Underground Chattanooga: Alabama

Underground Chattanooga: Alabama: I found this in an old book at the library today (I didn't write it). It's one of the prettiest but most disturbing things I've read in a lo...

Alabama

I found this in an old book at the library today (I didn't write it). It's one of the prettiest but most disturbing things I've read in a long time--I had to copy it out and bring it home. The book is in their special collections, I can't check it out but I'll go back and read it all when I have the time. The book is called A Blockaded Family by someone named Parthenia Hague.

Often have we sat on the collonade of that lovely Alabama home and wondered if any part of the world could be more beautiful. We would number the stars at night as they peeped forth one by one, in the clear blue vault above, until they became innumerable, and then the full moon would deluge the whole scene with its shining flood of light. Or perhaps it would be in the deepening twilight, when the heavens were unrelieved by moon or star, that the soul would be touched, as the drowsy hum of nature's little wildwood insects came stealing gently on the ear. Not infrequently the mocking-birds would trill their varied notes, or we would hear the faint tinkle of bells as “the lowing” herds wound “slowly o'er the lea.” In the distance the negro plowmen were returning homeward chanting their “corn song.” Ah! but those old “corn songs” had melody then! They lent enchantment to all the surroundings. Even yet they call from out the misty shadows of the past a host of memories, when they fall upon ears that were wont to listen to their quaint refrain in days gone by.

Often Uncle Ben, on the collonade or in the hall, would while off on the violin that his master ad given him pleasing plantation melodies, accompanying his performance with his rude singing. He would seem almost transported with ecstasy, as he used to stand with head thrown back, eyes shut, and foot vigorously keeping time; and often as he drew forth his artless strains a dozen or more negroes, old and young, would be dancing in the wite sandy yard, as merrily as “birds without barn or storehouse.”

Sometimes, in the solemn hush of the closing Sabbath eve in the country, sweet strains of old song would float out upon the air from the negroes' quarter. Many large planters had preachers employed to teach and preach regularly to the slaves. One Sabbath night I yet remember above all the others. Our day of gloom was drawing on, we could no longer close our eyes to the fact that our cause was drooping; our soldiers were meeting with reverses on all sides, hope was only faintly glimmering. Cast down and disquieted as we were that night, the services at the negro church made a deep impression upon our minds. They sang an old time song, the refrain of which we could just catch. When they began the first verse,—

Where, oh where is the good old Daniel?

Where, oh where is the good old Daniel?

Who was cast in the lion's den;

Safe now in the promised land.

we could almost imagine they were on wing for “the promised land,” as they seemed to throw all the passion of their souls into the refrain, and fancy would almost hear the rustle of wings, as the deep swelling anthem rolled forth. Again it would be,—

Where, oh where is the good Elijah?

Where, ho where is the good Elijah?

Who went up in a chariot of fire;

Safe now in the promised land.

And the chorus,—

By and by we'll go home to meet him,

would peal forth again in loud-shouting strains. I hushed my breath to hear the mellow strains of that song, and seemed to see the mantle of our lost cause descending.