Part 2

With timid footsteps we move along, peering into each nook and corner with curious eye. The threshold of another door is passed and we are in the large general school-room, with its rows of desks for the boys, and the platform with the large old-fashioned chair in the centre for the master. There, upon the floor, lies a tattered copy of Virgil, another of Euclid, a few leaves out of the National Preceptor, and a chapter or two of Murray’s Grammar. Having fulfilled their office, they have been thrown aside as of no farther avail, even as some of the _noble-hearted_ in the world are wont to treat their most faithful friends. Here, at our side, resting upon its shattered frame, stands the identical globe over which we once pondered with a wondering heart. It is covered with dust, through which we can just discover that the uppermost country is England. True, England is indeed without a rival in her glory, but is there not a stain of something resting upon her domain? Look at the condition of her people, who are sorely oppressed by the mean ambition of her aristocracy.—But to return. How neglected and lonely is this place! The dust upon the floor is so thick that our footsteps are as distinctly visible as when we walk upon the snow. A sunbeam stealing through a western window points us to the wall where hangs the old forsaken clock. Its song of “Passing away” is ended, and has been for many a year; but the language of its familiar countenance seems to be, “They are all gone, the pleasant, old familiar faces!” Yes, they are gone—but where? We know not the destiny of a single one. The hour-hand is resting upon the figure four, the hour of all others which we boys loved. Stop, did we not see the waving hand of our master, and hear the bustle of dismission? Yes, we have caught our cap—we are the first one out. Now listen to the loud, clear, hearty shout of half a hundred boys.—’Tis only the vision of a heated brain, and we are sitting once again at the same desk and in the same seat which were ours fifteen years ago. Here is the same fantastic ink-blot which we made when we indited our first and only poem to the eyebrows of a charming little girl, with whom we fancied ourself in love; and there is the same square cavity in the desk, which we cut with our knife, and where we used to imprison the innocent flies, which remembered fact is a memorial of our rare genius. But look! are we not a trespasser? for here cometh an ancient-looking spider with vengeance in his very gait. In moving out of his way, we notice that his gossamer hammock is in prime order. How like a nabob liveth that old spider! Around his home, we see the carcasses of a hundred insects that have afforded him food; he is monarch of all he surveys; and if he desires to become a traveler, he has but to leap upon the slender threads leading to the remotest corners of the room, which are to him safer and better than a railroad. This seat, which hath been inherited from us by a poor solitary spider, we now look upon perhaps for the last time. But we cannot take our final leave without dwelling upon one incident with which it is associated. That is the spot where we plead our cause, when once arraigned by the masters of the academy for having been the ringleader of a conspiracy. It was the third day of July, and on dismissing the school, our master had informed us that we must celebrate the memorable Fourth by _attending school_. Surprise, and a shadow of disappointment fell upon every countenance, and we sought our respective rooms murmuring. That evening our marbles and balls were idle. At my suggestion, the wink was tipt to a chosen band of patriots. We met, and after discussing the outrageous conduct of our principal, unanimously resolved that we would spend the following day at the neighboring village of Brooklyn, where we knew there was to be a celebration. We went, had a glorious walk, saw revolutionary soldiers, enjoyed a sumptuous dinner, heard a smart oration, fired unnumbered cannon, saw lots of pretty girls, and were at home again a little after sunset. On the following morning, the patriots were changed into a band of culprits, standing before our compeers to be tried, condemned and punished. Having been proved to be the leader, we are the chief speaker, and, in our boyish estimation, “defender of the constitution.” Then it was, and in the seat already mentioned, that we delivered our maiden speech. It was a powerful appeal, no doubt, but was of no avail. We were condemned, and our punishment was, to be expelled. The next day, however, the whole of us were readmitted as regular members, and thus ended the affair of our impeachment.

Walking in this room and thinking upon this incident has brought before us a troop of shadows, that have once had a material existence. Our principal was one H——, who had thin lips, a sharp nose, gray eyes, and a cold heart. He was a good schoolmaster, but nothing more. He knew not what it was to be loved, for he could not sympathize with a single one of his pupils. He seldom smiled, and when he did it seemed to be against his nature. He was a most cruel man, as a scar upon my poor back might testify even now. What has become of him we know not, but if he be among the living, we are sure he is a solitary being and a misanthrope. His assistant, named W——, we distinctly remember as the ugliest-looking man we ever saw; but he was a good-hearted soul, and merited the friendly feelings which were lavished upon him so abundantly. When we last heard of him he was a much respected and well-established clergyman. And so it is that time works its changes.

Dearly do we love the memory of our school-fellows! Charley Snow was a rattle-headed southerner, who hated books, loved a frolic, and spent his money, of which he had an abundance, like water. The poet of our academy was Edward Hunt, the son of a poor woman and a widow, who lived upon a neighboring farm. He was a beautiful boy, fond of being alone, and when with his playmates shy as a captured deer. All the manual labor of his home he performed himself, and yet he had but few superiors as a student. More than half of his time was spent with his mother, and for that reason my heart ever yearned towards the noble boy. Our metaphysical philosopher was one Henry Clare, who had been made decidedly mad by too much learning. A splendid landscape or a brilliant sunset he could not understand, but over a piece of gray stone, a homely little insect or a leaf of sorrel, he would be in perfect raptures. But the youth who exerted the most salutary influence upon us was William Vane, whom his Maker had formed a cripple, but gifted with a superb intellect and the disposition of an angel. How kindly did he endeavor to cheer up those boys who came out of school with blistered hands, or were suffering with other troubles! Seldom did we ever hear an oath in the presence of William Vane, for few could endure his manly frown and reprimand. Many a soul will enjoy, or is enjoying a happy immortality on account of that unfortunate—no, that thrice-blessed youth, for from very childhood he was a Christian. One queer fellow that we had with us was Joe Leroy. He thought more of performing an odd caper than of anything else; but his particular passion was for athletic feats, such as climbing, running, and jumping. Once, with the aid of a rope, we saw him ascend one side of the academy building, pass over the roof, and descend upon the opposite side. He could outrun the whole of us, and in the department of jumping he was equal to a kangaroo. Jack Harmer was another lad to whom books were a terror. He longed to be a sailor, and devoted all his leisure time to sailing a little brig on a sheet of water in a meadow, two hundred feet wide. And so we could go on for hours, mentioning the names of those who were the playmates of our later boyhood. Where they are, and what their destiny, we cannot tell. That our own name has long since been forgotten by them we do not doubt. Is it not foolish, then, to cherish their memories in our heart as we do? No, for they are linked with a portion of the past that we would have immortal—the spring of our existence. The power of recalling the sunny hours of life, we would not part with for the world; next to our dreams of heaven, do we value the dreams of our early days. But like a weaver’s shuttle is our life, and it were unwise for us to forget the future in thinking of the past. If we are permitted to live, how soon will our body be like this crumbling edifice, in whose deserted chambers we are now a pilgrim. Years ago we came here to school our mind; now, we are a teacher ourself, and of ourself too, but a very poor one, for we cannot rule the unruly passions of our heart. Our only hope is in the fountain filled with blood.

But if we remember rightly, there is a room in this old building that we have not yet visited. Yes, here is the narrow stairway that led to the Exhibition Hall in the second story. Cautiously we enter it; but here also has the spirit of desolation a home. On these mutilated seats once thronged thousands of spectators; and yonder is the platform where the youthful orators were wont to “speak in public on the stage.” The only breathing creature that meets our eye is a little mouse running to his hole, almost frightened to death by our appearance. When last we stood in this place, thousands of human hearts beat happily, for parents listened to the eloquence of their children, and those children gloried in the realization of their long-cherished hopes. How vivid are our recollections of that exhibition day! It concluded an exile of three years from our far distant home in the wilds of Michigan. The period of return our heart panted after continually, for we were away from the home of boyhood, from a mother, a father, and sisters; and though we often visited, and were under the care of kindred, we felt ourself to be alone and companionless. And with that day, too, are associated events that flattered our youthful ambition; and though we know them to be idle as a tale that is told, we cannot but cherish the memory of that day even for them. But with our last day at school are associated some clouds and shadows, the most prominent of which were our leave-takings with our schoolfellows. We parted for our widely separated homes, and where we all are, or what is our present condition are things known only to the Father of the world.—It is well—it is well. “Our sorrow voices itself to the stranger many; and all that in other days were gladdened by our song—if still living—stray scattered through the world.” It is well.

But the hours of day are almost numbered, and it is time for us to be gone; and besides the glow upon yonder window tells us that “the sun hath made a glorious set,” and that we should improve the hour to the gratification of our passion for the poetry of the sky. A few moments more, and we are on the green in front of the Old Academy. Forgetful of the unnumbered feelings it has inspired and the pictures it has recalled, we are wending our way to the home of a kind friend, wholly absorbed with the gorgeous appearance of the western sky and the solemn twilight by which we are surrounded. The hour is one that we have ever dearly loved, for it is the sabbath of the day, when a solemn stillness is around, and an unutterable joy is wont to take possession of the soul.

ACCOMAC.

Upwards of two hundred years ago the long peninsula, now divided into the counties of Accomac and Northamptom, in Virginia, was known by the Indian name of _Acohawmack_. An extensive tribe of aborigines who occupied the country bore the same title, and the meaning of the word is said to be _People who live upon shell fish_. Next to a scanty record embodied in Captain Smith’s History of Virginia, the earliest printed account of this region may be found at the conclusion of a pamphlet written by one Colonel Norwood, of England, wherein he describes “_A Voyage to Virginia in 1649_.” At the conclusion of his perilous voyage across the Atlantic, it was the author’s misfortune to be wrecked upon one of the islands on the eastern shore of Accomac, and that, too, in the stormy month of January. To comment upon Norwood’s well written and very interesting pamphlet is not now our object; but we will remark, in passing, that this document, taken in connection with the county records of the peninsula, which extend as far back as the year 1632, and also with the ancient graveyards of the region, would furnish material for an exceedingly valuable and entertaining volume, and we are surprised that some enterprising antiquarian of Virginia has not, long before this, taken the matter in hand. It is our province to speak of _Accomac_ (by which we mean the ancient dominion known by that name) as it appears to the traveler of the present day.

What the distance may be from Washington to the northern line of Accomac we cannot imagine, but we know that if the morning cars to Baltimore are punctual, and you are fortunate enough to meet the Whitehaven steamboat at Baltimore at 8 o’clock, you may enjoy your next breakfast at Horntown, a few miles south of the Maryland line, and within the limits of Accomac. On board of the steamer which brought us down the bay, there was rather a scarcity of passengers but among them were some intelligent gentlemen, from one of whom we gathered the following items of information. The entire length of Chesapeake Bay, from Havre de Grace to Norfolk, is two hundred miles; in width it varies from five to twenty-six miles, and in depth from four to twenty-four fathoms. Its shores are low and level, with occasional bluffs, however, and its waters clear and of a greenish hue. It contains a great number of islands, some of which are exceedingly fertile, but destitute of all picturesque beauty. During the autumn and winter its shallower waters are filled with almost every variety of waterfowl; it is said to yield a larger quantity of oysters than any other section of the globe of the same size; and it is also famous for the abundance and quality of its shad, striped basse or rock-fish, its drum, sheepshead, and a species of sea-trout. On approaching the Wicomoco river, an island of one thousand acres was pointed out to us called Bloodsworth Island, which is the property of two men, who reside upon their domain, a pair of veritable hermits, who live upon fish and waterfowl instead of cultivating their soil. Our attention was also directed to a neighboring island, which seemed to be in a state of high cultivation, and we were told that the owner thereof had refused the handsome price of one hundred dollars per acre for the entire island. With regard to Deal’s Island and Dames Quarter, in this vicinity of the bay, we heard the following anecdote. The _original_ name of the first was “Devil’s Island,” and that of the second “Damned Quarter,” as any one may see by referring to some of the older maps. Once upon a time, as the story goes, a Connecticut skipper in his smack chanced to make his course up the Chesapeake, and as he was a stranger in this region, he hailed nearly every vessel or boat he met with a lot of questions. “What island is that?” inquired the Yankee of a downward bound brig. “_Devil’s Island_,” was the brief reply; whereupon the stranger’s conscience was a little disturbed. About an hour afterwards “What island is that?” again vociferated the skipper; and a Chesapeake fisherman replied, “_Damned Quarter_.” At this intelligence, the Yankee was so much alarmed that he immediately made a sudden tack, and with his helm “hard up” started for the outlet of the bay, and was never heard of more in southern waters.

The peninsula of Accomac, as nearly as we can ascertain, varies in width from eight to twelve miles, and is not far from seventy miles long. Generally speaking, it is almost as level as the sea, the highest ground not attaining a greater elevation than some twenty feet. The soil is of a sandy character, and the forests, which are quite extensive, are composed chiefly of pine and oak. The country is almost entirely destitute of running streams, and nearly all the inlets, especially on the bay side, are lined with extensive marshes, where snakes turtles, and lizards are particularly abundant. Along the sea side of Accomac lie a successions of sandy islands, which render the navigation dangerous, and between which and the main shore the water is shallow and far from clear. Two of the above islands, Assateague and Chingoteague, are inhabited by a peculiar people, of whom I shall have something to say in another place. The only villages in this district, properly so called, are Drummontown and Eastville; they are the county seats, and though bearing an ancient appearance, they contain some good houses, and are well worth visiting. You can hardly travel eight miles in any direction without coming to a post-office, which glories in a village name, and therefore appears on paper to much better advantage than in reality. In some parts of the country, we frequently noticed houses which seemed to have been abandoned by their owners, as if the soil in the vicinity had been completely worn out, and could not be profitably cultivated. These household ruins, together with the apparent want of enterprise which one notices everywhere, conspire to throw a gloom over the traveler’s mind, thereby preventing him, perhaps, from fully appreciating the happiness which really prevails among the people. And these (as is the case, in fact, with every nook and corner of the world) constitute the principal attraction of Accomac; for man by nature is a lover of his kind, and “we have all one human heart by which we live.”

If we were called upon to classify the Accomacians, we would divide them into the gentry, the miscellaneous fraternity, and the slave population. The gentry are a comparatively small class, but the principal landholders of the district. They come of good old English families, and are highly intelligent and well educated. The houses they occupy are homely in appearance, but well supplied with all the substantials that can add to the pleasures of country life. They seem to think more of comfort than display, and are distinguished for their hospitality to strangers. The miscellaneous fraternity to which we have alluded is more extensive. A very large proportion of them obtain their living from the sea, annually bringing up from its bed an immense quantity of oysters and clams, which they sell to the fishermen of Philadelphia and New York; but these fishermen not only send to market large numbers of fish, but during the winter and autumn months they make a good deal of money by killing waterfowl, which abound on all the shores of the peninsula. The more legitimate fishermen of Accomac, who number between thirty and forty voters, reside on the neighboring islands of Chingoteague and Assateague. They are an exceedingly hardy, rude, and simple-hearted race, and a little more at home on the water than on the land. The dangers to which they wilfully expose themselves are truly astonishing, and almost lead one to suppose that they are web-footed. We have been told of one individual who, for the want of a boat, once swam a distance of three miles in midwinter merely for the purpose of examining the wreck of a brig which had been abandoned by its owners; and we have heard of others who had been upset at sea, a distance of ten miles from shore, but who have regained their mother earth with the ease and carelessness of wild geese. In the miscellaneous fraternity may also be included the mechanics of the country, and all such people as stage-drivers, dram-shop keepers, peddlers, and other kindred birds.

The slave population of this district is decidedly the most extensive, and, if we are to judge by their general deportment and by what they say, they are undoubtedly by far the happiest class on the peninsula. We questioned them occasionally with regard to what we have been educated to look upon as a hard lot, but we never saw but one individual who succeeded in rousing our sympathies, and before he finished talking to us we discovered that he was a scamp of the first water, and therefore not worthy of credit. Every negro in this section of country has the evening hours to himself, as well as the entire Sabbath, and, instead of being “lashed” into obedience, is constantly treated with the utmost kindness. Many of them, who choose to labor for themselves, have free permission to follow any employment they please; and we know of several individuals who earn thirty dollars per month by voluntary labor, and whose services are valued by their masters at only ten or fifteen dollars; so that the servant pockets fifty per cent. of his monthly earnings. But what proves more conclusively than anything else that the black man’s bondage is not unbearable, is the fact that they are the most moral and religious people of the country. They are, at the same time, the most polite and the most kindly spoken people that we have met with in our wanderings; and we verily believe that they would not break the imaginary chain which now binds them to their masters. We confess that we have a natural repugnance to the word _bondage_, but our dread of a mere idea cannot make us deaf to the eloquence of what we have _seen_. It is true that our experience has not been extensive, but we cannot see that the slaves so called of this region are any more to be pitied than the children of any careful and affectionate parent. A goodly number of the blacks in this region are free; and we know of one individual who is not only free, but the owner of no less than three farms.

And now, with regard to those traits which the Accomacians possess in common. In religion they are Methodists and Baptists, and in politics they belong to the rank and file of the unterrified Democracy. Those who are at all educated are highly educated; but of the twenty-five thousand souls who inhabit the peninsula, we suppose that not more than one thousand could distinguish the difference between the English and the Chippewa alphabet. In the two counties of Accomac and Northamptom, the idea of even a weekly newspaper was never dreamed of. The people are fond of amusements, which consist principally of dancing and card-playing parties, and the Saturday of each week is usually appropriated as a holiday. Any event which can bring together a crowd is gladly welcomed, so that court days, training days, election days, the Fourth of July, Christimas day, New Year’s day, and Thanksgiving day are among the white days of the unwritten calendar of the Accomacians. The roads of the country are all by nature very good, and the people exceedingly fond of going through the world as pleasantly as possible; so that each man who can own a horse is sure of owning a gig, and many of them are particularly unique and tottleish, something like a scow-boat in a gale of wind.

But the crowning peculiarity of this nook of the great world has reference to the custom of raising and taming wild horses. Like everything poetical connected with the habits of our people, this custom is rapidly becoming obsolete, and will soon be remembered merely as an idle and romantic tale. The very idea of having to do with wild horses excited our fancy the very moment we heard the custom alluded to; and we made every effort to collect reliable information upon it, as it existed half a century ago. As good fortune would have it, we found out an intelligent and venerable gentleman, who supplied us with many interesting particulars. The “oldest inhabitant” to whom we allude is the Rev. David Watts, of Horntown, who is now in the 82d year of his age, and the substance of his information is as follows:—