USA > Virginia > King and Queen County > King and Queen County > King and Queen County, Virginia (history printed in 1908) > Part 19
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When " Woman's Rights " to laws attain, And girls go courting, might and main, When Bloomer pants become the rage, And high-heel gaiters strut the stage; When boys no longer woo the lassies, But maidens court them to their faces, O what the luckless wights shall save From anguish, or an early grave? For girls (from number) must, of course, Attack the beaux ten on a horse! O Fenelon, my son, my son, In such a case thou art undone! Fly for thy life while now thou may'st, Or cut thy throat with prudent haste. Old times return! restore the reign Of Polly, Nancy, Sukey, Jane, Jemina, Phoebe, Ann, Eliza, Abigail, Venus, Eloise. Away with varnish, cant and gloss ! Away with Bessie, Dora, Floss ! No longer with such babies bore us. If earth with babes must be replenished Till the last settlement is finished, Do give them honest Christian names, As Matthew, Thomas, Andrew, James, Daniel, Ezekiel, Peter, Paul :- Apostles, prophets, martyrs all. Such names our grandsires honored long, On author's page, in poet's song ; Such names were towers of strength indeed When men for liberty did bleed, Such were the watchwords of an hour When men staked all for Freedom's flower. But now the time of bronze returns, And honest cheek with flushes burns. Cant, affectation, gloss, begone ! " Old times," old times, return, return.
THE OCEAN
G. P. B.
Who has not felt as he stood and gazed far out o'er the ocean wild, That the moving flood was the voice of God communing with His child ?
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Whose soul has not thrilled and thrilled again at this majestic scene, The thought of lands far distant from view and the ocean lying between ?
Do the heavens declare God's glory? The firmament show His hand? Then come with me where the sky and sea bid a long adieu to land; Who, there, is not awe-struck and subdued, drawn close to the God above,
Whose life is not sweet and strong, I ween, in touch with Him who is love?
Dost doubt the existence of God and the final triumph of right? Dost think that life speaks but of itself and death only heralds night? Then go, I pray, to the ocean's shore 'neath a clear and star-lit sky, And say who painted the picture sublime that greets your ravished eye. Who orders the waves as they rise and fall with rhythm like that of song?
The breakers dashing their foam on the sand, to whom do these belong ?
What human artist such colors could blend in picture half so grand ? What power now save an infinite one can answer your soul's demand ?
But hark! a storm comes up o'er the deep, the blue sea turning to green ;
The sparkling spray on the crest of the waves enlivens and crowns the scene.
The wind, as it rides full blast on the storm, breathes tales of magic power ;
The breakers roar and the lightnings flash, and the clouds with tempest lower.
What law is back of wind and waves? Who speaks the storm into being?
Whose voice sounds clear 'mid the roar of breakers arising and fleeing? "Tis the voice of God speaking to you till your soul gives answering thrill,
The same voice that will presently say to the storm, "Now peace; be still."
Hast stood alone by the silent grave of one you loved as your life ? Hast lost faith in the goodness of God and fallen a prey to strife? Then stand again at the water's side as the sun sinks slow to rest, And listen the whisper come softly, " The father above knows best." The crimson rays from setting sun, as they mellow the water's blue, Speak to your soul of the life to come and the Father's love for you; Remember man only tarries here, as the waves arise and are gone, And each one owes to God and himself to rejoice and not to mourn.
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Hast wandered away from home and the right in paths of sin and shame ?
Hast forgotten how at mother's knee you lisped the Father's name? Then go, at the first faint break of day, Satan and sin to dethrone, Make bare your head and kneel on the shore with God and the sea alone ;
Now listen, O child, to thy Father's voice, " Come unto me "-the test, Prodigal son, who hast strayed so far-" and I will give thee rest "; Turn thy weary steps toward home at last, renew thy early vow; The Father will place a ring on thy hand, a kiss upon thy brow.
Hast won some well-earned victory, some hard and strenuous fight? Hast carried the day and reached the goal, turned darkness into light ? Stand e'en now at the midday hour near the ceaselessly moving tide, As the glowing sun gilds the waves, and the waters sparkle in pride: Then bowing thy head with humility, bid thy heart send thanks above To Him who holds the earth in His hand, yet marks the fall of the dove;
As thy soul overflows with joy and peace, forget not whence they came, But rise to still better and nobler things, e'er trusting in His name.
WHEN THE LAURELS ARE BLOOMING.
[Some five miles from Goshen station, Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad, the North River cuts its passage through the mountains, and the pike leading to Lexington, Va., works its way along the banks of the river, the whole making a scene at once enchanting and sublime. It was an object of great admiration to the late Commodore Maury. In his dying moments he was heard to murmur, "Take me through Goshen pass, when the laurels are blooming."]
When the laurels are blooming, When nature serene Is clothed in its brightest And loveliest green,
Bear my body then slowly, Yea, gently along, And sing while you bear it Your sweetest of song.
When the laurels are blooming, When mountains of blue Are bathing their summits In bright azure hue,
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Oh bear me, then bear me, Where they silently rise, And speak, while they point To a home in the skies.
When the laurels are blooming, When the bird in its nest Is waking to carol From winter's long rest,
When glad notes are warbling From leaflet and tree,
Oh, bear me where laurels Are blooming for me.
When the laurels are blooming, When the waters so wild Are chafing and fretting Like yon wilful child, As they dash o'er the lone rock, So well-worn and gray,
Where the laurels are blooming, Oh, bear me that way. * *
But the laurels, 'though blooming, Will wither and die;
Their leaves, torn and scattered, Forgotten shall lie;
But his name and his fame, To Virginia so dear, On the page of her story Shall ever recur.
Thus sadly they bore him Where the laurels did bloom, And tenderly laid him In a cold, humble tomb; But his spirit, freed spirit, From sorrow and strife, Is blooming immortal By the River of Life.
LINES ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT M. TABB, C. S. A. [Written, at the request of his widow, by Sarah Jane Bagby.] Far from the din of battle, far from the noisy strife Of a nation's conflict, up to the better life,- Borne by the wings of angels, soared his pure spirit away, Far from the blood and carnage, on that calm autumnal day.
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He died for home and country, none braver e'er marched to the field, Of all that proud host of warriors that stood as their Nation's shield, That stood,-but alas! have fallen, who nobly have fought their last fight,
Whose watchword, at home or in battle, was "God, my country, and right."
When forms that were stouter-girded, when hearts that were strong did quail,
On that day of unequal contest, that caused our proud banner to trail, He rushed and with colors uplifted, he rushed to the front of the fray, And calling on others to follow, gave his life to his country that day.
Ah! who may tell of the rapture that bursts on the astonished eye, As earth with its tumult of passion, is exchanged for the glories on high?
When the ear one moment greeted by the sound of the musketry's ring, Is tuned for the heavenly choir, to the music the angels sing.
Oh, say not in vain was the effort he made his country to save; In vain, whether living or dying, is never the fate of the brave.
But history will write the true story, far down through the ages of time,
Of the deeds of the hero soldier-a record both true and sublime.
But alas! who shall comfort the mourner, dry the eye of the sorrowing wife,
As she clasps to her bosom in anguish his babes, now her solace and life?
The God of the widow and orphans bids the wild waves of sorrow cease,
And the heart of the sadly bereaved is calmed with heavenly peace. Jan. 15, 1878.
THE EMPTY SLEEVE. By Dr. G. W. BAGBY.
Tom, old fellow, I grieve to see The sleeve hanging loose at your side; The arm you lost was worth to me Every Yankee that ever died. But you don't mind it at all; You swear you've a beautiful stump, And laugh at that damnable ball- Tom, I knew you were always a trump.
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A good right arm, a nervy hand, A wrist as strong as sapling oak, Buried deep in the Malvern sand- To laugh at that is a sorry joke. Never again your iron grip Shall I feel in my shrinking palm-
Tom, Tom, I see your trembling lip, How on earth can I be calm?
Well! the arm is gone, it is true; But the one that's nearest the heart Is left-and that's as good as two; Tom, old fellow, what makes you start? Why, man, she thinks that empty sleeve A badge of honor; so do I, And all of us-I do believe The fellow is going to cry.
" She deserves a perfect man," you say ; " You not worth her in your prime?" Tom, the arm that has turned to clay Your whole body has made sublime ; For you have placed in the Malvern earth The proof and pledge of a noble life- And the rest, henceforth of higher worth, Will be dearer than all to your wife.
I see the people in the street Look at your sleeve with kindling eyes; And you know, Tom, there's naught so sweet As homage shown in mute surmise. Bravely your arm in battle strove, Freely, for freedom's sake, you gave it; It has perished-but a nation's love In proud remembrance will save it.
Go to your sweetheart, then, forthwith- You're a fool for staying so long- Woman's love you'll find no myth, But a truth, living, tender, strong. And when round her slender belt -
. Your left arm is clasped in fond embrace, Your right will thrill, as if it felt, { } In its grave, the usurper's place.
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As I look through the coming years, I see a one-armed married man; A little woman, with smiles and tears, Is helping as hard as she can To put on his coat, pin his sleeve, Tie his cravat, and cut his food; And I say, as these fancies I weave, That is Tom and the woman he wooed.
The years roll on, and then I see A wedding picture bright and fair; I look closer,-and it's plain to me That is Tom, with the silver hair. He gives away the lovely bride, And the guests linger, loth to leave The house of him in whom they pride- "Brave old Tom with the empty sleeve."
CHAPTER XIII
TWO MEN DESERVING TO BE REMEMBERED, AND A BOY SENT ON AN ERRAND
BY JOHN POLLARD
Alexander Dudley was one of the most prominent men of his day. He was a practicing lawyer of King and Queen County, Va., yet was also the father of a railroad. The old people of the county can readily re- call him. I knew him, though at the time he was a man and I was a boy. He came into prominence by a single step. That step was the inception and comple- tion of the Richmond and York River Railroad, merged since his day into the Southern. He was the first to give practical shape to the enterprise, the first to be- lieve it could be carried through thirty-four miles, from Richmond to West Point, and the man that deserves the most honor for that achievement. He floated the stock with which the road was built. With surprising enthusiasm and energy he induced men in the cities of Baltimore and Richmond, and in King and Queen, King William, Hanover, New Kent, Gloucester, and other counties to invest their money. He was made the first president, as he well deserved. The road was char- tered in 1853. Three years afterwards (1856) the first passenger train was run through, as I have been informed by a gentleman who has conversed with the engineer who that day had charge of the throttle. The only marked difference between the road then and now is that at that time the train went into West Point, not on the Pamunkey, but on the Mattapony side, and here the terminus remained for a time.
But the most herculean work of Mr. Dudley had not yet been done. When the war between the States was at an end, the Richmond and York River Railroad had scarcely anything left to it but the graded track on which
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it had been built. What was to be done? The presi- dent might give up, might surrender to difficulties. The utterly prostrate condition of Virginia might seem to justify such a course, but the old-time energy and in- domitable perseverance of the man who had begun the enterprise came to the rescue. Mr. Dudley, still presi- dent, succeeded in persuading the original stockholders to the only course that could restore the road,-to sur- render their first-mortgage bonds and take second-mort- gage bonds, and let sufficient bonds be sold as a first lien upon the property to rebuild and reëquip the road. This gigantic task was accomplished and the great highway of commerce was given back to the public, refurnished for work.
It has been thought that his death in 1869 (when he had by no means attained an advanced age) was partly due to the responsibility and labors taken upon himself in putting the enterprise upon its feet again.
The carrying through of the York River Railroad suggested, and paved the way for, another enterprise. That was the organization of the West Point Land Company, which project meant the purchase of five hundred acres of land at West Point at thirty dollars per acre. That purchase embraced the whole of the point itself, and all the land between the Mattapony and the Pamunkey, as far as the five hundred acres would extend. The land was bought of Hon. William P. Taylor, who once lived at West Point, though at this time he was residing on a fine estate called " Hay- field," on the Rappahannock River in Caroline County. The purpose was, of course, to build up a town at the place, in which project some had faith and some had no faith whatever. Those composing the company were substantial men of King and Queen, King William, and surrounding counties. The directors held their first meeting on the 27th day of March, 1856. At this meeting B. B. Douglas was chosen president and John Pollard (my father) secretary and treasurer. The directors usually held their meetings at West Point. It did not look much like even a small village then, to say nothing of a town. There was but one house at
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the place. That was the former Taylor residence, which had been turned into a tavern and was occupied as such by a Mr. New, after whom it had been named. Here the directors met. The proprietor had a well furnished table,-no wonder, as he had three rivers to provide him with what was necessary. My father took me (a boy of sixteen years) with him to the meeting of the directors at West Point to help him in his duties as secretary and treasurer, not so much because he needed my assistance as that I might be somewhat trained to the ways of business. Transactions with Mr. Taylor for land purchase occurred on April 17th, 1859. My father continued to be the secretary and treasurer as long as he lived, the last proceedings taken down by him being dated the 19th of November, 1875, and his death being noted first on the 25th of February, 1878.
I rather suppose that my employment as an occa- sional help to my father (in his official services to the land company) suggested the outing that now, with the reader's indulgence, I will attempt to describe. It must have occurred in the spring of 1857.
My health, though not now infirm, was then by no means superabounding in robustness. Accordingly I was stopped from school at the beginning of the session of 1856-57 and kept for twelve months at active out- door pursuits. One of the healthful employments given me by my father was to go on horseback to Mr. William P. Taylor's, in Caroline County, and pay him $1000.00 as a creditor of the West Point Land Company. Why he was willing to take the risk of transmitting so much money by the hands of a boy of seventeen summers I cannot tell, unless he wanted a way of training me to business, and at the same time of furnishing me with the bodily exercise he thought I needed. When I got to my destination at Mr. Taylor's I would be only fif- teen miles below Fredericksburg, and I asked my father if I might make my journey a little longer and see that historic town. He readily consented. I was now made ready for the trip. " Jenny Lind," my father's riding horse, was brought out and saddled up, the money
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was fastened under my clothes close to my body; I was given directions about the road; I mounted, and was soon lost to sight. I spent the first night after leaving home at Mr. Harry Latane's in Essex, whom my father knew very well, he being a first cousin to my father's mother. I found him quite an old man, but exceedingly kind and affable. Just before I reached his house I was overtaken by a heavy downpour of rain, which made me quite wet. Old as he was, he took great interest in drying my clothes, calling me all the time " Cousin John." He was the father of Captain Latane, who was the only man killed in the raid around General McClellan's army and is immortalized in the picture " The Burial of Latane." Soon after leaving Cousin Harry Latane's I struck the river road, and pursued that all the way. I passed Lloyds and Loretto, and an ancient colonial church with many tombs around it, and at length reached Port Royal about dinner time. I went in and got something to eat. After feeding my- self and horse I mounted again and went on to Mr. Taylor's, which (if I remember rightly) was about five miles farther on. He received me very politely, and while he was counting the money Mrs. Taylor enter- tained me very pleasantly, speaking of the time when they lived at West Point and telling me how she used to enjoy looking out upon the bright waters of the York. Mr. Taylor was now an old man. He had himself been a member of the United States House of Repre- sentatives, and was a son of the distinguished John Taylor of Caroline, a United States Senator and a
friend of Thomas Jefferson. (John Taylor was the man that offered the Resolutions of 1798 in the Vir- ginia House of Delegates.) Mr. William P. Taylor and wife were childless and occupied a fine old mansion, but it was not my plan to spend the night with them. I was to press on that evening and reach Frank Gouldin, whose acquaintance I had formed in attending, as a boy delegate, the Baptist General Association of Virginia. So when the money was paid over and Mr. Taylor's re- ceipt obtained, and a burden of responsibility lifted from my mind, I set off again on my way to Fredericksburg.
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I soon reached the home of my friend, who received me very cordially.
Next morning I got to Fredericksburg, looked around the town, ate dinner, and started for home, fifty miles away. I cannot recall, to save my life, where I spent the night, but I think it more than likely that I put up a second night with my friend Gouldin. I started in time to reach before dinner Dr. William A. Baynham, a Baptist minister with whom I was well acquainted. He lived then in a fine mansion below Loretto; lived in affluence, and kept an open house to all his friends. On being ushered into the parlor I found that Dr. Baynham was holding an old-fashioned dinner day, and was entertaining Senator Robert Hunter and his wife and Representative Garnett and his sisters. Dr. Bayn- ham, though a bachelor, served an elegant and sump- tuous dinner. The company was very agreeable. I do not remember the subject of conversation, except that Senator Hunter told me that he knew my uncle, Judge Jeffries, and, I think, further said that they were col- lege mates at the College of William and Mary. (As to this second statement, I begin to suspect that my memory is playing me a trick, for neither the records of William and Mary nor the life of Hunter makes any mention of his having been a student at that college.) When, after dinner, I told my hospitable host that I must go, he ordered my horse from the stable, where she had been well fed, and I mounted and proceeded on my journey. My memory does not enable me to say whether I reached home that evening; if I did it must have been quite late. I certainly got back safe and sound. I took very little account, at the time, of my mother's feelings in being called on to give me up at seventeen years of age to go alone on horseback on so long a journey with such a sum of money on my person. But I can see now that her motherly heart must have given me up with hesitation and reluctance. I can easily imagine her and my father conferring about the matter, and seeing that I was rapidly approaching manhood and ought to be thinking somewhat, at least, about taking on a man's responsibility, and that the
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outdoor exercise which the journey would give me was the very exercise that my health called for, they agreed I should venture. Certainly my mother made no ob- jection, but I can now imagine what she felt then, and how glad she was that I got back without serious mis- hap of any kind.
CHAPTER XIV LIFE ON THE OLD PLANTATION
We have it in mind to tell some things about how mat- ters went on the old King and Queen plantation, for the delectation of the younger set, who never had the keen satisfaction of seeing it, and taking part in it, as the writer had. The actors here will be the master and mis- tress, the children, overseer, cook, hostlers, plowmen, farmhands, and house servants-at-large, all colored ex- cept the overseer. The " Great House," as the negroes invariably called it, the home of the master and family, was the seat and center of the rural scene. It was usually a building of two stories, often with dormer windows, one or likely two wings, cellar and basement,-say in all twelve rooms, with pantry, and closets ad libitum. The lawn was spacious and shady, with kitchen and meathouse in the rear, and office in front. The over- seer's house stood apart, often one-fourth to one-half mile away, while comfortable cabins for the servants ran in a line on one side and to the rear. The planta- tion stretched around and abroad, partly open for the crops, and largely wooded. This woodland was a very godsend, for, to say nothing of rails for fencing and lumber for building, coal was yet unused here and much wood was used to cook and to keep fires aglow for master and his dependants. It ought to be added that there were ample gardens, usually in rear, for both whites and blacks.
We are up very early some fine spring morning for a purpose; and now as the gray streaks of opening day stretch upward from the eastern horizon, we are sud- denly startled by the echoes of a cowhorn, which pierces the dullest ear. Instantly the whole plantation is astir. The overseer uses his bunch of keys, and swings wide open the doors of the great barn, and the less capacious corncrib, and here come Ben and Coleman, 'ostlers, and
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MR. JOHN BAGBY
1791-1878 ; prominent as Merchant and Deacon Bruington Church ; father of Drs. Richard H., Geo. F. and Alfred Bagby, and of Maj. John R. Bagby ; and Mrs. Bagby.
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behind them Ottoway, Reuben, Jacob, and Carter, for not only must horses be seen after, but mules, oxen, sheep, and cows. Now all of these are comfortably groomed and fed; when all hands retire to the kitchen, and keen appetites are satisfied with coffee, cornpone, fried bacon and molasses. And here come Caroline and Big Lucy, milkpail poised on the head, to extract the white and foaming liquid from distended udder, and presently churn it into yellow butter. And now to the field! Coleman, Ben, and Carter take their re- spective teams, and now the mellow earth turns over fast from the sod, giving out a sweet odor as it turns. Old Isaac is off with oxen and cart for a load of wood or fence rails, or likely a load of marl from the bank to dress the upturned field. So we press on till the horn sounds for twelve, noon, when teams and men get rest and dinner. And when night's sable curtain falls, and supper is over, the young men and maids gather, banjos, and mayhap a fiddle, are tuned, and an hour or two of dancing beguiles the time; and then sweet sleep, till the horn sounds again. This with fencing, grub- bing, and the gardens, fills up the week's work, and when Sunday comes, young and old of both colors in best attire flock to church, and hear the sweet story of Jesus and the Cross by Shackford, Semple, or Todd,- white and colored alike, the master and the servant. By and by Easter and then Whitsuntide, with two days' holiday each, and now the white dogwood blossoms tell that corn-planting time has come. The plows go before to open the furrows and here come the men, the boys, and a sprinkling of women. It must be borne in mind that in January and February we were largely snow- and ice-bound, and it gave us nearly as much as we could do to cut and maul and transport the wood needed to keep aglow the many fires to make mistress and the colored women and pickaninnies com- fortable, and to cook the three meals a day to feed everybody. Moreover, the snow is sometimes very deep (as we remember very well, in the fearful season of 1847 with drifts fifteen or twenty feet deep) ; then it is more wood and more work. But the two cold months
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