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[539] raised very much as the white family was raised. They were raised in the family, and, of course, the intelligence of the family extended, in some measure, to the negroes.

These house servants considered themselves to “belong to de family,” and no people in the world have such an acute aristocratic pride as the negroes. The good family slaves looked down with ineffable contempt upon “de pore white trash,” and they do so still. A great part of the lordly airs which negro legislators have put on of late years proceeds from their contempt for the carpet-baggers, whom they consider as being of the “trash” species. Wade Hampton's old body-servant was senator from Columbia, South Carolina, and used to make Tim Hurley stand about, and treated Chamberlain, and Moses, and Scott with huge disdain; but he touches his hat to his old master to this day, and all the former slave negroes have the same sort of recognition for “de quality,” under no matter what adverse circumstance, that the Irish peasantry have for their lineal descendants of the O'Brien's and the O'Shaughnessey's who used to rule over them with rods of iron.

Strong friendships and the utmost familiarity of personal relationship grew out of this life-long intercourse between the house servants and their masters; and a great many body-servants not only followed their masters to the field, and devoted themselves to their service in the tenderest way, but fought, bled, and died for them. There are some touching instances of this intercourse and this devotion which are worth relating. When General Joseph E. Johnston was at Jackson, at the Lamar House, in the full tide of a brilliant reception, an old negro woman, in a coarse sunbonnet, with a cotton umbrella under her arm, rapped at the door, and asked: “Is dis Mr. Johnston's room?” “Yes.” “Mr. Joe Johnston's room?” “Yes.” “I wants to see him, den ;” and in marched the old lady, going up to the distinguished soldier, and laying her hand familiarly upon his epauleted shoulder. Johnston turned, a look of surprise and gladness overspread his face, he took both the bony, bird-claw hands warmly in his own, and exclaimed: “Why, aunt Judy Paxton!” The old negress scanned his features with tears in her eyes, and at last said, in a querulous treble, made touching with undisguised emotion: “Mister Joe, you is gittin‘ old.” Then, patting his hand, the old nurse turned half apologetically to the assemblage, and said: “Dis here's my own boy. Many's de time I's toted you in dese yere arms; didn't I, honey?” Such a scene would be strange elsewhere, but it was not so in the South. The artless sense of equality grew out of the strongest sort of affectionate regard.

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