Otwell was originally an estate of some 2,000 acres, situated on a beautiful peninsula, the land rich and productive, and the forest would have charmed Silvanus. Here and there on the shores of the inlets grew majestic oaks, black walnut, and immemorial elms. The peach, pear, apricot, fig and other fruit trees flourished, and would have charmed Eve, and the Cart House apples, Adam.

The forest was entirely of lofty pines—many of the trees so large that one tree made a canoe; they were made and used principally by the servants and were in evidence almost everywhere. The forest had very little undergrowth; the ground was carpeted and cushioned with pine fallings, and the huntsmen were delighted when reynard was started there. The murmuring of the wind in the lofty pine tops, the tongueing of the hounds “like sweet bells jangled out of tune,” delighted the hearts of the Tilghmans, Chamberlains, Dickinsons, Tripps, Robins, Lloyds and many others that followed the hounds, horsemen of the first-flight type. The hunt over, there was “The feast of reason and the flow of soul.”

The river was as lovely as the Bay of Spezia, and from its bed and shores the canvas-back and red-head plucked the wild celery and fattened. Fish, terrapin and oysters abounded, and the mint luxuriated. The Eastern Shore of Maryland was then as now the garden spot and sunny side of creation.

Before the hour of parting two songs were always sung, “Sportsman Hall” and “The Bottle,” the former sent by The Beef Steak Club of London to one of the above named gentlemen. I could give the words, rich and rare, left me by my father, but delicacy forbids; both are exquisite double entendres fit to sing before kings, but not before queens.

There was a school at Otwell, taught by John Singleton and —— Garrick, two fine belles-lettres scholars, to which came the Robins from Job’s Content, Tilghmans from Plimhimmon, Chamberlains from Bondfield, Haskins from Canterbury Manor, Morrises and Collisters from Oxford. John Singleton’s sister was the mother of the eminent portrait painter, John Singleton Copley, who on a visit to his Uncle at Otwell with his former preceptor, Smibert, made portraits of Anne Francis, James Tilghman, Matthew Tilghman and his wife, nee Annie Lloyd, whilst spending Christmas there.

Standing on his front porch Ole Mars Nickey viewed his broad acres, whose shores were washed by the Tred-Avon, by crystal creeks, and coves with beautiful mouths that kissed with briny lips the bosom of the river. The windmill on the shore added to the scenery as its sails moved languidly, grinding the wheat and corn for the negroes.

To the south on the river side was the little town of Oxford, a tobacco port, and riding at anchor was a brigantine from Liverpool, being loaded with tobacco by Morris & Callister (Robert Morris and Henry Callister), shipping merchants.^[1]

From the back porch, through a long, wide and high arbor entwined with fruitful grapevines, you saw Otwell Creek, and the arbor-way led you into a more enchanting garden than the one mentioned in “EZRA,” where my fancy loves to wander, for “a thing of beauty is a joy forever.”

It was some fifteen acres in extent. The encircling fences were so overgrown with honeysuckle, clematis and trailing roses as to look like a flowery hedge, with here and there lilacs and snowballs. The winding, wooing walks were hedged with box, and bowing trees were caressed by fruitful grapevines. It was a banqueting place for bees, and a paradise for birds, from little Jennie Wren to the proud mocking bird, and they filled acres of air with their melodious lays.

Ezra loved to assist old Kurchibell, the Scotch gardener, and one day he was heard to say, “Mr. Kurchibell ain’ no gyardner less’n he kill dem plegon sassy catbirds and robins; dey jes spilin’ all dem cherries. I’m gwine right straight an tell Ole Mars an Ole Miss!” Betimes Ezra would saunter with basket on each arm to the garden and gather the dew-kissed peaches, apricots, juicy melons and other fruits, and later cull the 100–leaf roses and assist the old gardener in distilling them. The rose cakes left were tucked away in the house linen, the fragrance of which in fancy I still inhale.

The apple trees flung down so many blossoms that they covered the ground. All are gone! so are the other fruit trees and fragrant vines.

About the middle of the garden was a large bower, roughly made of cedar, but as strong as Jacob’s ladder. Clematis, honeysuckle and beautiful trailing roses covered its sides and dome-shaped top so thoroughly that only here and there little sunbeams could pierce and play among the interwoven vines and blossoms. In the center of the bower was a large table, from which fruit was eaten, cards played, tea made (echo), and love made! Almost within arm’s reach of the arbor was a brimming spring, whose water was soft and pure as a dewdrop. The spring is there to-day, and, like the brook, flows on forever.

When the weather was dry Miss Henrietta dipped its pellucid water and sprinkled the thirsty arbor vines,

Around the spring grew mint in exuberance, that was as much cared for as the foxhounds. Mayhap in that arbor Tench Francis tinkled the sides of his glass in mixing sugar and grass with spirits, sipped and read letters from his gay and brilliant nephew, ^[2]Sir Phillip Francis, the supposed author of the letters of Junius, then one of England’s Counsel for India; maybe told all about his duel with Warren Hastings, then Governor-General of India; for we know that his cousin, the beautiful Anne Francis, visited “Otwell” with her husband, James Tilghman, who met there his brother, Matthew, the great patriot, and his wife, who was charming Anne Lloyd. There, too, Tench Tilghman, aide-de-camp to Washington, and his wife, spent happy hours. Later his daughter married the host, and there in luxury and loving kindness lived

’Twas a very cold Sunday in December. The sun shone brightly, but the wind was on a frolic. High-crested, white-capped waves leaped upon and lashed the shore. Ole Miss, as usual, had service for the house servants in the brick kitchen. She said the Lord’s prayer, read the 63d psalm, commented upon their deportment for the past week and then they were dismissed.

Pawson Demby was to preach in the new Zion church, and the servants were now on the lawn looking for the Plimhimmon, Bondfield and Job’s Content boats. In those days visiting was done for the most part by water, the numerous creeks, coves and bays making distance so great by land. The servants used the eight-oared barges, boats of burden, with sails and generally two masts, called a pinnace; they carried to the large schooners wheat, corn and other cereals for the Baltimore market, and in return brought hogsheads of molasses, sugar, coffee, rice, boots and shoes for the servants.

Presently Little Billy sang out, “Heah dey come!” and sure enough, rounding Wind Mill Point and turning into Otwell Creek, were three barges—tip-tap-toe—each pulled by eight lusty oars. The angry roar of the waves, the struggling boats, the landscape and the breaking billows made it a picturesque sight. Soon they were at the wharf. Most of them were house servants, and it would be for me a hopeless task to describe their raiment, the old-time courtesies, graceful bows and how-dys with which they greeted one another.

Those negroes were environed for generations with kindness, culture, refinement and Christian teaching, so that many of them had finished manners, knew perfectly

They were dependent, kind, obedient, full of music, contentment, and happiness. The venom of the politician and carpetbagger had not stung them.

Greetings over, they all strolled to the new brick church, distant about three-quarters of a mile. Like all the churches of that day, the pulpit was much nearer heaven than the pews, and above it hung a picture given them by Miss Henrietta. It had a bell, a clock—described in Ho-Ho—and a fireplace large enough for half a dozen darkies to stand and warm themselves. When all were seated Uncle Stephen was asked to pray, and then Parson Phil Demby preached.

His text was “Fogitfulness.”