In the busy rush of to-day it is sometimes a relaxation to pause for a moment and let memory carry us back, far back, to the peaceful, uneventful days before the Civil War. Life seemed to go slower then. We had no cables to tell us, and often harrow us, each morning with the events all over the world of the preceding day. And (inestimable boon) our only ideas of war were time-mellowed Revolutionary anecdotes. There was in these days no more beautiful place in all the luxuriant low country contiguous to Charleston than Hickory Hill. The plantation consisted of rice fields which bordered Goose Creek on both sides. The massive brick dwelling, built in Colonial days by the pioneer of the family which still dwelt there, stood beyond the rice fields in view of the creek; venerable moss-crowned live-oaks stood sentinels around. The approach was through an avenue of similar trees, whose branches formed a beautiful arch over the luxuriant sward beneath. These trees were the admiration and pride of the countryside.

Years had only added beauty to the rugged old house, for ivy and climbing rose vines had dressed its walls and framed many of its windows. In the springtime it was a veritable bower. At the time of which I write it was a "maidens' bower." From my earliest recollections three unmarried sisters, Miss Martha, Miss Joanna and Miss Mary, composed the family. My parents lived on an adjoining plantation, and although our dwelling houses were some distance apart, there was a short cut along the rice field banks, and a happy child was I when any pretext afforded an excuse for a visit to the ladies. Their individuality had a great charm even to my childish mind. When I first remember them they must have all been past their sixtieth birthdays, and were counted ladies of the old school. Miss Martha was the eldest. She took life very seriously, was very tall and thin, was the housekeeper and head, besides being considered "the clever woman of the family." She could be very tragic on the smallest provocation. Her drop of good Scotch blood made her hold her head very high, and also made her a rigid Presbyterian. When she was not hemming a pocket handkerchief she usually had one of Scott's novels in her hands. Miss Joanna, the second sister, who was as genial as her sister was severe, used to say she "did not know what Martha would have done if Scott had never written; he had really diversified her life by his novels."

Miss Joanna had the cheeriest old face imaginable, bright blue eyes, rosy cheeks, with high cheek bones, her gray hair waved becomingly, and she always wore a lavender ribbon in her cap. She was the social one of the sisters; that is, she performed the social duties. Miss Mary, the youngest, was at sixty the spoiled darling, having been considered the best looking, and delicate in her youth. All the airs of a beauty, and the privileges of an invalid still clung to her. Indeed, her very white skin and black eyes were very impressive. Her sisters always gave her the tenderest consideration and never failed to be affected by her gentle melancholy and pathetic sighs. They were all much given to charity, but Miss Mary was more lavish than wise. Whole families of beggars, not only preyed upon her, but tyrannized. There was a tradition that Miss Mary had been rescued in her youth from a runaway carriage by a lover who was anxious to marry her; she had inclined to him, but had been deterred by the fear of parting from Miss Joanna, who usually directed her affairs, and sometimes made up her mind for her.

The sisters were accounted quite wealthy. They owned a handsome residence in the neighboring city of Charleston, where they betook themselves when fear of country fever drove them from their beloved country home. The yearly exodus was a great trial to Miss Martha, who was supposed to manage the plantation. The neighbors said the negro foreman, Boston, managed the place and the ladies also. They would never employ a white overseer, as they said "a hireling could not make allowance for the negroes as they did." Indeed, their negroes were a terrible care to them; they had large retinues of house servants, both in the city and country, both having a sinecure during their absence.

Miss Martha frequently complained that she was "hard worked in finding something for the servants to do." The young ones grew up so rapidly, and to put certain families to field work was not to be contemplated.

That the ladies did not suffer more from their reckless management was providential. They had the affection of all their servants, but the women were lazy and the men great inebriates. Their idol, and coachman, Billy, was a terrible case. Their lives were often in peril when he was on the box. After some hair-breadth escape Billy would be summoned before the trio and Miss Martha would say tragically, "Billy, you will be the death of us." "Fore de Laud, Missis, I wouldn't hurt a hair of yore heads," would be his rejoinder. That he did not was not his fault, but his good fortune, for on one occasion, having been sent to meet Miss Martha and Miss Mary at one of the wharves, he was so far gone that he drove carriage and pair over them, knocking them down as they approached to get into the carriage. Miraculously they escaped with only bruises. Their black silk dresses were kept as curiosities, as the iron shod hoofs of the horses had left their impress in several places. On another occasion, having met them at the theater with the carriage, he drove them several miles up the road toward their country home at 11 o'clock at night before they could induce him to turn. These episodes, combined with the very apparent fact that their friends had ceased to borrow their carriage, which they enjoyed lending as much as using, sealed Billy's fate. To soften his downfall, they told him he could give Cuffie, his successor on the box, some "hints on driving," and they would be glad to fill his molasses jug when it was empty, and if he must drink, to take molasses and water. He could employ himself by sweeping the yard. Billy never said what he drank, but died shortly after of delirium tremens.

Joe and Romeo, the butler and his assistant, were quite as harassing. Romeo's besetting sin was indolence. He had been known to shed tears at the prospect of one of the little tea parties in which the old ladies delighted. On these occasions their guests were their contemporaries, "the girls," of whom there were a great many in maiden state in the quiet old city. The handsome rooms were always lit by candles in tall silver candlesticks. Miss Martha would never consent to the introduction of gas, which the more progressive Miss Joanna advocated.

"No," decided Miss Martha, "candles are much more lady-like." What would she have thought of electric lights?

On these occasions Joe handed a waiter with tea, Romeo followed with delicate cakes, and then bread and butter, while a boy followed in the rear with a tray "to catch the cups" as they were emptied. Ice cream followed at "last bell ring," ten in summer and nine in winter, when the party broke up. Any more substantial refreshment would have been deemed "very unrefined" by the whole assembly.

There was a rumor that on one of these occasions both Joe and Romeo had been very unsteady as they handed their waiters. Dire was their mistresses' mortification. Miss Martha always seemed to feel responsible when her servants misbehaved. She would exclaim, "A single woman has great need of strength of mind." Miss Mary's unfailing rejoinder would be, "Thank God, you have it, sister." One evening Joe brought especial obloquy upon himself. He must have shared Billy's molasses jug, for he had not drawn the tea as directed.

Miss Martha, in consideration for some of "the girls" who were growing feeble, always accompanied Joe on his rounds. As he paused before a guest she would hold a lump suspended in the sugar tongs as she would say, "Green tea and black; dear, which will you have?" On this occasion Joe took advantage of her deafness to mumble, "Both made in de same pot." The guests were quite diverted, but did not enlighten Miss Martha as to Joe's confession, and their progress continued until they reached Miss Mary. When she overheard Joe's assertion, she looked at him with mild indignation, but only said, "Sister, you had better sit down. I will explain later my asking you to do so." Miss Mary's suggestion of any course of action to Miss Martha seemed to call for explanation.

The next morning, when she told of the duet she had interrupted, Joe was summoned. Miss Martha told him he had brought disgrace upon them and would further bring their gray hairs in sorrow to the grave. He of course expressed great penitence, and was vociferous in promises of amendment. His mistresses tried to feel faith. Miss Mary, however, had to take a great deal of orange-leaf tea before her nerves recovered the shock. Kindly Miss Joanna said privately, she had known nothing of what was occurring, but she was glad the girls had something to amuse them; she had thought them very merry, and though Joe had failed in his demeanor he had shown a wonderful regard for truth. Had the ladies and many of their generation lived to see emancipation they would have parted with many "an old man of the sea."

One April morning I set out to take a bunch of May roses over the rice field banks to Hickory Hill. These roses were especial favorites with the sisters, and I was pleased to have the earliest blossoms to carry. Miss Joanna kept a rose jar. Miss Martha was famous for the rose water she distilled. I only expected to see Miss Martha, for I knew Miss Mary had been drooping, and Miss Joanna had taken her to visit a friend, who, although long past her youth, had recently married a Northern gentleman, with whom she lived on her beautiful plantation near the city.

Miss Joanna and her sister had left only the day before, so I was surprised to see the carriage at the door and Cilia, the maid, removing their shawls and trappings. "Why, Cilia!" I exclaimed, "are the ladies back already?" "Yes, missy," she replied, grinning and dropping a curtsy, "Miss Joanna an' Miss May, an' Miss Burton had a kine uv upsettin', an' so we come home." Wondering what was amiss, I hastened in. I paused as I entered the sitting-room, for I saw the ladies were much perturbed (small excitements were very usual with them, but their demeanor betokened something serious); Miss Martha sat very erect, with her most judicial aspect, the needle with which she was sewing suspended. "Come in, child," she said as she saw me; "if my sisters make fools of themselves you may as well know it as the rest of the world."

Miss Mary and Miss Joanna sat with their bonnets on. Miss Mary with the air of a culprit, Miss Joanna decidedly ruffled, and her cheeks redder than usual. She said: "Don't jump too quickly to conclusions, sister; it does seem queer for us to return so hastily, but when I tell you about it quietly, you will, I am sure, see that we were not entirely to blame. You know Caroline's husband is rather abrupt in his manner."

"He has no Southern suavity," interrupted Miss Mary.

"The evening we got there I was feeling rather dull, and he really made me nervous by shouting in my ear several times, 'Cheer up, Miss Mary.' I jumped every time."

"He no doubt meant it kindly," said Miss Joanna, "but I dare say it prepared you for what followed."

"We had a pleasant evening on the whole, although I thought Mr. Burton did express his Northern views of slavery a little more than was called for, especially as he did not seem to object to Caroline's owning a great many. She was in high feather and seemed delighted to see us. At bed-time she accompanied us to our room, where there was a bright fire, and Cilia awaiting us. After Caroline left us Cilia begged leave to go to a dance at the negro quarter; she said it was in her honor, and she seemed in haste to be gone. So I promised to do what Mary would need and sent her off. After I was undressed I was standing by the fire brushing my hair. I saw Mary fumbling about the bed and asked her if she was ready for me to tuck her in. Instead of answering, she came, as I thought, mysteriously up to me and whispered, 'Negro.'

"Of course I thought there was a man under the bed. I remembered our watches, Mary's diamond pin, and how far we were from Caroline and Mr. Burton; for we were in the company wing. I screamed for help as loud as I could; the more noise I made the more distressed Mary seemed. Caroline and Mr. Burton came running, in most indescribable costumes," the old lady continued, with a look of amused retrospection. "There stood Mary in her bed-gown and curl-papers; I in my wrapper, and Mary staring at me as if she thought me crazy.

"'What is the matter?' they both exclaimed.

"'Oh,' I said, 'Mary says there is a negro under the bed.'

"We'll soon have the rascal out," said Mr. Burton, poking under the bed with a big stick.

"'Oh,' said Mary, 'I never said anything of the kind, Joanna. I meant,' she said, turning as red as a beet, 'that there were not rose blankets on the bed, but blankets without the rose embroidered on them, and I call those negro blankets. Joanna made such a noise I could not explain what I meant,' and she burst into tears. Mr. Burton bounced out of the room, muttering something. Caroline was very angry. She said that if she had had any idea that we girls could behave in such a way she would never have invited us to visit her. She had wished to give her husband an agreeable impression of Southern ladies, but she did not like to think what his impression must be; and as to rose blankets, we never could understand when things were out of date. Those were beautiful new blankets, bought in New York when refurnishing their guest-room. And in fact she was so angry," concluded Miss Joanna, "that I do not like to remember all she said."

"But I must tell you, sister," put in Miss Mary, "she said she knew I was always a fool, but she had thought Joanna had a little sense, and I agree with her, Joanna, that you ought not to have made such a noise. I never felt worse in my life than when you began to scream. And I never slept a wink all night, as you know. Now, Sister Martha, which do you think the most to blame?"

"I cannot say," said Miss Martha, "but I know I will never go to visit any friend with either of you. I don't wonder Caroline was angry, and what an impression you have made on her husband."

"Oh," said Miss Joanna, "we know he was furious. We had a most unpleasant time at breakfast the next morning. I tried to make a joke of the whole episode, but failed. They were too angry; so as Mary was feeling so shaken, and had taken all her orange-leaf water with no benefit to her nerves, I thought we had better come home; and I am delighted to be here; and too thankful neither of you are married," she continued, with a return of her genial smile. "For I nearly exhausted myself trying to mollify Mr. Burton."

"Yes," said Miss Mary, "with no success. I do not envy Caroline her new acquisition, and I am sure rose blankets are the best."

Such were the agitations and events of these tranquil lives. Their days glided by in peace and kindly ministrations. They were fortunate in following each other in quick succession to the old Scotch churchyard where their fathers slept in the "City by the Sea."