The family had been expecting me for some time. I had brought letters of introduction to them from my friend, Miss E. M. P., of New York, who had resided with them as a teacher, and who had told me much about them and the South; so that they had the preface to an acquaintance with me in my letters, and I had a page or two of acquaintance with them through my friend, when we met. The young ladies were about going to church when I arrived. After a few moments' conversation they excused themselves, and were soon in their riding habits. Their horses were brought to the door, and after being gaily seated in their saddles, they reined their palfreys round, and with the boldness of DIE VERNONS, galloped away through the woods to church. This, no doubt, was something of the "romance of life" that Miss G. was enjoying South. Speaking of Miss, let me further add:-I have observed that, instead of saying Miss G., they say, Miss BESSIE; calling a young lady by her christened name prefixed with Miss. Also, in speaking of a married lady, instead of saying Mrs., they say, Mistress. And, in addressing, or speaking to a person at a little distance, especially if they are not answered the first time, they use the fine explosive monosyllable, "Ho!" Thus, Ho, Mr. H.! Ho, Miss FANNIE! manners. Here I begin to see Southern life and observe Southern Manners! How soon we notice them in another people-notice only as they vary from our own. We compare ourselves with others and mark the difference. And there is this about painting the manners of a people— first impressions are the best, because the truest. One is apt to observe less of the strange and novel, as he bides with another people, from the fact that he adopts more or less of their manners, and hence does not notice them, unless he has the individuality of an ARETHUSA, and can move among them intact. One might say that everything is different here from Northern life, and in order to become Southernized, one must go into pupilage become a learner, and often, no doubt, a blunderer. greater variety First, the table. This I find here with of meats than at the old plantation-house. Here we have excellent ham, boiled whole, a surloin of venison, and a dainty steak from "old Bruin," occasionally. Butter is not so common as it is on our Northern tables, and wheat bread is rare, or used in much smaller quantities. Corn bread is the Southron's. staff of life. This I find on the table here of three kinds; the "muffin," which is the size of, but better than our best biscuit; the "egg-bread," which is " cousin-german" to our Johnny-cake, and the famed "corn-dodger," which is oval, and about the size of one's hand. The sweet potatoe is richer than any of its Irish, pink-eyed cousins; and we have the cousins, too. Coffee is here preferred to tea, but you can have tea, or milk, if you wish. One of the servants acts as "aid" to the waiter at table, bringing in warm viands to her, thus keeping "fresh supplies" on hand during the meal. But the young ladies have returned from church, and say they have heard the "blind preacher" WIRT so finely describes. An old, blind, itinerant preacher, discourses to them in a church, some two miles away in the woods, among the hollies and evergreens. The preacher, sermon, rural scenery and all, would have inspired, they thought, the glowing pen of a WIRT. I ought to have written to my friends at home ere this. EMERSON, I think, says, friends first, business next. And while I am thinking of an apology for one, the long list of others that are waiting for letters from me, come thronging across my mind, till I am not a little confused. In fact, I fear ere I get through to the last, that the apology will return like "NOAH's dove," on impatient wing to the South. While sojourning a few days at the "Ridge House," I had taken views on horseback of much of this part of Mississippi. This, besides being cavalierish, is the only way we "peers of the realm" have of riding here; for the rains make such sad havoc with the roads that a heavy shower of three or four hours, and you find your carriage half-spoke deep in mud or clay loam. And then, the ladies claim the carriage, at all times. A planter told me that he paid, six hundred dollars for his carriage in Philadelphia, and though he had had it two years he had never rode a rod in it. You often meet the fair of the South, also, upon their palfreys, galloping through the woods. Our horses are much more spirited than theirs, and the reason of it is obvious. They drive with more urging, longer distances, and over worse roads, and take less care of their horses, than we do. The planter, like the Bedouin, has his horse, of which he is not only sole proprietor, but no one is allowed to ride him but himself. Wherever he wishes to go, on a short trip, or a long journey over the country, this noble steed carries him on his back. But the Arab surpasses him in his love for his horse, which next to that for "Allah," is the "Mecca of his heart." Neither does he share his tent with him, nor part of his fare, but is oftener turned out shelterless, in the chilling blasts of a Southern winter, with nothing but his moiety of corn, and its dry leaves and "shucks." The carriagehorses belong to the planter's wife. They are seldom used for any purpose save on drives for her and her daughters. Each son has also his horse and trappings, the little children often riding some steady and well-behaved mule. Riding out in a carriage a short time since with Mrs.. W., she rallied me about my driving-holding the reins so tight. I told her we "held in" our horses. She replied, they "let theirs go." · Some number of miles from home we came to a 66 pass, different, but not less difficult than that of "Thermopyla." I stopped the horses on its margin, and surveyed it. There was no way of getting round it. We must go through or go back. I asked her if we should not, like the Greeks, before going to battle, consult the oracles. She replied that I might if I felt alarmed, consult my goddess, DIANA, but let her have the reins and she would drive through. I drove through safe. The upsetting of a carriage is nothing uncommon. The upland roads are not so bad; aside from being rougher, those in the valley are the most formidable. The nimble steeds of your Northern liveries would soon become “jaded" in a drive over these roads after a rain. Roads are the paths made to facilitate one's travel about the country— they lead to its improvement-to wherever man has erected a dwelling or built a town. But I should prefer a "cut off," or take it like a Yankee, "cross lots," climb fences, and risk the perils of "bush and briar;" or, were I mounted, run the break-neck hazards of a steeple-chase over hedge and ditch, to the heavy, treacherous plodding of these roads during the wet seasons. What I had seen of the country in my first travel over it, was not only novel, but interesting to me. My mind had been filled with the different scenes and pictures of this new land, which, had I the descriptive power to transfer to these pages, as they first impressed me, I should be more satisfied that I had given a true description of this part of the South. In the formation of Mississippi, the hill and mountain were not thought of, or if they were, they had all been lavished on the Alleghanies and Andes, the Cordilleras and Rocky. But everything else was, from the level to the "ultima thule" of the rough. The uplands are a coarse, geological network of ridges, ravines and gulleys, which certainly would have ill adapted it to husbandry, had not the plastic hand of nature formed here and there, among them, those beautiful oases--the cotton plantations. The road often takes you round, following the ridge, like one of SANCHO PANZA's stories, two miles or more, when it would be shortened to thirty rods could you cross the ravine. But as in reading one is often delighted with beautiful passages, figures and similes scattered along his way, so in riding along one of these roads you are often delighted in passing by forest scenery in all its leafy richness, and broad plantations with their beautiful cotton meadows. Aside from the plantation the country goes to woodland, pasture and waste. You pass occasionly old plantations, worn out and deserted, overgrown with sedge and poverty stricken weeds. Ꭰ |