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locomotives that I saw were all made in Philadelphia; the cars were
all from the Hartford, Conn., and Worcester, Mass., manufactories,
and invariably, elegant and comfortable. The roads seemed to be
doing a heavy freighting business with cotton. We passed at the
turn-outs half a dozen trains, with nearly a thousand bales on each,
but the number of passengers was always small. A slave country can
never, it is evident, furnish a passenger traffic of much value. A
majority of the passenger trains, which I saw used in the South, were
not paying for the fuel and wages expended in running them.
For an hour or two we got above the sandy zone, and into the
second, middle, or “wave” region of the State. The surface here was
extremely undulating, gracefully swelling and dipping in bluffs and
dells—the soil a mellow brown loam, with some indications of fertility,
especially in the valleys. Yet most of the ground was occupied by
pine woods (probably old-field pines, on exhausted cotton-fields).
For a few miles, on a gently sloping surface of the same sort of soil,
there were some enormously large cotton-fields.
I saw women working again, in large gangs with men. In one case
they were distributing manure—ditch scrapings it appeared to be—
and the mode of operation was this: the manure had been already
carted into heaps upon the ground; a number of the women were
carrying it in from the heap in baskets, on their heads, and one in her
apron, and spreading it with their hands between the ridges on which
the cotton grew last year; the rest followed with great, long-handled,
heavy, clumsy hoes, and pulled down the ridges over the manure,
and so made new ridges for the next planting. I asked a young
planter who continued with me a good part of the day, why they did
not use ploughs. He said this was rather rough land, and a plough
wouldn’t work in it very well. It was light soil, and smooth enough for
a parade ground. The fact is, in certain parts of South Carolina, a
plough is yet an almost unknown instrument of tillage.
About noon we turned east, on a track running direct to Charleston.
Pine barrens continued alternating with swamp, with some cotton
and corn fields on the edges of the latter. A few of the pines were
“boxed” for turpentine; and I understood that one or two companies
from North Carolina had been operating here for several years.
Plantations were not very often seen along the road through the
sand; but stations, at which cotton was stored and loading, were
comparatively frequent.
At one of the stations an empty car had been attached to the train; I
had gone into it, and was standing at one end of it, when an elderly
countryman with a young woman and three little children entered
and took seats at the other. The old man took out a roll of deerskin,
in which were bank-bills, and some small change.
“How much did he say ’twould be?” he inquired.
“Seventy cents.”
“For both on us?”
“For each on us.”
“Both on us, I reckon.”
“Reckon it’s each.”
“I’ve got jess seventy-five cents in hard money.”
“Give it to him, and tell him it’s all yer got; reckon he’ll let us go.”
At this I moved, to attract their attention; the old man started, and
looked towards me for a moment, and said no more. I soon
afterwards walked out on the platform, passing him, and the
conductor came in, and collected their fare; I then returned, and
stood near them, looking out of the window of the door. The old man
had a good-humoured, thin, withered, very brown face, and there
was a speaking twinkle in his eye. He was dressed in clothes much
of the Quaker cut—a broad-brimmed, low hat; white cotton shirt,
open in front, and without cravat, showing his hairy breast; a long-
skirted, snuff-coloured coat, of very coarse homespun; short
trousers, of brown drilling; red woollen stockings, and heavy cow-
hide shoes. He presently asked the time of day; I gave it to him, and
we continued in conversation, as follows:—
“Right cold weather.”
“Yes.”
“G’wine to Branchville?”
“I am going beyond there—to Charleston.”
“Ah—come from Hamburg this mornin’?”
“No—from beyond there.”
“Did ye?—where’d you come from?”
“From Wilmington.”
“How long yer ben comin’?”
“I left Wilmington night before last, about ten o’clock. I have been
ever since on the road.”
“Reckon yer a night-bird.”
“What?”
“Reckon you are a night-bird—what we calls a night-hawk; keeps a
goin’ at night, you know.”
“Yes—I’ve been going most of two nights.”
“Reckon so; kinder red your eyes is. Live in Charleston, do ye?”
“No, I live in New York.”
“New York—that’s a good ways, yet, ain’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Reckon yer arter a chicken, up here.”
“No.”
“Ah, ha—reckon ye are.”
The young woman laughed, lifted her shoulder, and looked out of the
window.
“Reckon ye’ll get somebody’s chicken.”
“I’m afraid not.”
The young woman laughed again, and tossed her head.
“Oh, reckon ye will—ah, ha! But yer mustn’t mind my fun.”
“Not at all, not at all. Where did you come from?”
“Up here to ——; g’wine hum; g’wine to stop down here, next
deeper. How do you go, w’en you get to Charleston?”
“I am going on to New Orleans.”
“Is New York beyond New Orleans?”
“Beyond New Orleans? Oh, no.”
“In New Orleans, is’t?
“What?”
“New York is somewhere in New Orleans, ain’t it?”
“No; it’s the other way—beyond Wilmington.”
“Oh! Been pretty cold thar?”
“Yes; there was a foot and a half of snow there, last week, I hear.”
“Lord o’massy! why! have to feed all the cattle!—whew!—ha!—
whew! don’t wonner ye com’ away.”
“You are a farmer.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I am a farmer, too.”
“Be ye—to New York?”
“Yes; how much land have you got?”
“A hundred and twenty-five acres; how much have you?”
“Just about the same. What’s your land worth, here?”
“Some on’t—what we call swamp-land—kinder low and wet like, you
know—that’s worth five dollars an acre; and mainly it’s worth a dollar
and a half or two dollars—that’s takin’ a common trac’ of upland.
What’s yours worth?”
“A hundred and fifty to two hundred dollars.”
“What!”
“A hundred and fifty to two hundred.”
“Dollars?”
“Yes.”
“Not an acre?”
“Yes.”
“Good Lord! yer might as well buy niggers to onst. Do you work any
niggers?”
“No.”
“May be they don’t have niggers—that is, slaves—to New York.”
“No, we do not. It’s against the law.”
“Yes, I heerd ’twas, some place. How do yer get yer work done?”
“I hire white men—Irishmen generally.”
“Do they work good?”
“Yes, better than negroes, I think, and don’t cost nearly as much.”
“What do yer have to give ’em?”
“Eight or nine dollars a month, and board, for common hands, by the
year.”
“Hi, Lordy! and they work up right smart, do they? Why, yer can’t get
any kind of a good nigger less’n twelve dollars a month.”
“And board?”
“And board em? yes; and clothe, and blank, and shoe ’em, too.”
He owned no negroes himself and did not hire any. “They,” his family,
“made their own crap.” They raised maize, and sweet potatoes, and
cow-peas. He reckoned, in general, they made about three barrels of
maize to the acre; sometimes, as much as five. He described to me,
as a novelty, a plough, with “a sort of a wing, like, on one side,” that
pushed off, and turned over a slice of the ground; from which it
appeared that he had, until recently, never seen a mould-board; the
common ploughs of this country being constructed on the same
principles as those of the Chinese, and only rooting the ground, like
a hog or a mole—not cleaving and turning. He had never heard of
working a plough with more than one horse. He was frank and good-
natured; embarrassed his daughter by coarse jokes about herself
and her babies, and asked me if I would not go home with him, and,
when I declined, pressed me to come and see them when I returned.
That I might do so, he gave me directions how to get to his farm;
observing that I must start pretty early in the day—because it would
not be safe for a stranger to try to cross the swamp after dark. The
moment the train began to check its speed, before stopping at the
place at which he was to leave, he said to his daughter, “Come, gal!
quick now; gather up yer young ones!” and stepped out, pulling her
after him, on to the platform. As they walked off, I noticed that he
strode ahead, like an Indian or a gipsy man, and she carried in her
arms two of the children and a bundle, while the third child held to
her skirts.
A party of fashionably-dressed people took the train for Charleston—
two families, apparently, returning from a visit to their plantations.
They came to the station in handsome coaches. Some minutes
before the rest, there entered the car, in which I was then again
alone, and reclining on a bench in the corner, an old nurse, with a
baby, and two young negro women, having care of half a dozen
children, mostly girls, from three to fifteen years of age. As they
closed the door, the negro girls seemed to resume a conversation, or
quarrel. Their language was loud and obscene, such as I never
heard before from any but the most depraved and beastly women of
the streets. Upon observing me, they dropped their voices, but not
with any appearance of shame, and continued their altercation, until
their mistresses entered. The white children, in the mean time, had
listened, without any appearance of wonder or annoyance. The
moment the ladies opened the door, they became silent.[29]
CHAPTER VI.
SOUTH CAROLINA AND GEORGIA, SURVEYED.
“BALDWING
In men of Charles
who died NOV
20. The 1846
aged 62 years Blessed are the
dead who dieth
in the Lord
Even so said
the SPerit. For
the Rest From
Thair”
[The remainder rotted off.]
“DEAR
WIFE OF
JAMES DELBUG
BORN 1814 DIED 1852.”
In Memr
y, of,
Ma
gare
-t. Born
August
29 and
died oc
tober 29 1852
[The following on marble.]
“To record the worth fidelity and virtue of Reynolda Watts,
(who died on the 2d day of May 1829 at the age of 24
years, in giving birth to her 3d child).
“Reared from infancy by an affectionate mistress and
trained by her in the paths of virtue, She was strictly moral
in her deportment, faithful and devoted in her duty and
heart and soul a”
[Sand drifted over the remainder.]
There were a few others, of similar character to the above, erected
by whites to the memory of favourite servants. The following was on
a large brick tomb:—
“This tablet is erected to record the demise of Rev.
HENRY CUNNINGHAM, Founder and subsequent pastor
of the 2d African Church for 39 years, who yielded his
spirit to its master the 29 of March 1842, aged 83 years.”
[Followed by an inscription to the memory of Mrs. Cunningham.]
“This vault is erected by the 2d African Church, as a token
of respect.”
The following is upon a large stone table. The reader will observe its
date; but I must add that, while in North Carolina, I heard of two
recent occasions, in which public religious services had been
interrupted, and the preachers—very estimable coloured men—
publicly whipped.
“Sacred to the memory of Andrew Brian pastor of 1st
colored Baptist church in Savannah. God was Pleased to
lay his honour near his heart and impress the worth and
weight of souls upon his mind that he was constrained to
Preach the Gospel to dieng world, particularly to the sable
sons of africa. though he labored under many
disadvantage yet thought in the school of Christ, he was
able to bring out new and old out of the treasury And he
has done more good among the poor slaves than all the
learned Doctors in America, He was im prisoned for the
Gospel without any ceremony was severely whipped. But
while under the lash he told his prosecutor he rejoiced not
only to be whipped but he was willing for to suffer death
for the cause of CHRIST.
“He continued preaching the Gospel until Oct. 6 1812. He
was supposed to be 96 years of age, his remains were
interd with peculiar respect an address was delivered by
the Rev. Mr Johnston Dr. Kolluck Thomas Williams and
Henry Cunningham He was an honour to human nature
an ornament to religion and a friend to mankind. His
memory is still precious in the (hearts) of the living.