Ohio History Journal

DOWN SOUTH BEFORE THE WAR.

 

RECORD OF A RAMBLE TO NEW ORLEANS IN 1858.

ON the second day of December, 1857, in company with

my friend and fellow-student, Alexis E. Holcombe, of Ra-

venna, Ohio, I started on an unpremeditated journey

through Kentucky, Tennessee, Mississippi and Louisiana.

A tolerably complete diary kept during the six months of

our sojourn in the South furnishes the material of the fol-

lowing narrative:

We set out from Lebanon, Ohio, by stage-coach for Cin-

cinnati, from which city we went on the steamer Bostona

to Maysville, Kentucky. From Maysville we proceeded

to Flemingsburg, and thence to Poplar Plains, tarrying

a few days in each of the three towns. Continuing our

trip to Mount Sterling, which we reached December 23,

we put up at the Ashton House, a very pleasant hotel,

where we remained until January 5, 1858. On Christmas

day the streets of Mount Sterling were thronged with

colored folks, dressed in their Sunday apparel, and bent

on pleasure. We were told that it had long been the

custom in Kentucky to grant the slaves absolute freedom

from duty on Christmas, and, indeed, to allow them large

liberty during the entire Holiday week.

By ten o'clock on New Year's morning the town was

overflowing with a much greater multitude than was

seen on Christmas. White and black; male and female;

men, women, children of all ranks and conditions, in

wheeled vehicles, on horseback, on foot,---hundreds came

pouring in from every direction. Owner and owned flock-

ed from various parts of the county to readjust their

property relations for the ensuing year. It was the day

set apart for slave-holders to sell, buy, let and hire human

chattels. And the slaves were permitted to exercise a

limited privilege of choosing new homes and masters.

488

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Down South Before the War.       489

Some servants were loaned by way of friendly accommo-

dation, many were rented or leased at a rate of from $50

to $200 a year. One woman was crying because it had

fallen to her lot to serve a mistress whom she feared.

"If I could only please her," sobbed the poor girl, "I

wouldn't care; but she won't like me, she won't like me."

The greater number of the slaves seemed stupid and in-

different to their fate. The natural cheerfulness of the

race was exhibited in sharp contrast with the melancholy

background which their condition as bond-people afford-

ed. At a street corner a hilarious group of Sambos and

Cuffeys laughed and danced to the lively thrum of a

banjo, played by a grinning minstrel black as ebony.

A comical old fellow wearing the picturesque ruin of a

silk hat on his gray, wooly pate, limped about with gro-

tesque antics, informing everybody that he was a " spoilt

darkey," and that he would "be of no use to anybody"

who might hire him.

In the yard of the Court House -temple of blind jus-

tice,- a black man was put up at noon-day on the auction

block, and was sold to the highest bidder. The crier an-

nounced the name and age of the human vendible stand-

ing there for public inspection, and vouched that "Jack "

was sound in all respects. Perhaps it was mere curiosity,

perhaps some irresistible impulse of the abolitionist blood

of my father crying in my veins " Man is man, no man

is more," that impelled me to walk up to the block, and

speak to the dusky brother who was " going, going," and

soon would be "gone" for the market price. He told me

that he had a wife in Mount Sterling, from whom he did

not wish to part. "I don't care who buys me, I ain't

afraid of no cruel master; but I want to stay close to wife

and chil'en."

The man was sold for $750, a very low price, the by-

standers said, and I thought so, too. I was ashamed to

look the unfortunate " property " in the face, for he must

have felt very cheap under the circumstances.

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490  Ohio Archaeological and Historical Quarterly.

On Christmas Eve, a gang of colored hands from the

"Iron Works," came in joyful procession to Mount Ster-

ling. Their captain headed the line, improvising and

singing in a loud voice, such couplets as;

"Oh Lord have mercy on my soul,

De hens and chickens I has stole."

At the close of each line the whole squad would join

in a jubilant chorus, animating to hear. The sooty trou-

badors of the " Iron Works," were coming home to spend

the holidays, and were abandoning themselves to the

pleasure of anticipation. After the week had been spent

in idleness, laughter and general jollification, the reluct-

ant company returned, in slow procession, and again they

sang, but now in a mournful strain. The leader, impro-

vising his solo as before, changed its tenor to suit his

mood:

"Fare ye well, ye white folks all!"

The wild, sad chorus came swelling from the marching

column, as from some melodious instrument:

Chorus -" Wo - o - o - o - o - o!"

Solo -  "And fare ye well, ye niggers, tool"

Chorus-" Wo - o - o - o - o - o!"

Solo--  "I holler dis time, I holler no mo!"

Chorus - Wo - o - o--  o - o -!"

Thus went on the strange song and chorus, as the

slaves filed back to their labor, tramp, tramp, tramp; and

the tones grew fainter in the distance, till at last the

dying, "Wo-o-o-o-o-o-0!" was lost in the

silence of the winter night.

While the dark procession was passing through the

street, I noticed one figure drop out of the file, hurry

to a small gate and look anxiously into a side yard. A

girl flew down to meet him, took his hand, kissed him,

and turning towards the house, went back slowly, her

apron lifted to her eyes. The man glided to his place

in the moving column, and his voice joined the melan-

choly refrain.

On January 5, we set out on foot, from Mount Sterling

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Down South Before the War.         491

for Lexington. At night fall we found ourselves by a

farm house, and knocked at the door. A bustling old

lady, whom we learned was called "Aunt Patsey," very

cordially invited us in, saying, "You may be kin folks,

but the Lord knows who." We told her that we were

not kin folks, yet we hoped the Lord had not forgotten

us, at which desperate joke she laughed, and made us

heartily welcome. The room into which we were received

had an old-fashioned, wide fire-place, piled with blazing

logs; a kettle simmered on the crane, and a black-woman

was roasting coffee in a skillet on the coals. A not un-

pleasant incident connected with our entertainment was,

that next morning, when we offered to pay our host, that

bluff farmer showed signs of indignation, and reminded us

that we were in old Kentucky, where hospitality was

given, and not sold.

We spent several days in Lexington, the first seat of

culture in the Ohio Valley, known long ago as the

Athens of the West. Of course we visited Transylvania

University, and historic Ashland, the home of Henry

Clay. A thirty-two miles ride in a stage-coach brought

us from Lexington to Danville. The scenery along the

Kentucky River is magnificent, and to its natural charm

the interest of romantic historical association is added.

From one point we looked down upon the solitudes

"where once Boche trod," the forest still retaining its

primeval aspect. The stage-driver pointed to a knob,

which, tradition says, was the site of the famous back-

woodsman's hut.

Danville we found so delightful that we lingered there

for nearly a month, enjoying social and intellectual inter-

course with some of the most polite and pleasant people

of that cultivated town. Here was to be seen, in its full

attractiveness, that typical life and behavior which char-

acterize the best families of Virginia and Kentucky.

High courtesy, chivalrous regard for woman, open-hand-

ed generosity, a proud sense of personal honor, liberal

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492  Ohio Archaeological and Historical Quarterly.

reading in the line of general literature, and a readiness

to entertain and be entertained by social pleasures,

were leading attributes of the men. The reactive influ-

ences playing between the town and its educational insti-

tutions, gave a vitality and piquancy to local society and

relieved it from provincialism. In Danville we enjoyed

the privilege of acquaintance with the famous pulpit

orator, Robert J. Breckenridge D. D., an uncle of Vice

President Breckenridge.

About the middle of February we resumed our ram-

bling journey, and went, by way of Frankfort, to Louis-

ville, where we took the steamer Great Western for

Memphis. The voyage down the lower Ohio; the im-

pression made upon the mind by a first view of the

wonderful Mississippi, its tumultuous waters at high

flood; and the novel experience of living on a floating

residence which was itself a curious little world, I will

not try to describe.  Suffice it to say that, to my

excited fancy, the days on board the Great Western were

so enchanting that I wrote in my journal, "I wish it

were a thousand miles to Memphis."

It came to pass, however, on the night of February 21,

that our craft was for a time in such peril, that passengers

and crew wished themselves anywhere else than where we

were. A thick fog enveloped the swollen river, and a dis-

mal sleet was falling upon the icy deck. The clock-hand

pointed to ten; many of the passengers had gone to their

berths, but a few were toasting their toes at the stove in

the gentlemen's cabin. The captain, with some jolly friends,

sat at a table playing "seven-up."  A sudden, violent

ringing of the engine bells startled all listeners, for it was

the signal to reverse the wheels and check the boat's mo-

tion. At the same moment an officer rushed into the

cabin, and delivered the brief message "Captain, here's

hell!" The alarming announcement was not comforting

to unprepared sinners. In consternation we hurried to

the deck, at the captain's heels. A glance through the

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Down South Before the War.         493

stygian fog almost made us think that the officer's words

were literally true, for, just ahead, glowing in the dark,

we saw the red mouths of the furnaces of an up-steam

packet. Both boats were under full headway, but ours

was going with the greater velocity, borne down by the

force of a swift current. Not far away glared several red,

warning lights above the wrecks of two steamers that had

recently been sunk by a collision such as now threatened

the Great Western. But steam rescued our lives. The

two vessels came so near together that a man might

have stepped from deck to deck. But a miss was as

good as a mile. We went back to the cabin and resumed

our sins, the captain and his friends continuing their game

of "seven up." Before morning we arrived at Memphis.

My journal records little of Memphis, save that we

stopped at the Commercial House; that the streets were

muddy; and that we each purchased a sword-cane, with

what blood-thirsty intention I remember not.

Scraping the Memphian mud from our feet we took

the train for Panola, a county-seat in northern Mississippi.

Accident seated me in the car beside a remarkably

curious human creature who told me his name was Sharp,

and that he was a school-master. I will picture him, be-

ginning the portrait at the top. Professor Sharp's head

was round and dirty, with small eyes like painted mar-

bles, a frouzy, yellowish tangle of hair, an exceedingly

long, skinny neck, and a greasy Panama hat. There was

no positive and but faint circumstantial evidence that he

wore a shirt; his coat and pantaloons were made of the

same material, homespun cloth, dyed with logwood. The

trousers legs terminated some eight inches above his feet,

drawers were visible below, and still lower, wrinkled

socks descended into a pair of capacious shoes. The

function of an overcoat was fulfilled by an old horse-

blanket with a hole in the middle, through which the

school-master thrust his aforesaid head, after the style of

the Indians.

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494  Ohio Archaeological and Historical Quarterly.

Mr. Sharp took off his Panama hat, and, setting the

crown carefully upon his knees, drew from its depths

divers and sundry pieces of folded paper covered with writ-

ing-" documents," he said they were - which he studied

diligently with silent contortions of mouth, as if spelling

amazingly crooked words. Prof. Sharp informed me that

he taught "the branches" for ten cents a day, per

pupil; that he also gave lessons in "penmanship and all

kinds of painting." I asked where his residence was, and

he replied that his present "predestination" was Panola.

The region we passed through on the way to Panola

was flat and swampy; covered with a thick forest of

scrub-oak and cypress trees, with here and there a bush

of dark green holly. There was no public conveyance,

and so we were obliged to make our way for a mile on

foot, in the boggy woods, amid tangled bushes and over

logs, to the village, which we reached at nightfall. We

were cordially received by the landlord of a small, newly

built inn, bearing the name of Planter's Hotel. Mine

host was talkative, and gave us graphic accounts of the

principal characters of the neighborhood. Panola boasted

a famous hunter, who, returning from the woods one day,

with a crestfallen air, swore he would break his gun, and

never shoot again.

"Why, Bob, what's the matter?"

"The matter! Bad luck ! I saw eight wild turkeys in

a flock, and killed only seven!"

While we were sitting by the fire listening to the tales

of a landlord, a tall, slim, keen-eyed man came in shiver-

ing with cold. He had just taken up a runaway slave

and lodged him in jail. Telling this with a swagger of

triumph, he flung his hat upon a table, saying, " Damn

the niggers; I wish they would behave decent."

After a night's rest, we started out bright and early

on the morning of February 23, intending to walk to

Granada, a distance of forty-eight miles. Our course was

through interminable forests of scrub-oak and pine, the

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Down South Before the War.        495

pine becoming more abundant as we proceeded southward.

The first plantations we saw were large clearings in the

woods, with fields of irregular shape. Every farm had

its cotton-press and gin-house, with huge heaps of cotton

seed rotting on the ground. The planter's residence was

located usually near the center of his land, and not far

from it stood the collection of huts in which the negroes,

were lodged.

The vigorous exercise of walking gave us a keen appe-

tite, and as mid-day approached we began to cast about

for refreshment. We stopped at more than one domicile,

but either the inmates did not like our looks, or were lack-

ing in hospitality, for they sent us away empty. This was

before the era of professional tramps; therefore, we could

hardly have been mistaken for gentlemen of that luxurious

class. A woman, suspiciously standing guard at her

threshold, when we asked whether she could favor us with

a dinner, answered "I reckon not. Our cook is not at

home." "But," pleaded my friend Alexis, very politely,

"we are very hungry, and we don't want a warm dinner."

" Haint got no cold victuals," was the response, and the

door was shut in our faces.

Trudging on, we came at length to a very primitive

shanty in the midst of a dreary waste of pine woods. The

skins of small animals were stretched and nailed on the

cabin to dry. In desperation I knocked at the rude door

of this lodge in the wilderness. A gaunt, big-boned man

wearing a hunter's dress opened the door, and said, " Come

right in. Take a cheer," he added; but he must have

meant this figuratively, for there was not a chair in

the room. Mr. Holcombe sat down upon a three-legged

stool, and I upon the foot of a trundle-bed. We made

known our peptic condition, and our host, who looked as

if he had often been hungry himself, and knew how to

sympathize, assured us that our demands should be sup-

plied. He vanished, but reappeared in half an hour, say-

ing," Now, gents, walk out and take a bite." We followed

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496   Ohio Archaeological and Historical Quarterly.

him out through the door by which we had entered, and

around a duck pond, to the dining-room, a rickety lean-to,

in the rear of the main edifice. This back-room seemed

to be the apartment in which the family preferred to live.

The floor consisted of the natural earth. There was a

rude table, with a bench at one side, on which we took

seat. The banquet served by the mistress of the manor

comprised two courses, namely, corn-bread with peas, and

bacon with peas. Our host and his wife stood by while

we ate, and the audience was increased by the appearance

of a gawky boy, and two big girls. The bashful maidens

were clad with a sparse simplicity that Greek civilization

might have envied. The ludicrous scene received a finish-

ing touch when, at the heels of the gawky boy and his

sisters, a lank dog came in followed by four lean cats and

one inquisitive goose.

I should like to relate what further befell us on the mem-

orable journey to Granada; how we stayed all night at

a planter's; how, at the village of Oakland, we were

hailed by a tipsy crowd, and invited to a wedding by

a brother of the bride, a gentleman with long, curled hair

and blue spectacles, who said he was a lawyer, and swore

that it was his treat, and we must on no account continue

our journey without taking something-either " trip-foot,

rot-gut, pop-skull or bust-head;" how, evading these

proffered hospitalities, we took passage in a stage-coach,

which, after sticking fast for an hour in a mud-hole near

a "slue-bridge," finally brought us to the town we had

set out to find.

Taking rooms in a public house in Granada, we felt

that we were far enough south to stop awhile and enjoy

the sensation. The first and necessarily superficial views

which we had of life in this Mississippi town were rather

favorable to the "peculiar institution;" or, at least, were

such as to diminish prejudice, and shake confidence in the

fairness of books like "Uncle Tom's Cabin." The mov-

ing scene presented on the streets of Granada, and on the

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Down South Before the War.         497

plantations of the vicinity, was painted in the colors of

gaiety and contentment. No manifestation of cruelty on

the part of masters could be discovered, and the black

people appeared to be happy in their enslaved condition.

On moonlight evenings a group of merry darkies-laugh-

ing men and capering piccaninnies-would gather in the

public square, or in front of the hotel, and there to the

rude music of a banjo, or an old fiddle, would sing, dance,

fall to the ground, and pat "juber," until, quite exhausted

by the violence of the hilarious exercise, they would roll

away to recover breath. Occasionally champions would

engage in a butting contest to see whose wooly crown

could batter in the head of a barrel; and sometimes this

species of head-work was varied by the contestants but-

ting one another after the manner of rams and billy-goats.

We had letters of introduction to the family of a

wealthy planter whose great mansion and broad cotton-

fields were located a few miles from the village. The

Negro quarters on this plantation formed quite a village

of log-cabins, disposed on both sides of a narrow street

Provided by our host with fine horses, we used to gallop

about the plantation, or to town. When the weather was

bad the great family coach was brought out, and the

colored driver delighted to show his skill, while one or

two footmen occupied their proud perch behind. With-

in the mansion all was comfort, ease and luxury. The

mistress of the house managed her retinue of servants

like a queen; and her daughter, and a niece visiting from

Jackson, employed their time in dressing, conversation,

and playing on the piano and guitar.

We were served at the hotel, chiefly by two attendants,

Richard" and "Paul."  Richard gave me such marked

and unremitting personal care that I was at a loss to ac-

count for his vigilance until one day it was explained by

the following conversation.

"Nobody cares for me down here," complained Rich-

 

Vol. II-32

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498   Ohio Archaeological and Historial Quarterly.

"Down here?" I replied. "What do you mean by

that?"

" I'se hired out, you see; I lives away down in Virgin-

ia. Da'rs where Massa is. I wish't I was in Virginia, I

do."

"What is your Master's name ?"

"It's Judge Venable; a mighty nice man; I thought

you might be a kin to him."

"No, Richard; I believe not; I do not live in Virgin-

ia."

"He's a mighty nice man, " repeated Richard, in a

tone distinctly implying his confidence in all who wore

the family name. His appeal was irresistible, so Rich-

ard captured me.

Paul was a gentleman of less insinuating nature, but

every bit as cunning. By virtue of his office as head

waiter, he was allowed extra privileges, and by virtue of

his audacity, he took liberties not allowed to him. He

came frequently to our room with Richard, who appeared

to be his intimate friend. Like Hamlet's Yorick, he " was

a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy." His

familiarity never overstepped the bounds of respect, but

there were times when, suddenly changing his demeanor,

he would cast aside the buffoon, and assume an attitude

and look almost haughty. At such a time, I was struck

with his fine appearance, his lithe, athletic body, his

handsome face, and daring eye that had in it something

very mysterious, and something threatening.

Paul was a good dancer and singer, and could play upon

various musical instruments. The most curious of these

was one which he called a " song-bow," a simple con-

trivance, consisting of a string stretched tight from one

end to the other of a long, flexible, narrow board or bow,

and which the performer breathed upon in such a way as

to cause a musical vibration, while, at the same time, he

sang. The song and accompaniment were strangely

blended, and the effect was not unpleasant.  Besides

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Down South Before the War.        499

amusing us with the song-bow, Paul delighted to indulge

in what he termed,_" Nigger logic," that is, he would make

a ridiculous, impromptu oration, abounding in sonorous

words of his own coining.

One evening Paul came up, Richard in his wake as

usual, and after regaling us with a touch of "Nigger

logic," and a tune on the "song-bow," he requested me

to write for him, while he dictated a love-letter. 'I

wants you to know, I'se dead in love with a little, yaller

gal down to the Seminary. Here is de very window

wher I used to come up and look at her. I'd stan' here

till I seed her pass once, and den I'd turn roun', an' go

back to work again."

" Much relieved, I suppose, Paul ?"

"Yah! Yah ! Yes sah, very much so."

Taking up a pen, I told Paul to go ahead with his

letter, which he did, and I put down his language ver-

batim, as follows:

"DEAR MISS ANN:

It gibs me de greatest pleasure

to hab dis opportunity to let you know, that I is well, as

far as health is concerned."

Here Paul came to a full stop, and Richard ventured

to suggest the propriety of next "axing of her, how she

is." " No," said Paul, " I 'se gwine to tell her a big lie

now."

"Oh Miss Ann - Got that down? " I answered affirma-

tively and he continued to dictate:

" Tongue cannot compress de love I has for you. You

is de darling of my heart, and de apple of my eye. For

you, I could weep the alanthus tears that adornates the

mighty -"

At this interesting point, footsteps were heard in the

hall, and the landlord's voice called loudly, "Richard

Richard!" Richard made a bee-line for the door, and I

heard him submissively and innocently inquiring, "Didn't

you call, Massa?"

Paul popped under the bed, where he remained until

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500 Ohio Archaeological and Historical Quarterly.

the coast was clear, when he came forth, and the tender

missive was completed. It was duly dispatched by mail,

directed to the care of a young lady attending the Sem-

inary-a boarding school-in which Miss Ann also

resided, not as a student, but as a servant.

Within a few days, Paul received a reply, which he

immediately brought to me, and which I still retain.

Here is a copy of it:

--   --   SEMINARY, Mar. 7, 1858.

MR. PAUL:

I embrace this opportunity of writing

to you, as I did not have the chance of talking to you.

I wish I could talk to you when I want to, but we cannot.

I love to talk to you better than anybody else on Earth,

for I love you so well, and I hope you love me as well as

I do you, but I fear you do not, do you? If I thought

you did not, I would die the death of love, which is the

sweetest death to die. But I cannot believe you do not

love me, your actions tell me you do, are they false? I

think not, how could one who is so dear to me, be false?

You are not false; I believe you will in the end, prove

true to me.  Do not let any one see this, for it is intended

for no one's ears but yours. Answer this as soon as you

can, for I want to know your feelings on this subject

which I have broached. I cannot write any more, it is

getting late, so good night, my loved one-

I have loved thee long and dearly,

I have loved thee most sincerely."

This billet d'amour, with its alternating ardors and

doubts, was written in delicate chirography, evidently by

the hand of some sentimental Seminary girl, at the dicta-

tion of the dusky lady Ann. The injunction, " do not let

any one see this, for it is intended for no one's ears but

yours," was irresistibly amusing in its impossible condi-

tions. The young lady, who good naturedly penned

the sentences for Miss Ann, must have been conscious

that some white gentleman would probably read them,

and thus her act might be construed as a covert challenge

to flirtation on her own account. Therefore it was not

without a play of fancy between the lines that a reply

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Down South Before the War.         501

was written to Miss Ann, such as might entertain, but not

offend, some other lady's ears and eyes.

It came to light, on or about the 20th of March, 1858,

that Paul had been engaged in practices, more deep and

dangerous than gallant correspondence, or clandestine

playing on the " song-bow." A drama of tragic import

was going on about us, and this playful black tiger was

the principal actor. A number of fugitives had mysteri-

ously escaped from the cotton plantations, and fled to the

North. Suspicion of complicity attached to Paul. A

search of the garret of the hotel disclosed two or three

slaves, who had been concealed and fed for several days,

with the expectation of gliding away at some favorable

opportunity, by night. One of these proved to be the

father of Paul's wife. Paul's story, as he told it to me

was, that he had himself once been a field-hand, and that

he was happily married. He related that his master,

attracted by the beauty of the woman, was guilty of rape,

and that, enraged beyond forbearance, he, Paul, had re-

taliated by endeavoring to kill his master. Boldly ap-

proaching the object of his vengeance, in the cotton field,

he shot at him, and wounded him in the leg. This at-

tempt on his master's life was, according to the laws of

Mississippi, punishable with death. In fact, he was con-

demned, but, by the intercession of the master, who

valued Paul as a good, though dangerous piece of prop-

erty, the man was pardoned. The wife and her father

were sold to a sugar plantation in southern Mississippi.

Paul had been transferred from the plantation to the

town, and had proven himself an excellent waiter. But

he had secretly cherished plans to aid his colored friends

to escape to the North, and then to follow them himself.

The discovery of the concealed fugitives caused intense

excitement and anger. Paul was taken to a shed in the

edge of the village, and there " bucked," as it is called;

that is, bound in such a position that he was helpless; the

clothing was then stripped from his back, and he was

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502  Ohio Archaeological and Historical Quarterly.

beaten with a raw-hide, to extort from him a full confes-

sion. But he would not tell a single thing; not the name

of any one connected with the conspiracy, nor how many

had already escaped. His inquisitors now resorted to a

more terrible instrument of torture-the "hot paddle," a

flat piece of wood with holes bored in it. This horrible

"paddle" was used to smite the victim's naked flesh, but

even this failed to unseal the brave fellow's lips. The ut-

most that could be got from him was, " Master, you may

kill me, but I won't tell." At length he was unbound

and taken back to the hotel, where, for more than a week,

he was confined to his bed by his wounds.

Meanwhile, preparations were made for the pursuit and

capture of such fugitives as had probably crossed the

Yalobusha, and were on the way North. A band of pro-

fessional slave-catchers was employed to bring back the

lost property. Never can I forget the startling sight

which I beheld one forenoon from the window of my room.

Four or five desperate-looking men, with knives and

pistols in their belts, and riding horses, which, like them-

selves, were splashed with mud, came galloping along the

street, and stopped in front of the hotel. One of the men

put to his lips a whistle or small horn, which he blew, and

in response to the blast, came a pack of lean and hungry

hounds. To each dog was thrown a piece of raw meat.

The men went into the bar-room, took a drink of whisky,

and then, remounting the horses, they rode rapidly away,

followed by the fugitive-hunting hounds.

One afternoon Mr. Holcombe and I were rowing on

the Yalobusha River. We brought our skiff to shore in a

little cove, and what was our surprise to see Paul seated

upon the bank, with a fishing-rod in his hands. For the

first time since his punishment, he was out by permission,

for a sort of dismal holiday.

"Well, Paul," I said, "they treated you pretty badly,

didn't they?"

"I'll be even with them some day" was the sullen reply.

• 15
 

Down South Before the War.        503

Then, looking up quickly, he added, "Gentlemen, you's

been kind to me, and I wants to be kind to you. And

now let me tell you, it aint safe for you to be seen a talk-

ing to us niggers, specially to me. You'd better look out,

anyhow; they is suspicious of you." The same hint

came to us from another quarter.

However, we made no haste to leave the town, for we

had formed many pleasant acquaintances. When we were

ready to seek "fresh woods and pastures new," we en-

gaged seats in the stage-coach for Goodman, a point

seventy-five miles farther south. The coach left Granada

at midnight. Paul and Richard were up to see us off.

The stage ride was tedious, keeping us on the road

nearly twenty-four hours, and we reached Goodman, then

the northern terminus of the Southern Railroad, late in

the night of March 24th. After a short sleep in a tempo-

rary shed at the new station, we resumed our journey,

taking the cars for Jackson at three in the morning. Our

course lay through swampy lands overgrown with trees,

many of which were the victims of that melancholy par-

asite, the Spanish moss. The train halted at a lonely

station, and I was surprised to see the engineer, conduc-

tor and passengers jump to the ground, and rush to a half-

cleared field, in which logs lay rotting, and deadened trees

stood stretching their spectral arms to the sky. I followed

the crowd, and soon discovered the cause of the rush.

Beside a moldering log lay the body of a murdered man,

ghastly, horrible, smeared with clotted blood. Hungry

flies were clustering around the gaping wounds.

At Jackson we took passage on a freight train for Vicks-

burg. I was accommodated with a seat on the top of a load

of cotton bales, and as the cars went rumbling along through

a fine country, on a delightful spring day, I experienced

the keenest sense of pleasure, both from the novelty of

my situation, and the consciousness of having nothing to

do but to do nothing and enjoy the Sunny South.

After glimpsing Vicksburg, we embarked on the mag-

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504  Ohio Archaeological and Historical Quarterly.

nificent steamer Pacific, which bore us to the enchanting

city of New Orleans. My journal attests how active and

complete was the enjoyment of two young fellows from

the North, plunging for the first time into the delights of

the metropolis of the South. I will not detail our exper-

iences at the famous St. Charles Hotel; our raptures at

theater and opera; our excursions to Ponchartrain; our

strolls along Rue Royal to the French Quarter, with its

steep-roofed houses, veranda, and dormer windows, and

quaint shops; our loiterings in the renowned market,

where brown-eyed children offer to the passer-by, for only

a picayune, a tempting handful of dates, prunes, figs or

strawberries, and where we resorted daily for a delicious

cup of " cafe-au-lait."

One reminiscence of the Crescent City, however, I must

give with some particularity, for it relates to an experience

which few Northern persons have sought, and which no

traveler can now repeat anywhere in the world.

While coming on the steamer from Vicksburg to New

Orleans I formed the acquaintance of a young man, who

invited me to call on him when I reached the city, and

very cordially offered to show me the " elephant," or any

other curiosity that the menagerie contained. The young

gentleman's familiarity excited some suspicion as to his

character, but he seemed so good-humored that I asked

him where he might be found. He wrote on a card his

name and address, "No. 71 and 73, Barrone street."

"You'll find me at the office there," said he.

"May I ask what your business is?" I inquired.

"Oh, I am a clerk in the office," was the evasive reply.

"What kind of an office ?"

"Why the place where I stay. Come around and you'll

see."

I kept the card, and, after spending some time in the

city, it occurred to me to look up " No. 71 and 73, Barrone

street." These numbers were easily found over the door

of a large building, on the front of which was painted the

• 17
 

Down South Before the War.        505

sign "VIRGINIA NEGROES FOR SALE." My steamboat ac-

quaintance greeted me at the door with a genial smile,

saying, "Now you see what our business is. I thought

you might like to know from observation something

about the slave trade."

He afterwards showed us through several of the princi-

pal slave marts of the city. The first one entered was

under the control of a coarse-looking man who promptly

inquired if we "wanted to buy any Niggers?"   Cur

courteous guide whispered something to the trader,

whereupon the latter, taking a small bell, such as I have

often seen in the hands of a Northern school-master, said

gruffly, "We have but little stock on hand; the trade has

been quite brisk." Here he gave the bell a tap, and

immediately, from their stables at the rear of the build-

ing, the stock came marching, in two files, the one of

men and boys, the other of women and girls. I could

not fail to notice that there were also three or four babies

in arms. The tallest in each line headed the column, then

the next in height, and so on down to the toddlekins at

the foot of the class. The files stood ranged along oppo-

site walls, as if drawn up for a spelling match. They

were dressed in coarse stuff, an appropriate, simple uni-

form being provided for each sex. It happened that

while we were staring with natural embarrassment at the

docile stock before us, a party of three sugar-planters

came in to inspect and purchase a lot of field hands.

They walked up and down the rows, making many in-

quiries, and examining closely the human chattels they

expected to buy. We learned that a good Knight of

Labor was worth about $1500. One of the planters

picked out a number of slaves, male and female, who,

one by one, stepped from the ranks, and stood huddled

together in a group. There was much chaffering as to

the price of certain children, who, being regarded

as incumbrances, mere colts or calves, were thrown

in for good measure, and the sale and purchase were

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506   Ohio Archaeological and Historical Quarterly.

completed in our presence, and the property duly trans-

ferred.

There sat, in a show window, where she could be seen

by every passer-by on the street, a handsome quadroon

girl dressed attractively, and adorned with some ribbons

and jewels. She, too, was for sale, as a choice house-ser-

vant, at a high price on account of her beauty. As our

friend the planter was about to leave the premises he

glanced at this girl, and asked what the trader would

take for her. Being told, he shook his head, leered at

the slave, and said, with an oath, " Too expensive."

It was a perfect afternoon in early April, when, thread-

ing our way through the throng that swarmed in the

sunshine on New Orleans levee, we reached the steam-

boat landing, and footed the gang-plank to the deck of

that floating palace, the Princess. The great bell rings

out a signal for departure. The mighty engines groan,

as their pent power heaves against the hot cylinder.

The strong machinery strains its iron muscles, the steam

hisses, the engine-bells jingle, the huge wheels slowly

revolve, scooping the water into foaming ridges, the

steamer quivers like a living thing, through all her en-

ormous length and breadth. She rounds into the stream.

Those clamorous Italian fruit-sellers unfasten their shal-

lops from her bow, and toss a shower of oranges on deck

as a farewell salute. The Negro dock-hands join in a

loud, melodious chorus, and we are fairly on our way

up river. We steam by the great Crevasse; we gaze

out on the woody shores, and the planters' mansions of

the "Coast." And now to the hurricane deck, and the

picturesque pilot-house with its never-resting, ever-anx-

ious wheel. The sun goes down.    Dusky night settles

on the mighty stream, and turns the trees along the

shores to phantoms. A soft, voluptuous breeze comes

ladened with the scent of orange flowers. Lights gleam

from the cottages that seem to glide southward as we

pass. The stars come out and spangle all the sky.

• 19
 

Down South Before the War.         507

Whither bound? We hardly know, we scarcely care.

Let us stop at Bayo Sara, and see what that is like. The

name at least sounds distinguished. We will go ashore

at Bayo Sara, or shall it be Port Hudson ? The toss of a

penny shall decide. Port Hudson then, let it be; and we

landed there, some fifty miles north of Baton Rouge, to

find a dilapidated village. Port Hudson, somehow, made

us melancholy; when the Princess steamed away and

was lost to sight, we felt deserted and injured.

We presently discovered a means of escape from Port

Hudson to the inland. There was a railroad running

eastward. The track was laid with the old-fashioned,

flat rails, over which only one train a day was conducted,

consisting of half a dozen freight cars, and one worn-out

passenger coach, drawn by an asthmatic and weak-minded

locomotive in the last stages of decrepitude. Availing

ourselves of this traveling facility, we were lazily carried

along, in the ethereal mildness of a dreamy day, toward

the village of Clinton, in the heart of East Feliciana

Parish, Louisiana. The snail's pace at which the cars

crept, might have suggested the humorist's precaution of

putting the cow-catcher at the rear of the train, to keep

the cattle from walking in. More than once, the engine

rested to allow grazing animals leisure to get out of the

way gracefully, and without undignified haste.  At a

charming curve in the road, by good fortune, a truck

ran off the track, and while the engineer and brakemen

were prying it on again, the passengers took an indolent

stroll and gathered Cherokee roses. The slow progress

of this most accommodating train, gratified our idle mood,

and to my imagination, seemed according to the poetical

proprieties of an entrance into the subtropical enjoy-

ments of Feliciana Parish. Feliciana! We actually moved

through a paradise of vernal bloom. Standing on the

platform of our triumphal car, we gathered a variety

of flowers from the overhanging trees, and gadding vines

that trailed within reach, as we went along.

• 20
 

508   Ohio Archaeological and Historical Quarterly.

On our arrival at Clinton, a black dray-man asked

where we wished our baggage to go. We had been di-

rected to stop at a quiet inn named Our House, kept by

a widow. We were shown to a snug sitting-room, neatly

furnished, and hung with lace curtains. On a small center

table, we observed a vase, in which were arranged some

clusters of wild honey-suckle. In one corner of the

room was a sofa, on which lay a guitar, a jaunty hat,

and fresh materials for a not yet arranged bouquet.

This sentimental property belonged to the widow's

daughter, a romantic girl, who surprised both herself

and us, by bounding into the door, only to retire in

blushing confusion, on discovering two strangers.

The last week of April found me at Woodville, Missis-

sippi, a pleasant town surrounded by woods of pine and

magnolia. I associate with the village a curious interview

which I had, in a dismal place, with two colored men. The

scene was a grave-yard-the " Nigger burying ground"-

a gloomy grove, from the trees of which depended

funereal festoons of Spanish moss. An old man-a slave

said to be a hundred years old, had rolled from his sleep-

ing pallet in the night, and fallen on his face to the floor,

and was dead when discovered next morning. Prepara-

tion was at once made for his burial, and I chanced upon

the spot where his last bed was making. An aged delver

was at work with mattock and spade in the grave, which

was nearly completed. Basking on the ground, at the

pit's edge, lay a young man who seemed to be guarding

a dinner basket, and at the same time superintending the

work of Uncle Pete, for by that name he addressed the

gray-pated old veteran of the spade. As I came near,

both saluted me with the usual bows and words of servility.

Presently Uncle Pete paused from his digging, and look-

ing straight into my eyes, asked, "You is from de Norf,

isn't you ?"

"Yes, I am, but how do you know ?"

• 21
 

Down South Before the War.

"I know'd the minute I saw you," was the unsatisfac-

tory answer. " Do you know wha' Canada is ?"

"Yes, but I don't live there."

" Wha' do you live, Massa ?"

"In Ohio."

" I never heard of that. But we all knows of Canada."

Here Uncle Pete glanced at the young man, who was

reticent and cautious. For a few minutes nothing was

heard but the thud of the mattock in the clay. Then

Uncle Pete, casting that implement aside, took his spade;

but instead of going on with his task, he leaned upon the

spade-handle, and said, deliberately:

"Massa, may I ask you something?"

"Ask what you please."

"Can you 'splain how it happened, in the fust place,

that the white folks got the start of the black folks, so as

to make dem de slaves and do all de work?"

Here the guard of the dinner basket, with a furtive look

of alarm, broke in: "Uncle Pete, it's no use talkin'. It's

fo'ordained. It's fo'ordained. The Bible tells you that.

The Lord fo'ordained the Nigger to work, and the white

man to boss."

This theological view of the subject seemed to settle the

question, and to crush Uncle Pete. The old man put his

hands to his wooly crown and scratched, with a puzzled

face. "Dat's so;" he assented, as if talking to himself.

" Dat's so." Then, in a tone of mixed despair and defiance:

" But if dat's so, then God's no fair man !"

The inflamed condition of the public mind in regard to

slavery at the period of our visit to the South, made

it somewhat dangerous for us to talk to the colored

people, or to let it be known that we were from the North.

Readers will remember that the Kansas-Nebraska strug-

gle was in progress; that the Fugitive Slave Law was

agitating the country; that at the very time we set out, in

1857, John Brown was laying his plans to invade Virginia,

and that, while we were in Louisiana, he organized the

• 22
 

510  Ohio Archaeological and Historical Quarterly.

"True Friends of Freedom." Murat Halstead character-

izes the South as "The Torrid Zone of Our Politics,"

and Southern Mississippi is not far from its equator. More

than once, as might have been anticipated, the unaccount-

able young fellows who were strolling about, asking queer

questions, became the subject of suspicious remark. At

a certain small town, in Jefferson Davis's State, we dis-

covered a Yankee school-master, who was just pluming

his wings for flight to New England. He had received

due warning that if found after thirty days within a hun-

dred miles of the school-house in which he was teaching,

he would suffer the same fate that had befallen several

other Northern meddlers with what was not their business.

"What fate was that?" I inquired. The school-master

smiled a sort of sickly smile, and said, " Get your hat and

let us take a walk."  He conducted me beyond the out-

skirts of the village, to a piece of swampy ground where

stood a clump of trees, one of which was large, knotty,

gnarly, and well supplied with lateral limbs. "Do you

see that tree ?"

" Yes, it is quite visible."

"You wouldn't guess," continued the school-master,

" what peculiar fruit that tree sometimes bears. Not long

ago, the Vigilance Committee, an organized mob of

masked men, hung to those limbs, four men suspected of

being abolitionists, and I was brought out to see the dang-

ling corpses next day after the execution."

"Your patrons are playful," said I.  "They are fond

of a practical joke."

The look of that tree, with its mysterious property

of bearing dead-ripe human fruit in a single night, did

not suit my fancy. It was altogether too picturesque

and tropical. The Torrid Zone of our Politics was evi-

dently not favorable to the health of Ohio boys. We be-

gan to think of yellow fever, and made preparations to

go home and see our mothers. Moreover, my friend, who

had been writing intense love letters to his sweet-heart on

• 23
 

Down South Before the War.         511

the Western Reserve, capped the epistolary climax by a

formal proposal, that was promptly accepted, and there-

fore he was absurdly eager to hurry from the State of

Mississippi to that of Wedlock.

On May 20, 1858, we hailed the steamer Pacific at Bayo

Sara, and took passage for Cairo.

Our six months' ramblings in the South were in the

last nick of time for observing American slavery. The

storm-cloud of Civil War, so long gathering, was ready to

burst; its sheet lightnings were quivering on the political

sky, the mutterings of its dread thunder were heard.

Ossawatamie Brown sprung the mine of abolition vio-

lence at Harper's Ferry, in October, 1859; Lincoln was

elected President the year after; then the Confederate

States seceded; Sumter was bombarded; the Great Re-

bellion was precipitated like an avalanche. The children's

children of veterans in that struggle, find written in their

school-books, the history of Bull Run, the first grand en-

counter of the opposed forces, which, after filling a Sab-

bath day with blood and havoc, ended with panic, and

the inglorious flight of the Union army. The pages of a

thousand books, tell of the Union victory at Pittsburg

Landing, won at the cost of more lives than had as yet

been destroyed by any battle fought on the continent; of

how Farragut's fleet sailed up the Mississippi, past Rebel

batteries, dealing out shot and shell, sailed up over booms

and amid obstructing rafts and fire-ships, to storm and

capture New Orleans; of Antietam, where five hundred

cannons "volleyed and thundered" in sublime chorus;

of the Wilderness, in which blue and gray met hand to

hand, stabbing and cutting, until the ground was soaked

with the carnage, and the gloomy woods shuddered to

hear the groans of dying thousands; of the long siege

and final taking of Vicksburg, the crowning achievement

of the Union men in the West; of the famous battle

above the clouds on Lookout Mountain; and the gallant

storming of Missionary Ridge; of Gettysburg, the cul-

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512  Ohio Archaeological and Historical Quarterly.

minating battle of the war, a tremendous three-days'

conflict between the best and largest Northern army and

the largest and best army of the South, ending in the

defeat of Lee, and the doom of the Confederate cause;

of Sherman's march to the sea, from Chattanooga to

Savannah, an invasion lasting from May to December,

and that spread terror along its broad swath reaped by

the sickles of fire, ruin, and death.

It was in the second year of that terrific war that Abra-

ham Lincoln "made a solemn vow to God that if General

Lee should be driven back from Maryland he would crown

the result by the declaration of freedom to the slaves."

Lee was driven back; the Emancipation Proclamation

was issued, and, by virtue of its mandates, five millions of

slaves became free on New Year's day, 1863.

Often while the war was raging, and often since its close,

have I recalled the scenes and events of my unpremed-

itated tour down South in 1857-8. Many of the very

places at which we lingered, idle spectators of picturesque

nature, or interested listeners to Southern sentiments, lay

in the very path destined to be trodden within a few years

by the ruthless footsteps of war. Such places were New

Orleans, Port Hudson, Vicksburg, and Granada. Vividly

projected on the screen of memory, I often saw Richard

and Paul, and wondered what part they might have played

in the tragedy of rebellion. Even now I can see as plainly

as if it were before my eyes, the pack of baying blood-

hounds on the track of fugitives; I see Uncle Pete lean-

ing on his spade in the grave just dug for his brother

slave, and questioning the justice of God; I see the ghastly

tree in the Mississippi swamp, lifting towards Heaven its

unknown martyrs to the cause of speechless liberty.

Moves upon my vision, slow-paced and solemn, the pro-

cession of black working men, returning to their enforced

tasks at the iron works, chanting their mournful-

" Fare ye well, ye white folks all,

And fare ye well, ye Niggers, too."

• 25
 

Down South Before the War.              513

Behind these I see reluctant files of half-clad laborers,

moving at the command of the slave-driver, to labor in the

cotton-field or on the sugar plantation.    There is the

master's mansion, and I hear the sound of laughter within,

and the voice of song and the pleasings of the lute.

Another scene: Now to the summoning bell, so like a

school-bell, so different; in sad uniform march two col-

umns; the one a line of men and boys; the other a line

of women and girls; march from the slave pen to the slave

mart, and stand in helpless ranks to be reviewed by who-

soever wishes to trade away cold coin for drops of human

blood. " Do you want to buy any Niggers?" The beau-

tiful quadroon, exposed for sale in the show-window, lifts

her face; the lustful trader leers, and mutters, "Too ex-

pensive !"

Too expensive! Dear country! Dear flag! Dear lib-

erty ! Too expensive! So pronounces civilization; so

saith God. Slavery is too expensive for humanity to

suffer.

Behold another procession, another moving column,

another marching line. Tramp, tramp, tramp. Hush

thy lute-playing, oh maiden in the mansion; drop thy

spade, old man, digging a grave. God is juster than man.

Tramp, tramp, tramp ! The day of deliverance at last.

The Freedmen are marshaled under the Union banner,

and as they march they sing-

 

"For God hath made this people by the light of battle see

That death is on the Nation if the bond do not go free-

That by the sword of Freedmen shall the land regenerate be;

And we go marching on.

Then watch and pray, dear kindred !-when ye hear the battle-cry

Look for Freedom's Dark Crusaders where the Union banners fly,

And to the Lord give glory ! for his kingdom cometh nigh,

As we go marching on.

Glory, glory, halleluiah !"

W. H. VENABLE

 

Vol. II-33

• 26