A Clear-Eyed Look at the Old South

Now that a third Reconstruction is very much underway in the South, it is more needful than ever to know and understand her history and her ways of living.  Thankfully, Mrs Elizabeth Allston Pringle, a South Carolina plantation owner and rice planter (1845-1921), has left us a valuable guidebook for doing such things in her written account of her family’s life in South Carolina, Chronicles of Chicora Wood (Atlanta, Ga.: Cherokee Publishing Company, 1950 [1976 reprint]).  As the plantation class was the ideal most in the Old South aspired to, the views of Mrs Pringle and her family may be taken more or less for those of Southerners as a whole at that time.

Since it is foremost on the minds of many right now in the debate over Confederate symbols, let us first mention slavery.  Mrs Pringle also brings up this subject early on in her narrative, saying,

Now that slavery is a thing of the past, the younger

generation in our Southland really know nothing

about the actual working of it, and they should

know to understand and see the past in its true

light. Slavery was in many ways a terrible mis-

fortune, but we know that in the ancient world it

was universal, and no doubt the great Ruler of

the world, "that great First Cause, least under-

stood," allowed it to exist for some reason of His

own.

The colony of North and South Carolina, then

one, entreated the mother country to send no

more slaves. "We want cattle, horses, sheep,

swine, we don't want Africans." But the Afri-

cans continued to come. The Northeastern States

were the first to get rid of the objectionable human

property when conscientious scruples arose as to

the owning of slaves — in some instances by free-

ing them, but in many more instances by selling

them in the Southern States. There is no doubt

that in the colder climate slave labor was not

profitable. When the Civil War came, the South-

ern planters were reduced from wealth to poverty

by the seizure of their property which they held

under the then existing laws of the country. It

is a long and tangled story — and I do not pretend

to judge of its rights and wrongs. I have no

doubt that the Great Father's time for allowing

slavery was at an end. I myself am truly thank-

ful that slavery is a thing of the past, and that I

did not have to take up the burden of the owner-

ship of the one hundred people my father left me

in his will (all mentioned by name), with a pretty

rice-plantation called Exchange two miles north

of Chicora Wood. I much prefer to have had to

make my own living, as I have had to do, except

for the short six years of my married life, than to

have had to assume the care and responsibility of

those hundred negroes, soul and body. I have

had a happy life, in spite of great sorrow and con-

tinued work and strain, but I am quite sure that

with my sensitive temperament and fierce Hugue-

not conscience I never could have had a happy

life under the burden of that ownership (pgs. 7-8).

One will notice that the institution of slavery was no great joy to the slave owners, but rather a burden that they were glad to be rid of when the day came.  There is also something else that will seem extraordinary in our day:  The slave owner knew that he was responsible for not only the bodies but also for the souls of his slaves (Mrs Pringle’s Aunt Blythe said of the slave owner’s life, ‘It is the life of a missionary, really . . .’ (p. 77)).  And he took great care to see that they were instructed in the Christian faith.  What a difference between him and the typical corporate CEO, who treats his ‘employees’ as if they were a body only, with no soul.

For their part, the slaves were none too pleased with the new order that developed after the South was defeated by the North in the War.  Mrs Pringle writes of her mother and one of her former slaves Daddy Aleck,

Yesterday she called Daddy Aleck

and told him she had not the money to pay his

wages and he would have to find another place.

He was very indignant. "Miss, I don' want no

wagis ! Aint I wuk fu yu sence I bin man grown,

aint my fadder wuk fu Maussa fadder! En my

grandfadder de same ! Aint yu feed me on de

bes' ! An' clothes me in de bes'. Aint I drive

yo', de Guvna's lady all de time Maussa bin

Guv'na, en now yu tink I gwine lef yu, en lef de

hosses. 'Tis true I got but a po' pair, jes' wat

dem Yankee lef, but I kin manige wid dem, en I

wont lef dem en yu to dat triflin niggah boy, no

ma'am, not Aleck Pa'ka, e aint mean enuf fu

dat!"

It was a distressing scene. Mamma was much

moved, but she was firm, and when Daddy Aleck

realized that she would not be persuaded, the tears

rolled down his shiny black face and I, in my cor-

ner pretending to write, ignominiously sobbed (pgs. 283-4).

There was much love and loyalty between blacks and whites in the South before the social engineers in Washington City came in 1865 and began implementing their utopian visions.  If the outsiders would leave us alone, it may well be this way again, and this time without the troublesome institution of slavery.

The peculiar institution aside, there are other characteristic Southern features to be seen in Mrs Pringle’s book.  Christianity, for instance.  (Mostly of the Protestant kind, but they were doing the best they could at the time, with little to no knowledge of the Orthodox Church.)  Time and again it is seen in the life of the Old South:  Sunday church services; daily family prayers (which included the slaves); the three-day long Christmas celebration; the reading of the Bible for Mrs Pringle’s father as he lay in bed dying, to comfort him; the work songs of the slaves; the adoration of God for the beauty of his creation. 

Closely connected with this is the appreciation of beautiful art.  Again, from Mrs Pringle:

My father's love of art, and of music, and of all

beauty was very great. It made all the difference

in the world to us, his children, growing up in the

country, so far from picture-galleries and concerts

and every kind of music. At the sale of the Bona-

parte collection of pictures in Baltimore my father

commissioned the artist, Sully, to attend the sale

and select and buy for him six pictures. Papa

was much pleased with Mr. Sully's selection.

They included:

"A Turk's Head," by Rembrandt.

"The Supper at Emmaus," by Gherardo del

Notte.

"The Holy Family," a very beautiful Gobelin

tapestry. For this picture Mr. Sully was

offered double the price he paid before it

left the gallery.

"Io," whom Juno in jealous rage had trans

formed into a white heifer. A very large

and beautiful canvas, a landscape with

the heifer ruminating in the foreground,

watched by Cerberus, while on a mountain

side Mercury sits playing on his flute, try-

ing to lull him to sleep. (I still own this

painting.)

"St. Paul on the Island of Melita," a very large

canvas representing a group of shipwrecked

mariners around a fire of sticks; in the

midst stands the figure of St. Paul just

shaking from his finger a viper, into the

fire, very dramatic.

"St. Peter in Prison," awakened by the angel

while his keepers sleep.

This is the match picture to the above and the

same size.

These works of art on the walls of our country

home awoke in us all an appreciation and recogni-

tion of fine paintings for which we can never be

sufficiently grateful.

This great love for art and his confidence in its

elevating influence is shown by his buying and

having placed in the grounds of the State capitol

a replica of Houdon's statue of Washington (pgs. 20-2).

Also related to these latter traits is the more than utilitarian heed for the creation, that it is more than just a means to making a profit, as may be seen in these stories from Mrs Pringle:

Then the family got into the rowboat

and were rowed down the Pee Dee, then

through Squirrel Creek, with vines tangled above

them and water-lilies and flags and wild roses and

scarlet lobelia all along the banks, and every now

and then the hands would stop their song a

moment to call out: "Missy, a alligator!" And

there on the reeds and marsh in some sunny cove

lay a great alligator basking in the sun, fast asleep.

As soon as the sound of the oars reached him, he

would plunge into the water, making great waves

on which the boat rose and fell in a way suggestive

of the ocean itself. The way was teeming with

life; birds of every hue and note flew from tree to

tree on the banks; here and there on top of a tall

cypress a mother hawk could be seen sitting on

her nest, looking down with anxious eye, while

around, in ever-narrowing circles, flew her fierce

mate, with shrill cries, threatening death to the

intruder. No one who has not rowed through

these creeks in the late spring or early summer

can imagine the abundance and variety of life

everywhere. On every log floating down the

stream or lodged along the shore, on such a sum-

mer day rows of little turtles can be seen fast

asleep, just as many as the log will hold, ranging

from the size of a dinner-plate to a dessert-plate,

only longer than they are broad — the darkies

call them "cooters" (they make a most delicious

soup or stew) — so many it is hard to count the

number one sees in one trip. Besides all this,

there is the less-pleasing sight of snakes on the

banks and sometimes on the tree overhanging

the water, also basking in the sun so trying to

human beings at midday (pgs. 68-9).

 . . .

One day, when my father returned from a visit

to the upper part of the State, he called me and

said: "My little Bessie, I have brought a pony to

be all your own; his name is Rabbit and he is

very gentle, so that now you need not be afraid

to ride, and you can go with Adele instead of

waiting until she comes home, for your ride."

Of course I appeared overjoyed and thanked

him with enthusiasm, but in my heart I was ter-

ribly dismayed; go to ride with Della, who went

fast all the time ! No, indeed, I could not do

that, but after Rabbit arrived, a little, dark-brown

horse with kind eyes and slow ways, I was put on

his back, weeping, every afternoon, and started

off with Della; but Typee went so fast that I

begged her to go on and leave Rabbit and me to

our own devices, which she always did, so we

ambled along comfortably, he having a very nice

pace which suited me better than a canter or a

gallop. Della took her long, rapid ride and, re

turning, picked me up, so we came home demurely

together. It was supposed that I was becoming a

great horsewoman, and I really was getting over

my fear and ceased to weep as I was mounted.

Those quiet rambles along the beautiful, smooth

beach, where nothing could hurt you, — with the

great, beautiful sea, rolling in with its dashing

waves just beside me, but limited by its great

Creator — very soon became the greatest delight

and joy to me. I loved to be alone with this

wonderful companion, and would ride along about

a mile and then turn and come slowly back, so

that Della could reach me before we got home (pgs. 120-1).

This view of the creation leads naturally to wholesome foodways, again quite far from the chemical soaked, genetically engineered ‘food’ raised on today’s industrial farms:

But milk and butter and

cream were abundant, also poultry and eggs; and

the Pedee furnished most delicious fish — bream

and Virginia perch and trout. There were figs in

abundance and also peaches, but the latter were

small and a good deal troubled with cuculio.

They were, however, very good stewed, and my

mother made quantities of delicious preserves

from them.

Around the house at Chicora grew luxuriant

orangetrees, only the bitter-sweet; but these

oranges make the nicest marmalade, so mamma

put up quantities of that for winter use. Her vege-

table-garden was always full of delicious things —

cucumbers, tomatoes, eggplant, and okra; and,

as my father killed beef and mutton every week

for use on the plantation, she had the very best

soups and steaks; and there were always wild

ducks to be had. Also, after August 1, there was

venison in the house, for my father was devoted

to deer-hunting. At the time the negroes under-

stood preserving the venison in the hottest weather

by exposing it to the broiling sun. I do not know

what else they did, for it is now a lost art; but it

was called "jerked venison" and was a delicious

breakfast dish, when shaved very thin and broiled.

They also preserved fish in the same way — called

"corned fish" — it was a great breakfast dish

broiled. Besides all this, about the end of August

the rice-birds began to swarm over the rice, suck-

ing out all the grain when in the milk stage. This

necessitated the putting out of bird-minders in

great numbers, who shot the little birds as they

rose in clouds from the rice at the least noise.

These rice-birds are the most delicious morsels;

smaller than any other bird that is used for food,

I think, so that a man with a good appetite can

eat a dozen, and I, myself, have eaten six. When

they go out at the end of harvest, another delicious

little bird comes in, called locally a coot, but really

the rail or soarer of Maryland. All these things

made living easy and abundant, for they came in

great quantities (pgs. 88-90).

The War, as one might expect, receives its share of attention, especially Sherman’s March.  The death and maiming of family and friends; the deprivation of food and clothing (Mrs Pringle recounts how she and her fellow classmates at the boarding school in Charleston subsisted on ‘very dry corn-dodgers’ and water for quite some time during the War (p. 178)); the vile behavior of the Yankee soldiers - their wanton killing of animals and their breaking to pieces of anything of value that could not be stolen - Mrs Pringle recounts all this and more.    

And yet with all this hardship, there is nevertheless the characteristic Southern good humor:

Our kind and generous neighbor, Mrs. Wm.

Evans, was a very, very thin, tall woman, but

when I ran over to see her during these days of

anxiety and she came out into the piazza to meet

me, I could not believe my eyes. She seemed to

be an enormously stout woman ! I looked so

startled that she said:

"My dear Bessie, they say these brutes take

everything but what you have on and burn it be-

fore your eyes. So I have bags of supplies, rice

and wheat flour and sugar and what little coffee

we had, hung round my waist, and then I have on

all the clothes I can possibly stand, three dresses

for one item." And then we both laughed until

we nearly fell from exhaustion. And when I ran

home and told mamma we had another great laugh,

and oh, it was such a mercy to have a good hearty

laugh in those days of gloom and anxiety (pgs. 224-5).

In that world, when neighbors still knew one another, before the collapse of the authority of the Western churches and the family, the rise of Leviathan government, and the atomization of men and women, the leading men in the neighborhood took care of many of the ‘social services’ now dispensed by various faceless and nameless bureaucrats.  Mr Robert Allston, for ensample, Mrs Pringle’s father, organized work crews to maintain the roads in his region; sought to educate the promising children of the poor farmers; and gave to the sick and needy in his family, even those quite a distance from him (like his cousin Washington Allston in New York).

All was not perfect, of course.  Death and disease from the swampy climate and lack of medical knowledge were still common (though now we have gone too far in the opposite direction, so that we are ruled by a scientific, technocratic elite); sometimes the slaves grumbled over their work; and some of the farmers of the backwoods barely eeked out a living for themselves and their families.

Like the Old Souð whose life it tells, Mrs Pringle’s book is not perfect, either.  It wanes near the end, being mostly journal entries from a younger, more childish Elizabeth Allston Pringle.  Yet throughout it burns with a light-giving fire of which most modern history books are bereft.

Mrs Pringle opens her book by tracing the lineage of her forefathers and foremothers, the Old English Allstons and the French Petigrus and Giberts, and recounting some of the important events from their lives.  Such self-sacrificing reverence for one’s ancient forebears, rather than a selfish sentimentalism for one’s nearest kin only, is also a mark distinctive of the Old South.  We ought also to keep faith with our Southern ancestors in this ascetic spirit.  Studying books like Mrs Pringle’s Chronicles of Chicora Wood is one way to do that. 

Read this book (only a fraction of its goodness has been told here), and so honor your Southern fathers and mothers.  Keep their good traditions alive, and pass them on to your children and to your children’s children, that it may go well with us in the land the Lord our God hath given us.  For they were good people who built well:  Their society was not perfect, but it was at least better than the money-worshipping, unbeweren (dehumanizing) wasteland that has arisen in so much of the South since the Confederacy’s downfall.