Among the Pines | Page 3

discovered the cause. The militia of the
place were out on parade. Preceded by a colored band, playing national
airs--in doleful keeping with the occasion--and followed by a motley
collection of negroes of all sexes and ages, the company was entering
the principal thoroughfare. As it passed me, I could judge of the
prowess of the redoubtable captain, who, according to Pompey, will
hang the President "so high de crows won't scent him." He was a
harmless-looking young man, with long, spindle legs, admirably
adapted to running. Though not formidable in other respects, there was
a certain martial air about an enormous sabre which hung at his side,
and occasionally got entangled in his nether integuments, and a fiery,
warlike look to the heavy tuft of reddish hair which sprouted in
bristling defiance from his upper lip.
The company numbered about seventy, some with uniforms and some
without, and bearing all sorts of arms, from the old flint-lock musket to
the modern revolving rifle. They were, however, sturdy fellows, and
looked as if they might do service at "the imminent deadly breach."
Their full ranks taken from a population of less than five hundred
whites, told unmistakably the intense war feeling of the community.
Georgetown is one of the oldest towns in South Carolina, and it has a
decidedly finished appearance. Not a single building, I was informed,
had been erected there in five years. Turpentine is one of the chief
productions of the district; yet the cost of white lead and chrome yellow

has made paint a scarce commodity, and the houses, consequently, all
wear a dingy, decayed look. Though situated on a magnificent bay, a
little below the confluence of three noble rivers, which drain a country
of surpassing richness, and though the centre of the finest rice-growing
district in the world, the town is dead. Every thing about it wears an air
of dilapidation. The few white men you meet in its streets, or see
lounging lazily around its stores and warehouses, appear to lack all
purpose and energy. Long contact with the negro seems to have given
them his shiftless, aimless character.
The ordinance of secession passed the legislature shortly prior to my
arrival, and, as might be expected, the political situation was the
all-engrossing topic of thought and conversation. In the estimation of
the whites a glorious future was about to open on the little state.
Whether she stood alone, or supported by the other slave states, she
would assume a high rank among the nations of the earth; her cotton
and rice would draw trade and wealth from every land, and when she
spoke, creation would tremble. Such overweening state pride in such a
people--shiftless, indolent, and enervated as they are--strikes a stranger
as in the last degree ludicrous; but when they tell you, in the presence
of the black, whose strong brawny arm and sinewy frame show that in
him lies the real strength of the state, that this great empire is to be built
on the shoulders of the slave, your smile of incredulity gives way to an
expression of pity, and you are tempted to ask if those sinewy machines
may not THINK, and some day rise, and topple down the mighty fabric
which is to be reared on their backs!
Among the "peculiar institutions" of the South are its inns. I do not
refer to the pinchbeck, imitation St. Nicholas establishments, which
flourish in the larger cities, but to those home-made affairs, noted for
hog and hominy, corn-cake and waffles, which crop out here and there
in the smaller towns, the natural growth of Southern life and
institutions. A model of this class is the one at Georgetown. Hog,
hominy, and corn-cake for breakfast; waffles, hog, and hominy for
dinner; and hog, hominy, and corn-cake for supper--and such corn-cake,
baked in the ashes of the hearth, a plentiful supply of the grayish
condiment still clinging to it!--is its never-varying bill of fare. I

endured this fare for a day, how, has ever since been a mystery to me,
but when night came my experiences were indescribable. Retiring early,
to get the rest needed to fit me for a long ride on the morrow, I soon
realized that "there is no rest for the wicked," none, at least, for sinners
at the South. Scarcely had my head touched the pillow when I was
besieged by an army of red-coated secessionists, who set upon me
without mercy. I withstood the assault manfully, till "bleeding at every
pore," and then slowly and sorrowfully beat a retreat. Ten thousand to
one is greater odds than the gallant Anderson encountered at Sumter.
Yet I determined not to fully abandon the field. Placing three chairs in a
row, I mounted upon them, and in that seemingly impregnable position