perished from their traditions, but Dicey is still a favorite name. The descendants of Lethe and Pizarro still live at the Oaks. A late achievement 157 shows their progress under new conditions, the baptismal records having been enriched with "Hazel-Kirke-Florida-Bell-Armazinda-Hodge," more imposing77 if less suggestive than the "Homicide" and "Neuralgia" of a neighboring county.)
This precise type of a Virginia plantation will never appear again, I imagine. I wish I could describe a plantation wedding as I saw it that summer. But a funeral of one of the old servants was peculiarly interesting to me. "Aunt Matilda" had been much loved, and when she found herself dying, she had requested that the mistress and little children should attend her funeral. "I ain' been much to church," she urged, "I couldn't leave my babies. I ain' had dat shoutin' an' hollerin' religion, but I gwine to heaven jes' de same"—a fact of which nobody who knew Aunt Matilda could have the smallest doubt.
We had a long, warm walk behind hundreds of negroes, following the rude coffin78 in slow procession through the woods, singing antiphonally as they went one of those strange, weird79 hymns80 not to be caught by any Anglo-Saxon voice.
It was a beautiful and touching81 scene, and at the grave I longed for an artist (we had no kodaks then) to perpetuate82 the picture. The level rays of the sun were filtered through the green leaves of the forest, and fell gently on the dusky, pathetic faces, and on the simple coffin surrounded by orphan83 children and relatives, very dignified84 and quiet in their grief.
The spiritual patriarch of the plantation presided. Old Uncle Abel said:— 158
"I ain' gwine keep you all long. 'Tain' no use. We can't do nothin' for Sis' Tildy. All is done fer her, an' she done preach her own fune'al sermon. Her name was on dis church book here, but dat warn' nothin', 'dout 'twas on de Lamb book too!
"Now whiles dey fillin' up her grave I'd like you all to sing a hymn Sis' Tildy uster love, but you all know I bline in one eye, an' de sweat done got in de other; so's I can't see to line it out, an' I dunno as any o' you all ken36 do it"—and the first thing I knew, the old man had passed his well-worn book to me, and there I stood, at the foot of the grave, "lining85 out":—
"Asleep in Jesus, blessed sleep
From which none ever wakes to weep,"—
words of immortal86 comfort to the great throng87 of negro mourners who caught it up, line after line, on an air of their own, full of tears and tenderness,—a strange, weird tune88 no white person's voice could ever follow.
Among such scenes I passed the month of June and the early part of July, and then General Beauregard reminded us that we were at war, and had no right to make ourselves comfortable.
Dr. Rice, on the afternoon of the 21st, had betaken himself to his accustomed place under the trees, to escape the flies,—the pest of Southern households in summer,—and had lain down on the grass for his afternoon nap. He suddenly called out excitedly: "There's a battle going on—a fierce battle—I can hear the cannonading distinctly. 159 Here—lie down—you can hear it!" "Oh, no, no, I can't!" I gasped89. "It may be at Norfolk."
Like Jessie, who had heard the pibroch at the siege of Lucknow, he had heard, with his ear to the ground, the firing at Manassas. The battle of Bull Run was at its height. We found it difficult to understand that he could have heard cannonading one hundred and fifty miles away. We had not then spoken across the ocean and been answered.
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depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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stanch
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| v.止住（血等）；adj.坚固的；坚定的 | |
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revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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hemp
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| n.大麻；纤维 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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gardenias
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| n.栀子属植物，栀子花( gardenia的名词复数 ) | |
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heliotrope
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| n.天芥菜；淡紫色 | |
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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behooved
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| v.适宜( behoove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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48
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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50
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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beseeches
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的第三人称单数 ) | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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53
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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54
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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56
enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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57
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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venerated
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| 敬重（某人或某事物），崇敬( venerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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winnowed
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| adj.扬净的，风选的v.扬( winnow的过去式和过去分词 )；辨别；选择；除去 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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