USA > Rhode Island > Washington County > Narragansett > South county studies of some eighteenth century persons, places & conditions in that portion of Rhode Island called Narragansett > Part 15
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TRADITIONS OF NARRAGANSETT SERVITUDE
O N many ancient Narragansett estates, once of great extent but now divided and alienated, may still be seen, on the brow of a bleak hill, or in the centre of some lonely field, a group of low, green mounds, unmarked, unless by rude native stones that bear no inscriptions. These the farmer spares, as he guides his plough in the spring, and perhaps repeats to his ques- tioning boy the substance of the familiar tradition con- cerning them-that they are the graves of old negro servants belonging to certain powerful families once inhabiting the King's Province, but whose very names may, in some instances, have vanished from human speech or record as completely as those of their former slaves.
Waiving the more serious aspects of the subject, it will be the purpose of this, and of a succeeding sketch, to fix in a few brief paragraphs the fleeting memories of some of the old family retainers whose names are most familiar to the residents of our good "South County," as it is invariably styled by our Providence friends. Such simple traditions, slight and fragmentary as they are, may possess a passing interest for those who wish to trace with close attention all, even the minut- est particulars pertaining to the history of society and civilization in our State, especially during transitional periods.
Scarcely one of these shadowy figures fills a more prominent place in the recollections of living persons than Old Guy, who gained his freedom as a volunteer [ 7 211
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in the Continental Army, having served in Colonel Greene's regiment, at Fort Mercer, or Red Bank. He was always a favorite with children, who were de- lighted listeners to his recitals of many famous battles, in all of which he had, of course, borne a distinguished part, and had saved the country on more than one occasion. But little is known, from any other source, of his achievements during the war. Indeed, it has been unfeelingly hinted that his courage might have been something less than Agamemnon's. Be that as it may, the government had certainly deemed him worthy of a pension, and who that observed his tall, erect, and really soldierly figure, always proudly conspicuous in the procession of veterans defiling through the streets of Providence on each recurring Independence Day, would willingly recall these unworthy reflections upon the fame of our South Kingstown hero?
He was also the principal personage on another an- niversary-the summer festival of the Narragansett negroes, during which they held their mimic guber- natorial election. It was a genuine Saturnalia of New England bondsmen - such a season of exuberant mirth and feasting and jollity, as sensibly recalls the early days of Merrie England, or, rather, must seek its proper archetype in the congenial tropics, whence came the childlike race that so heartily enjoyed these rustic gayeties, evincing so immense a capacity for such a prolonged continuance of idleness and amusement as soon becomes an inexpressible weariness to the sterner Anglo-Saxon. In these, our hurried, anxious times, it is more than ever difficult to conceive of this imperious holiday occasion, with its curious exactions and its al-
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together astonishing customs, even when thus faith- fully portrayed by a historian of Narragansett:
"In imitation of the whites, the negroes held an an- nual election on the third Saturday in June, when they elected their Governor. When the slaves were numer- ous, each town held its election. This annual festivity was looked for with great anxiety. Party was as violent and acrimonious with them as among the whites. The slaves assumed the power and pride and took the rela- tive rank of their masters, and it was degrading to the reputation of the owner if his slave appeared in inferior apparel, or with less money than the slave of another master of equal wealth. The horses of the wealthy landowners were on this day all surrendered to the use of the slaves, and with cues, real or false, heads pomatumed and powdered, cocked hats, mounted on the best Narragansett pacers, sometimes with their masters' swords, and with their wives on pillions, they pranced to election, which began generally at ten o'clock. The canvass for votes soon commenced, the tables with refreshments werespread, and all the friends of the respective candidates were solicited to partake, and as much anxiety and interest would manifest it- self, and as much family pride and influence was ex- ercised and interest created as in other elections, and preceded by weeks of parmaturing (parliamenting); about one o'clock the vote would be taken, by 'ranging the friends of the respective candidates in two lines, under the direction of a Chief Marshal (usually Guy Watson, after the Revolution and until the annual elections ceased), with assistants. This was generally a tumultuous crisis until the count commenced, when
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silence was proclaimed, and after that no man could change sides, or go from one rank to the other. The Chief Marshal announced the number of votes for each candidate, and in an audible voice proclaimed the name of the Governor elected for the ensuing year. The elec- tion dinner corresponded in extravagance in propor- tion to the wealth of his master. The defeated candidate was, according to custom, introduced by the Chief Marshal, and drank the first toast after the inaugu- ration, and all animosities were forgotten. At dinner the Governor was seated at the head of the long table, under trees or an arbor, with the unsuccessful candi- date at his right, and his lady on his left. The after- noon was spent in dancing, games of quoits, athletic exercises, &c. As the slaves decreased in number, these elections became more concentrated. In 1795, elections were held in North and South Kingstown, but in a few years one was held in South Kingstown only, and they have for years ceased.
"The servant of the late Senator E. R. Potter, of Kingston, was elected Governor about the year 1800. The canvass was very expensive to his master. Soon after the election, Mr. Potter had a conference with the Governor, and stated to him that the one or the other must give up politics, or the expense would ruin them both. Governor John took the wisest course, abandoned politics, and retired to the shades of private life."
Silvy Tory was once famous in Narragansett, as a fortune-teller. She lived within the limits of a region commonly designated in phonetic phrase, as the old "Minstrel" (ministerial), but otherwise known as that tract of three hundred acres forming the debatable land [ 214 ]
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so long the subject of a legal contest between Dr. Mac- Sparran and Dr. Torrey, the representatives of the Episcopal and Congregational Churches, and which was finally awarded to the latter contestant. Sylvia may have been provided with a home in this district of country in consideration of her quasi-claim as the last of Dr. Torrey's slaves. She had long since survived her master and all his immediate family, and could now look out from the door of her cabin upon her great- grandchildren, playing in the sunshine. Thin, and tall even in extreme old age, with small, erect head, and glittering, watchful eyes, her wild, uncanny, almost feral aspect was doubtless of good service to her in the pursuit of her occult métier. But (with whatever nat- ural disappointment to narrator and readers) it must be owned that Sylvia's record was merely character- ized by a most annoying tameness, not at all in ac- cordance with the expectations awakened by her high tragic air. Though every commendable effort were to be made to invest her with the dim, uncertain atmos- phere of romantic interest and mystery, she would still remain, perhaps, the most harmless, innocent, poor, good old woman that ever assumed the direful char- acter of sorceress. Many of the young people of the neighborhood, with their visitors, frequently called at Sylvia's cabin, on the pretext of some charitable er- rand. At such times the sibyl, having been duly pro- pitiated by a present of tea, - that luxury so dear to universal womanhood, -would graciously consent to unveil the mysterious events of the future. She did not place her entire reliance upon palmistry, but drew va- rious auguries from an examination of the "grounds"
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in the teacup. Dismissing all members of the visiting party but one, she carefully steeped a "drawing of tea," with such obscure rites and ceremonies as she had brought with her out of African savagery. Shak- ing the cup and gazing at its slowly settling contents, she would gravely announce the decrees of fate to her listener, some half-amused, half-frightened girl, who then withdrew, giving place to her companions, who followed her in turn, and whose separate experiences were usually found to bear a marvellous resemblance to each other. Truth to tell, our ancient Narragansett oracle was no more prodigal in rich displays of inven- tive genius than other lofty seers, who (for a consid- eration) will condescend to reveal the secret courses of the stars. She was never known to depart from the brief and simple, but eminently pleasing and popular formula, which she had so often found to bring many a good silver half-dollar to cross her withered palm. To each questioning village damsel she foretold a swain of surpassing excellence, whose complexion, as the sibyl (with striking impartiality) declared, should be "dark, but fair!" The pair would meet with crosses and losses, certainly, but it would be a long lane that had no turning, and if they went right, they would be pretty sure to come out right, at last. "And," she gen- erally added, by way of valedictory, catching her sole inspiration from the wild and lonely beauty of the pic- turesque spot where she had lived for many years, "and you'll live happy ever after, in a fine home on a high hill, with woods on one side of you and water on the other."
But Sylvia also received certain older, and, by cour-
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tesy, wiser applicants for the benefit of her hidden powers. Did a cow stray beyond boundaries, or was a horse stolen, the bereaved owner hastened to inquire of Sylvia, who would obligingly furnish him with va- rious occult directions, by a strict adherence to which, the lost might be found. One seems to be describing the English peasantry of the eighteenth century, with their firm faith in the marvellous endowments and benevo- lent disposition of some "white witch"; but the place was the New England of schools and churches, and the time only about 1850. Must the poor old woman be held to a very rigid accountability for her chosen method of gaining a slender and precarious livelihood, through the easy credulity of her superiors, in which she prob- ably shared? Have there not been many persons of a higher station and wider influence, who have by no means scorned to follow a similar course?
Sylvia had reached what was computed to be the great age of one hundred and four years, and was still in tolerable physical health, when her death occurred. A granddaughter who lived with her and cared for her went out on an errand to a neighbor's, and this short absence proved fatal to the unfortunate woman, who had been left alone and seated close by the fire- place, holding her trembling hands to the blaze. It was too late to save poor Sylvia from an agonizing death.
This granddaughter, Bridget by name, who was indeed fully old enough to look the character of sooth- sayer, in which she was ambitious to be known, claimed to have succeeded to the mystic arts and powers of her relative. But her prestige in the commu- nity was less, or the influence of rustic superstition was
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on the wane, for she obtained very little patronage, and the indignant descendant of the seeress was forced to accept the less dignified position of a mere char- woman.
Polydore Gardiner was a most important personage to society and a chief among the aristocracy of his own people. The favorite musician on all festive occasions, no country dance was perfect, or could be enjoyed with proper spirit, unless Polydore were present with his beloved fiddle, and followed, as it might sometimes happen, by an admiring group of friends and compan- ions: Cato, Caesar, Plato, Primus, and others of clas- sical fame, who hovered about him in awe-struck de- light. His father had been a slave; but Polydore was a free gentleman, and a landed proprietor besides-a distinction of which he was not a little proud, owning, as he did, some acres of stony pasture-ground on the Matoonuc Hills, where he built his cabin, and whence he affably descended, when besought to lend the grace of his presence to each rustic ball or party.
Old Patience was well known to the inmates of many hospitable kitchens. Nothing about her was suggestive of her name. The unhappy woman was hardly aware of her bitter temper, for her mind had long been im- paired, and thus it happened she had been a constant wanderer and a perpetual pensioner upon a charity that was always readily and cheerfully granted. But, crazed as she might be, she still retained a sharp tongue and a biting wit, wherewith to silence any thought- less or unfeeling persons who might offer her annoy- ance. Of wild, morose, and haggard looks, she seemed always plunged in gloom and despair. Holding her
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own people, for the most part, in utter scorn, she kept aloof from them as much as possible, with one excep- tion, her "Cousin Is'bel," with whom she was proud and eager to claim relationship, and who had long been a faithful servant in the family of Dr. George Hazard, of South Kingstown. This honored relative, Patience was pleased to treat with distinguished consid- eration, and made herself quite at home in the friendly kitchen over which she presided. Here she would re- main for hours, crouched in the chimney-corner by the fire, without speech or movement, unless it were in uttering some tart reply to the curious questions of children, toward whom she was by no means gracious. At other times, her forlorn or defiant mood softened under the influence of kindness, and she would be more communicative, if the right chord was touched. Almost the only being for whom the bewildered brain and frozen heart seemed to entertain any but bitter emotions was a young gentleman - a certain "Master Isaac"- whose nurse she had been in his childhood, and whom she held to be the one unparalleled impersonation of all that was most excellent in youth. Of him she would always willingly talk, wherever she might be (but whether any of the young ladies, her occasional listen- ers, ever encouraged her to pursue the theme, discreet tradition saith not), frequently closing her eulogy with: "Now be a good girl, missy, and treat the old woman well, and maybe she'll speak a good word or two to Master Isaac !"
In the family of this admirable Master Isaac once lived Rosanna, who enjoyed the distinction of being a sister of the famous Gambia, of whose sayings and ex-
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ploits what lover of old Narragansett lore, gossip, and tradition has not often heard? She, also, was remark- able, and especially in the manifestations of a singu- larly accurate memory, automatic, as it were, in its action, and not seldom occurring, as a compensation, among such individuals as apparently occupy the low- est grades of intelligence. The mind, being engaged with but few and simple objects, retains these with almost the tenacious grasp of mechanism. Totally inno- cent as Rosanna might be of any technical knowledge of almanacs, records, or calendars, she knew very well when Monthly Meeting dinners were to be prepared for guests among the assembled Friends. Accordingly, when members of the family applied to her, as they often did, in real or feigned perplexity concerning the exact date of any past occurrence, however trifling, she was able to reply that it took place so many days before or after the time of the last (or whatever) Meet- ing. Resting her forehead, shaded by its crisp white locks, upon her shrivelled fingers, she would pause for a moment, to take silent counsel with herself. As the bird flies, as the bee traces his unswerving course through the pathless air, so her instinctive recollection sped along its narrow darkened way until it touched the desired point of time, and the chain of association was completed. The result, arising from whatever obscure intuitive process, guided by this primitive count of days and seasons, was marked by unerring exactitude. How many persons, young or old, can accomplish as much so quickly, or so well, with all the supremacy conferred by mental training and discipline, and for- tified by calendars, diaries, and one knows not what
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boasted and elaborate appliances for ensuring entire accuracy? It was the savage keenness of minute vision, transferred from the sphere of sense to that of mind; the arrested development of twenty faculties to nour- ish and stimulate one up to an overwrought degree of perfection.
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THREE REPRESENTATIVE SERVANTS OF THE OLD TIME
TT was not unusual, a century ago, to bestow upon slaves the names of English cities. York, London, and Deptford were living witnesses to the prevalence of this humorous or fantastic custom. Thus, among others of equally ambitious nomenclature, Rochelle was waiting-woman to Madame Powell, a native of that city, who passed the closing years of her life in North Kingstown. The maid was once, at least, found guilty of adapting some articles of her mistress' wardrobe to her own use, and growing somewhat restive under the grave and perhaps prolonged remonstrance which en- sued, she finally exclaimed, in her own irresistible dia- lect, and with an energy of expression that recalls the racy utterances of Mrs. Stowe's black heroines: "Laws, Missis, seems so't was no use a-tryin' to be good. 'Specs Rochelle will be Rochelle, allers!" How many individ- uals of later days, and infinitely wider opportunities, have not too often had reason to echo poor Rochelle's sudden burst of passionate philosophy!
Among the old retainers of early days in Narra- gansett, Gambia, or rather, in full title, Senegambia, was easily eminent. He was included in the paternal inher- itance of the late Willett Carpenter, of North Kings- town. But his new master, holding the usage of slavery in a just abhorrence, immediately set him free. Of the negroes formerly belonging to the place, all had, at this date, died or received their freedom, and sought other homes, with the sole exception of Gambia.
"The last of all the bards was he!" C 222 S
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who, in garret or hall, chanted their artless praises of the heroes of that feudal time, among whom, of course, the members of their masters' families were always sure to be conspicuous, in their fond, simple, and loyal estimation. But Gambia-whose distinguished name his fellow-servants never presumed to abbreviate, after their usual familiar and engaging manner, was not without his own superlative antecedents, and sang the Iliad of his noble family with endless particularity and intense enthusiasm. Like other hereditary bondsmen (who inhabit a certain glorious island), he was the avowed descendant of a race of ancient kings. He was no less than a Prince, and his royal father reigned sole monarch of all Guinea! He delighted to describe the state his father kept in his (Gambia's) own country: "Lived in a great palace, oh, ever so big; and you go in at the silver door, up the gold-iron teppitones [step- ping-stones ], and over the door was a pretty little gold- iron dog." "What was gold-iron, Gambia?" "Oh, bet- ter than iron, and handsomer than gold, gold-iron was. Well, and when you go up the teppitones, and pound with the knocker, the peart, sassy little dog, he bark! And then you go through long, long entries, till last you come to the gold-iron throne" (for the narrator stoutly averred the existence of his favorite metal) "and the king sitting on it, beautifully dressed in white man's clothes. British captains have made his father, oh, such fine presents; Gambia don't know how many!" It also appeared, from the veracious testimony of his son, that the Majesty of Guinea maintained a large fleet of gi- gantic ships on the river Gambia. "Great ships they were; no such ships anywheres in England; why, they
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the biggest ever was made!" In confirmation of these statements, the romancer forthwith related a story which bears a curiously modern air and is not a little suggestive of the facile extravagance of that style of humor which we may perhaps call Californian, rather than American : "Oh yes, one day the captain-he very nice, polite man, and one day he speak up loud to the little cabin boy, and he say, 'You scoundrel you, why for don't you get down in the ship's hold, and fetch up a mug of cider? quick! do you hear!' So the little boy he go, and he stay long, long time till the nice captain most get out of patience, he stop so long, and when he come up again, with the cider, he old man, and his beard all gray!"
Such were the fantastic relations so persistently re- peated by our hero that they must finally have assumed an aspect of probability, even to himself. They were the rude outward manifestations of a kind of wild, gro- tesque poetry latent in the untutored, undeveloped soul, and transient gleams of heavenly light flashed across the thick darkness wherein a desolate mind was aim- lessly wandering and groping toward the unknown possibilities of the future. Imagination owns no thral- dom, and who shall deny her free presence and com- munings with the higher nature, even of the slave? Do we not remember that he is a poet who writes:
" There breathes no being but has some pretence To that fine instinct called poetic sense;"
nor denies it to
"The rudest savage roaming through the wild!"
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His transparent "riddles," as he was pleased to call them, were an unfailing source of delight to his com- panions, as formerly to young master, by whom they had, of course, been highly applauded in the early, happy, uncritical days when he innocently thought no society could be so enchanting as Gambia's. One of these memorable fancies doubtless originated on some winter's day, when whirling snow-flakes filled the air, and Gambia shrank shivering into the chimney corner, intently watching the unfamiliar, supernatural scene. It was in some such moment of inspiration that he sud- denly exclaimed: "What that dance 'round the house, 'round the house, and fling in a white glove at the win- dow?" What immense glee pervaded the childlike soul at this triumphant achievement, and how natural a circumstance it was that another "puzzle" should be immediately constructed on the model of so surpass- ing a success! Accordingly, rain was presently personi- fied as "A woman dressed in gray, that goes crying 'round the house, and throws her black veil in at the window!"
Like all the sons of genius (of the popular and con- ventional type), Gambia entertained an unconquer- able aversion to hard work. It was almost impossible to make him useful in the field; and even when rele- gated to the lighter labors of the house and farm, he found these equally repugnant to his lofty tastes. No such thing as a churn, he said, was ever seen in his country. "How did you manage there, Gambia?" "Oh, the king my father have great large round trench [?] made" (turning the crank of the churn with a rapidity quite surprising, and inspired by the in-
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ventive ardor of his Munchausen-like narrative) "and lined all with white shining stone. Then pour in cream, and fill all up to top. Then the king's beautiful white horses-twenty trained horses they were-they just go down the steps, and prance round a little, and in three-five minutes butter come!" And, at this juncture, it would not infrequently be found to have made its appearance even in the humble New England churn over which the African gentleman had condescended to preside, while uttering this magnificent protest.
A long day's idle fishing was naturally much more to Mr. Gambia's taste than any active occupation whatever, and he often deserted the field for a more congenial resort-a large pyramidal rock, situated on the shore of his master's farm, and still known as the "Gambia rock." Few other fishermen continue to fre- quent it, for it is somewhat difficult of access, and is nearly submerged at high tide. Its adventurous occu- pant once narrowly escaped drowning, while visiting this favorite spot. Surprised by the returning tide, his retreat was cut off while he was either asleep or ab- sorbed in poetic meditation; and he was forced to cling to the abruptly shelving summit of the rock, drenched and blinded by the spray, and expecting each moment to be swept away by some wave higher than the last. He finally gained the shore, at the falling of the tide, and ran home with ashen face and rolling eyes, clamor- ous for sympathy, and eager to relate the thrilling particulars of his late danger and escape in his own graphic and forcible language.
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