We were surprised to find in an “Ode to the South,” by Mr. M. F. Tupper, published recently, the following stanza:

This was true, but that it was known in the outside world we thought impossible, when all the newspaper and book accounts represented us as “miserable sinners” for whom there was no hope here or hereafter, and called upon all nations, Christian and civilized, to “revile, persecute and exterminate us.” Such representations, however, differed so widely from the facts around us, that when we heard them they failed to produce a very serious impression, occasioning often only a smile, with the exclamation: “How little those people know about us!”

We had not the vanity to think that the European nations cared or thought about us, and if the Americans believed these accounts, they defamed the memory of one held up by them as a model of Christian virtue,—George Washington—a Virginia slave-owner, whose kindness to his “people,” as he called his slaves, entitled him to as much honor as did his deeds of prowess.

But to return to the two last lines of the stanza:

I am reminded of some who were actually held in such bondage; especially an old gentleman who, together with his whole plantation, was literally “possessed by his slaves.”

This gentleman was a widower, and no lady presided over his house.

His figure was of medium height, and very corpulent. His features were regular and handsome. His eyes were soft brown, almost black. His hair was slightly gray. The expression of his countenance was so full of goodness and sympathy, that a stranger meeting him in the road might have been convinced at a glance of his kindness and generosity.

He was never very particular about his dress, yet never appeared shabby.

Although a graduate in law at the University, an ample fortune made it unnecessary for him to practice this profession. Still his taste for literature made him a constant reader, and his conversation was instructive and agreeable.

His house was old and rambling, and—I was going to say his servants kept the keys, when I remembered there were no keys about the establishment. Even the front door had no lock upon it. Everybody retired at night in perfect confidence, however, that everything was secure enough, and it seemed not important to lock the doors.

The negro servants who managed the house were very efficient; excelling especially in the culinary department, and serving up dinners which were simply “marvels.”

The superabundance on the place enabled them not only to furnish their master’s table with the choicest meats, vegetables, cakes, pastries, &c., but also to supply themselves bountifully, and to spread in their own cabins sumptuous feasts, wedding and party suppers rich enough for a queen.

To this their master did not object, for he told them “if they would supply his table always with an abundance of the best bread, meats, cream and butter, he cared not what became of the rest.”

Upon this principle the plantation was conducted. The well-filled barns; the stores of bacon, lard, flour, &c., literally belonged to the negroes, they allowing their master a certain share!

Doubtless they entertained the sentiment of a negro boy, who on being reproved by his master for having stolen and eaten a turkey, replied: “Well, massa, you see you got less turkey, but you got dat much more nigger!”

While we were once visiting at this plantation, the master of the house described to us a dairy just completed on a new plan, which for some weeks had been such a hobby with him, he had actually purchased a lock for it, saying he would keep the key himself—which he never did—and have the fresh mutton always put there.

“Come,” said he, as he finished describing it, “let us go down and look at it.”

“Bring me the key,” he said to a small African, who soon brought it, and we proceeded to the dairy.

Turning the key in the door, the old gentleman said: “Now see what an elegant piece of mutton I have here!”

But on entering and looking around no mutton was to be seen, and instead thereof buckets of custard, cream and blanc-mange. The old gentleman greatly disconcerted, called to one of the servants, “Florinda! Where is my mutton I had put here this morning?”

Florinda replied: “Nancy took it out, sir, and put it in de ole spring house. She say dat was cool enough place for mutton. And she gwine have a big party to-night, and want her jelly and custards to keep cool!”

At this the old gentleman was rapidly becoming provoked, when we laughed so much at Nancy’s “cool” proceeding, that his usual good nature was restored.

On another occasion we were one evening sitting with this gentleman in his front porch, when a poor woman from the neighboring village came in the yard, and stopping before the door, said to him:

“Mr. R. I came to tell you that my cow you gave me has died.”

“What did you say, my good woman?” asked Mr. R., who was quite deaf.

The woman repeated in a louder voice, “The cow you gave me has died. And she died because I didn’t have anything to feed her with.”

Turning to us, his countenance full of compassion, he said: “I ought to have thought about that, and should have sent the food for her cow.” Then speaking to the woman: “Well, my good woman, I will give you another cow to-morrow, and send you plenty of provision for her.” And the following day he fulfilled his promise.

Another incident occurs to me, showing the generous heart of this truly good man. One day on the Virginia and Tennessee train observing a gentleman and lady in much trouble, he ventured to enquire of them the cause, and was informed they—the gentleman and his wife—had lost all their money and their railroad tickets at the last station.

He asked the gentleman where he was from, and on “what side he was during the war.”

“I am from Georgia,” replied the gentleman, “and was, of course, with the South.”

“Well,” said Mr. R., pulling from his capacious pocket a capacious purse, which he handed the gentleman, “help yourself, sir, and take as much as will be necessary to carry you home.”

The astonished stranger thanked him sincerely, and handed his card, saying: “I will return the money as soon as I reach home.”

Returned to his own home, and relating the incidents of his trip, Mr. R. mentioned this, when one of his nephews laughed and said: “Well, Uncle R., we Virginia people are so easily imposed upon! You don’t think that man will ever return your money do you?”

“My dear,” replied his Uncle, looking at him reproachfully and sinking his voice, “I was fully repaid by the change which came over the man’s countenance.”

It is due to the Georgian to add that on reaching home, he returned the money with a letter of thanks.

In sight of the hospitable home of Mr. R. was another equally attractive owned by his brother-in-law, Mr. B. These had the same name—Greenfield—the property having descended to two sisters, the wives of these gentlemen. They might have been called twin establishments, as one was almost a fac simile of the other. At both was found the same hospitality; the same polished floors; the same style of loaf-bread and velvet rolls. The only difference between the two being that Mr. B. kept his doors locked at night; observed more system, and kept his buggies and carriages in better repair.

These gentlemen were also perfectly congenial. Both had graduated in law; read the same books; were members of the same church; knew the same people; liked and disliked the same people; held the same political opinions; enjoyed the same old Scotch songs; repeated the same old English poetry; smoked the same kind of tobacco, in the same kind of pipes; abhorred alike intoxicating drinks, and deplored the increase of bar-rooms and drunkenness in our land.

For forty years they passed together a part of every day or evening, smoking and talking over the same events and people. It was a picture to see them at night over a blazing wood fire, their faces bright with good nature; and a treat to hear all their reminiscences of people and events long passed. With what circumstantiality could they recall old law cases; describe old duels, old political animosities and excitements! What merry laughs they sometimes had!

Everything on one of these plantations seemed to belong equally to the other. If the ice gave out at one place, the servants went to the other for it as a “matter of course;” or if the buggies or carriages were out of order at Mr. R.’s—which was often the case—the driver would go over for Mr. B.’s without even mentioning the circumstance, and so with everything. The families lived thus harmoniously with never the least interruption for forty years.

Now and then the old gentlemen enjoyed a practical joke on each other, and on one occasion Mr R. succeeded so effectually in quizzing Mr B. that whenever he thought of it afterwards he fell into a dangerous fit of laughter.

It happened that a man who had married a distant connection of the Greenfield family concluded to take his wife, children and servants to pass the summer there, dividing the time between the two houses. The manners, character and political proclivities of this visitor became so disagreeable to the old gentleman, they determined he should not repeat his visit, although they liked his wife. One day Mr. B. received a letter signed by this objectionable individual—it had really been written by Mr. R.—informing Mr. B. that, “as one of the children was sick, and the physician advised country air he would be there the following Thursday with his whole family to stay some months.”

“The impudent fellow!” exclaimed Mr. B. as soon as he read the letter. “He knows how R. and myself detest him! Still I am sorry for his wife. But I will not be dragooned and outgeneraled by that contemptible fellow. No! I will leave home to-day!”

Going to the back door he called in a loud voice for his coachman, and ordered his carriage. “I am going” said he, “to Grove Hill for a week and from there to Lexington with my whole family, and don’t know when I shall be at home again.”

“It is very inconvenient,” said he to his wife, “but I must leave home.”

Hurrying up the carriage, and the family they were soon off on their unexpected trip.

They stayed at Grove Hill, seven miles off, a week, during which time Mr. B. every morning mounted his horse and rode timidly around the outskirts of his own plantation, peeping over the hills at his house, but afraid to venture nearer, feeling assured it was occupied by the objectionable party. He would not even make enquiries of his negroes whom he met, as to the state and condition of things in his house.

Concluding to pursue his journey to Lexington and half way there, he met a young nephew of Mr. R.’s, who happened to know all about the quiz, and immediately suspecting the reason of Mr. B.’s exile from home enquired where he was going, how long he had been from home, &c. Soon guessing the truth and thinking the “joke had been carried far enough,” he told the old gentleman he need not travel any further for it was all a quiz of his uncle’s, and there was no one at his house. Thereupon, Mr. B. greatly relieved, turned back and went his way home rejoicing, but “determined to pay R.” he said, “for such a practical joke, which had exiled him from home and given him such trouble.” This caused many a good laugh whenever it was told, throughout the neighborhood.

The two estates of which I am writing, were well named—Greenfield, for the fields and meadows were of the freshest green, and with majestic hills around and the fine cattle and horses grazing upon them, formed a noble landscape.

This land had descended in the same family since the Indian camp fires ceased to burn there, and the same forests were still untouched, where once stood the Indian’s wigwams.

In this connection, I am reminded of a tradition in the Greenfield family, which showed the heroism of a Virginia boy:

The first white proprietor of this place, the great grandfather of the present owners, had also a large estate in Montgomery county, called Smithfield, where his family lived, and where was a fort for the protection of the whites, when attacked by the Indians.

Once, while the owner was at his Greenfield place, the Indians surrounded Smithfield, when the white women and children took refuge in the fort, and the men prepared for battle. They wanted the proprietor of Smithfield to help fight and take command, for he was a brave man, but could not spare a man to carry him the news. So they concluded to send one of his young sons, a lad thirteen years old, who did not hesitate but mounting a fleet horse set off after dark and rode all night through dense forests filled with hostile Indians, reaching Greenfield, a distance of forty miles next morning. He soon returned with his father, and the Indians were repulsed. And I always thought that boy was courageous enough for his name to live in history.[3]

The Indians afterwards told that the whole day before the fight several of their chiefs had been concealed near the Smithfield house, under a large hay stack, upon which the white children had been sliding and playing all day, little suspecting the gleaming tomahawks and savage men beneath.

From the Greenfield estate in Botetourt and the one adjacent went the ancestors of the Prestons and Breckinridges, who made these names distinguished in South Carolina and Kentucky. And on this place are the graves of the first Breckinridges who emigrated to this country.

All who visited at the homesteads just described retained ever after a recollection of the superbly cooked meats, bread, &c., seen upon the tables at both houses—there being at each place five or six negro cooks, who had been taught by their mistresses the highest style of the art.

During the summer season several of these cooks were hired at the different watering places, where they acquired great fame and made for themselves a considerable sum of money by selling recipes.

A lady of the Greenfield family, who married and went to Georgia, told me she had often tried to make velvet rolls like those she had been accustomed to see at her own home, but never succeeded. Her mother and aunt who had taught these cooks, having died many years before, she had to apply to the negroes for information on such subjects, and they, she said, would never show her the right way to make them. Finally, while visiting at a house in Georgia, this lady was surprised to see the very velvet rolls, like those at her home.

“Where did you get the recipe?” she soon asked the lady of the house, who replied, “I bought it from old Aunt Rose, a colored cook, at the Virginia Springs, and paid her five dollars.”

“One of our own cooks and my mother’s recipe,” exclaimed the other, “and I had to come all the way to Georgia to get it, for Aunt Rose never would show me exactly how to make them!”