In the afternoon I went with Mr. Porcher Miles to visit a
small farm and plantation, some miles from the city, belonging to Mr. Crafts.
Our arrival was unexpected, but the planter's welcome was warm. Mrs. Crafts
showed us round the place, of which the beauties were due to nature rather than
to art, and so far the lady was the fitting mistress of the farm.
We wandered through tangled brakes and thick Indian-like
jungle, filled with disagreeable insects, down to the edge of a small lagoon.
The beach was perforated with small holes, in which Mrs. Crafts said little
crabs, called “fiddlers” from their resemblance in petto to a performer
on the fiddle make their abode; but neither them nor “spotted snakes” did we
see. And so to dinner, for which our hostess made needless excuses. “I am
afraid I shall have to ask you to eke out your dinner with potted meats, but I
can answer for Mr. Crafts giving you a bottle of good old wine.” “And what
better, madam,” quoth Mr. Miles, “what better can you offer a soldier? What do
we expect but grape and canister?”
Mr. Miles, who was formerly member of the United States
Congress, and who has now migrated to the Confederate States of America, rendered
himself conspicuous a few years ago when a dreadful visitation of yellow fever
came upon Norfolk and destroyed one half of the inhabitants. At that terrible
time, when all who could move were flying from the plague-stricken spot, Mr.
Porcher Miles flew to it, visited the hospitals, tended the sick; and although
a weakly, delicate man, gave an example of such energy and courage as
materially tended to save those who were left. I never heard him say a word to
indicate that he had been at Norfolk at all.
At the rear of the cottage-like residence (to the best of my
belief built of wood), in which the planter's family lived, was a small
enclosure, surrounded by a palisade, containing a number of wooden sheds, which
were the negro quarters; and after dinner, as we sat on the steps, the children
were sent for to sing for us. They came very shyly, and by degrees; first
peeping round the corners and from behind trees, oftentimes running away in
spite of the orders of their haggard mammies, till they were chased, captured,
and brought back by their elder brethren. They were ragged, dirty, shoeless
urchins of both sexes; the younger ones abdominous as infant Hindoos, and wild
as if just caught. With much difficulty the elder children were dressed into
line; then they began to shuffle their flat feet, to clap their hands, and to
drawl out in a monotonous sort of chant something about the “River Jawdam,”
after which Mrs. Crafts rewarded them with lumps of sugar, which were as
fruitful of disputes as the apple of discord. A few fathers and mothers gazed
at the scene from a distance.
As we sat listening to the wonderful song of the
mockingbirds, when these young Sybarites had retired, a great, big, burly
red-faced gentleman, as like a Yorkshire farmer in high perfection as any man I
ever saw in the old country, rode up to the door, and, after the usual ceremony
of introduction and the collating of news, and the customary assurance “They
can't whip us, sir!” invited me then and there to attend a féte champétre at his
residence, where there is a lawn famous for trees dating from the first
settlement of the colony, and planted by this gentleman's ancestor.
Trees are objects of great veneration in America if they are
of any size. There are perhaps two reasons for this. In the first place, the
indigenous forest trees are rarely of any great magnitude. In the second place,
it is natural to Americans to admire dimension and antiquity; and a big tree
gratifies both organs — size and veneration.
I must record an astonishing feat of this noble Carolinian.
The heat of the evening was indubitably thirst-compelling, and we went in to “have
a drink.” Among other things on the table were a decanter of cognac and a flask
of white curaçoa.
The planter filled a tumbler half full of brandy. “What's in that flat bottle,
Crafts?” “That's white curaçoa.” The planter tasted a little, and having smacked
his lips and exclaimed “first-rate stuff,” proceeded to water his brandy
with it, and tossed off a full brimmer of the mixture without any remarkable
ulterior results. They are a hard-headed race. I doubt if cavalier or puritan
ever drank a more potent bumper than our friend the big planter.
SOURCE: William Howard Russell, My Diary North and
South, p. 125-7
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