. . . March, 1859.
Though this is March, the Japonicas are just passing out of blossom and the roses are in their first fresh glory—yellow and white Banksia, the Lamarque, and all those choice fresh varieties. I’ll just run down in the garden here and pick you a rosebud. There it is —my voucher for the floral stories.
While we were at the Pulaski in Savannah, the great sale of Pierce Butler’s slaves took place, and there all the gentlemen interested were congregated. You would never suppose the young meek pale little man, Pierce Butler, to be either a slave-owner or Mrs. Kemble’s husband. He is the indignant vestryman, I am told, who walked out of Rev. Dudley Tyng’s Church when that sermon was preached. I am glad to hear that Mrs. Kemble has never drawn a dollar of her alimony, $3,000 a year, but allows it to accumulate for the children. She has the honest pride of maintaining herself, under the circumstances. Of course, you have read the Tribune’s account; the girls sent it to us, and we have kept it well concealed, I assure you, for there are fire-eaters in the house, who would not hesitate to insult us. But now it is copied into the New York Herald—the only northern daily sold here — and has gone all through the city. There is a shrewd Philadelphian here, with his wife, Mr. Ashmead. He knew the agent at that sale. He attended the sale; took notes of course, as every northerner had to do, and now and then made a modest bid—to appear interested as a buyer. He says: “ All I can say of Doe-stick’s account is it does not go one bit beyond the reality — hardly comes up to it, indeed.” He heard all the remarks quoted about Daphney’s baby; says the story of Dorcas’ and Jeffrey’s love is true; and it was to himself and one other that the negro driver’s remarks about the efficacy of pistols were made. He thought Mr. Ashmead was one of the same sort! The latter was a Buchanan man; he goes home an Abolitionist, and says: “Now I can believe that everything in Uncle Tom’s Cabin might really happen.”
On Sunday Mother and I went to the African Baptist Church, and had a most interesting service, remaining to their communion. The new members, nine of them, were seated in the front pews; the young women, in white dresses, shawls, and white ribbons on their straw bonnets. We had a seat of honor just behind them. The pastor, a slender, meek man in spectacles—a black man you know—. “Dr. Cox,” gave them the right hand of fellowship, with many touching words of counsel and passages of scripture. He and we, too, were equally moved, as to one (free) woman he said, “If the Son shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed,” and to another, “ Stand fast, therefore, in the liberty wherewith God shall make you free.” He is free himself, I hear, but the Methodist minister is a slave. He is well taken care of —given his whole time, and is considered in an enviable position. The church was crowded—bandannas of every shade, and style of tie — and no small sprinkling of the gayest bonnets. The minister was a quiet, excellent speaker; “two broders” who assisted were roaring ones, and the “broder officers” who officiated were such real darkies, and the singing was so like stories I have read, that altogether I had more a sense of sight-seeing than of worshipping, I am afraid. The service was very solemn, however, and we were deeply interested. There must have been three or four hundred communicants, for it was not close communion. The bread and wine were carried to every one, and up in the galleries too, and the eight baskets were emptied and the eight goblets were all emptied and filled three times. We shook hands with “Dr. Cox,” who seemed gratified that we had remained, and as for us, we would not have missed it for a great deal.
