Chapter IV: Part 4

"_And what is this for?_" she flung out the question with an imperious challenge, but De Soto vouchsafed no answer, and the army took up its march with the little band of Indian women safely guarded at the rear. Cofachiqui soon found out why she had been carried on the expedition, for De Soto obliged her to make use of her influence in controlling the Indians along his line of march, so that his army not only was not attacked, on account of the protecting presence of the gracious ruler for whom her people had such a deep affection, but also at her command they supplied De Soto with guides, as well as with men to carry baggage and provisions, while travelling through her territory.

For a week, another and still a third, Cofachiqui was dragged in the vanguard of the Spanish army, a prisoner, and with the passing of each day in captivity to these traitorous white men on whom she had formerly looked with such reverence, her heart grew faint with apprehension, deep shadows came beneath her lustrous eyes, and there was never a sound of her silvery laughter as of old.

But these were the only visible signs of the effect of her subjection. To the Spaniards she was still courageous, calm and dignified, whatever she may have felt.

Then came a wild night of storm in the forest, torrents of rain and mighty wind that roared and thundered through the great trees, shaking them as if they had been saplings. While the tempest was at its height Cofachiqui, by a signal known only to her tribe, summoned one of her faithful women to her side,--by signs told her what she had to tell,--then the woman crept stealthily back to her forest bed, and there was no sound in the encampment but the roar of the wind and rain.

The next day dawned cloudless, and at an early hour all the Spaniards were busily at work, repairing the severe damage done by the storm. In replacing a tent a woman's deft hand was needed, and Cofachiqui's name echoed through the forest. No answer came, and an impatient cavalier himself ran to summon her. At the door of her tent he stood as if turned to marble. Cofachiqui was not there! Not a bead, an ornament, an article of clothing, was to be found! No, nor the casket of wonderful pearls entrusted to her care by De Soto. _La Sanora_, queen of many provinces, lady of the land she had ruled over so wisely and so well, had fled, and all her women with her!

Never again, despite De Soto's frenzied and persistent search, despite the added efforts of the united Spanish army, did they discover any trace of the brave, beautiful young girl who had received such treacherous treatment in return for her gracious hospitality.

Clever Cofachiqui! Where she fled, or how she fled, or when she fled, will always be a mystery, but her name has come down to us on the pages of historic legend, not as fairy-tale but as fact, and she stands with the lime-light of ages thrown on her clear-cut character as a girl sweet, brave and loyal--the most precious relic bequeathed to the New World by De Soto and his cavaliers.

JENNY LIND:

The Swedish Nightingale

IN the City of Stockholm there is one street leading up to the Church of St. Jacob, on which in years gone by there was a constant succession of pedestrians and vehicles. In fact in 1830, it was one of the most lively streets in the city, and often a passer would stop to look up at a window where every day a little girl sat, holding a big cat decorated with a blue ribbon. To this pet the child sang constantly, sang bits of operas or popular airs which she had heard, and the childish voice was so clear and sweet and true even in very high notes, that it attracted quite a crowd of listeners, and it became a regular habit with many persons to pause for a moment and listen to the song poured out for the benefit of pussy with the blue bow!

Among those who saw the pretty picture and heard the song was the maid of a Mademoiselle Lundberg, a dancer at the Royal Opera House. She was told such an ecstatic story of the child's beautiful voice, that she became deeply interested, and having found out that the little singer's name was Jenny Lind wrote a note asking the child's mother, Fru Lind, to bring Jenny to her home that she might hear her sing.

Fru Lind acceded to the request and when she took Jenny to pay the promised visit, and the child's voice had been tried, Mademoiselle Lundberg clasped her hands in rapture, exclaiming:

"She is a genius. You must have her educated for the stage."

The words meant nothing to Jenny, but they struck terror to the heart of the mother, to whose old-fashioned notions the stage was another name for ruin. In vain the actress pleaded that it would be a sin to allow such talent to be wasted,--still Fru Lind shook her head, and the actress diplomatically argued no more, but by eager questions learned the history of Jenny's family.

Being the wife of an amiable and good-natured man who was unable to support his family, Fru Lind was obliged to keep a small school in Stockholm to eke out expenses, and as she had not time to take care of Jenny as well as teach, the child had for three years been boarded out with a church organist's family not far from the city, but had finally been brought back, to become a pupil in her mother's school, being cared for mainly by her grandmother, to whom Jenny was devotedly attached. All this Mademoiselle Lundberg learned from answers to her questions, and seeing her keen interest, the mother continued her narrative, "It was my mother who first noticed Jenny's voice," she said. "Some street musicians had been playing in front of the house and the child must have heard them and listened closely, for as soon as they were gone, she went to the piano and played and sang the air she had heard. My mother in the next room, hearing the music, thought Jenny's half sister was at the piano, and called out, 'Amalia, is that you?' Jenny, evidently fearing she had done something to be punished for, crept under the piano, where my mother found her and pulling her out, exclaimed, 'Why, child, was that _you_?'" Jenny said that it was, and as soon as Fru Lind came in, the grandmother gleefully told her daughter the incident, adding, "Mark my words, that child will bring you help," and the mother, struggling so hard to make ends meet, devoutly hoped that the prediction might come true.

Soon after that as her school did not pay, Fru Lind became a governess, and the grandmother went to the Widows' Home, taking Jenny with her. The child, who was too young to realise what such a step meant, was as happy as could be there; as she said afterwards, "I sang with every step I took, and with every jump my feet made," and when she was not jumping or stepping, she sat in the window singing to her big pet pussy cat. All this the mother told Mademoiselle Lundberg, who again begged that Jenny at least be taught to sing correctly, to which Fru Lind agreed, and the actress at once wrote a letter of introduction to Herr Croelius, the court Secretary, and singing master at the Royal Theatre, and gave it to Fru Lind. Off went mother and daughter to present it, but when they reached the Opera House and were about to mount its steps, Fru Lind shook her head, and turned back--she could not launch her child on any such career.

But here Jenny became insistent, for from all the conversation she had heard between her mother and the actress, she had gathered that mounting those steps would mean something new and interesting, and at last she had her way. They sought and found the studio of Croelius, and Jenny sang for him a bit from one of Winter's operas, and the teacher, deeply moved by the purity and strength of the child's voice, at once set a date for her first lesson with him.

After only a few lessons, Croelius became so proud of his pupil that he took her to sing for Count Puecke, manager of the Court Theatre, hoping that this powerful man might be so impressed with the child's voice that he would do something to push her forward quickly into public notice. One can picture the interview between Count Puecke, businesslike and abrupt, and little Jenny, then plainly dressed and awkward, far from pretty, and too bashful even to lift her eyes to meet the keen glance of the Count. Looking coldly from her to Croelius, the Count asked:

"How old is she?"

"Nine years old," answered Croelius.

"Nine!" echoed the Count. "Why, this is not a nursery. It is the king's theatre."

Then with another glance at Jenny he asked coldly, "What should we do with such an ugly creature? See what feet she has, and then her face! She will never be presentable. Certainly we can't take such a scarecrow."

Croelius, indignant at such brutality, put a protecting arm around the girl and said proudly, "If you will not take her, I, poor as I am, will myself have her educated for the stage," and turning, was about to leave the room when the Count commanded him to remain and let him hear what the child could do.

Trembling with fear of the result, Jenny sang the simplest song she knew, and when she finished the Count was silent, for the lovely quality of the voice he had just heard, had deeply moved him. Rising, he shook hands with both teacher and pupil, and as quick in his generosity as in his brusqueness, he at once announced that she was to be admitted into the theatrical school connected with the Royal Theatre, and to be placed under the special instruction of the operatic director, Herr Berg, and his assistant, the Swedish composer, Lindblad.

Small wonder that Jenny left the building in a flutter of excitement, or that Croelius was as beaming now as he had been depressed before, and he lost no time in seeing that his little pupil was placed according to the instructions of the great Count Puecke.

It was the custom of the Royal Theatre to board its pupils out, and as Jenny's mother was no longer a governess and had returned to Stockholm, the girl lived at home, together with several other pupils of the Royal Theatre, and for two years worked so hard and accomplished such wonders in the development of her voice that she became known as a musical prodigy.

During the year she entered the Royal Theatre she acted in a play called "The Polish Mine," and the next year in another, and the press spoke of her acting as showing fire and feeling far beyond her years. She also sang in concerts, in that way helping to pay for her board and clothes.

At the theatre she was taught all branches necessary to her profession, and not only did she have an exquisite voice, but whatever role she undertook was conceived with bold originality of style. Then when a golden future of triumph seemed stretching out before her, came a crushing disaster. All of a sudden her glorious voice was gone!

Whatever may have been the cause, the fact remained, and Jenny at twelve showed her fineness of character by the way she faced the cruel disappointment, and continued with her instrumental work, and with such exercises as were fitted to the remnant of voice she still possessed. Faithfully, persistently, she worked for four long years, only hoping now for smaller rewards instead of the great operatic triumph which had been her earlier ambition, trying to achieve results as conscientiously as before.

Herr Berg was supervising a grand concert to be given at the Court Theatre, and was in a dilemma. The fourth act of _Robert le Diable_ was to be given, but all his singers refused to take the part of Alice, because it included only one solo. The Herr Direktor was distracted, but finally thought of his unlucky pupil, Jenny Lind, whose voice could be trusted in such a minor part, and calling her to his room, he offered her the part. Without demur she accepted it, and practised feverishly, but on the night of the performance she was so nervous for fear her voice would fail, that those near the stage could see her slender form tremble with fright and excitement. Perhaps the tension and the passion with which she was labouring wrought the miracle. At all events, she sang the aria of her part with such wonderful beauty and richness of tone that the audience were beside themselves with admiration. Jenny's voice had come out fuller, finer than ever! The recently despised young singer became instantly the heroine of the hour, while Herr Berg, watching behind the scenes, was spell-bound with surprise and joy.

The next day he called her to his room and offered her the role of Agatha in Weber's _Der Freischutz_.

Ever since Jenny first began to study and to hear operatic music, this role had been in secret her highest ambition, and one can picture her standing before the Direktor, her blue eyes flashing with excitement, her mobile face expressing a dozen varying degrees of joy while her slender girlish figure looked almost too slight for the task, as she joyfully accepted the responsibility.

At once she began rehearsing, and one day when she put forth every effort to express emotion in the way her dramatic teacher wished, the effort was met with silence.

"Am I then so incapable," she thought. Then glancing at her teacher she saw tears in the eyes of the older woman, who exclaimed:

"My child, I have nothing to teach you--do as nature tells you,"--and Jenny knew that her supreme effort had not been wasted.

It is said that she studied the part of Agatha with all the intensity of her enthusiastic nature and at the last rehearsal sang with such intense feeling and fire that the orchestra, to a man, laid down their instruments and applauded loudly. The next day, before the performance, she was very nervous and worried, but the moment she appeared on the stage every bit of apprehension vanished, and as Fredrika Bremer said, "She was fresh, bright and serene as a morning in May, peculiarly graceful and lovely in her whole appearance. She seemed to move, speak and sing without effort or art. Her singing was distinguished especially by its purity and the power of soul which seemed to swell in her tones." Jenny herself said afterwards, "I got up that morning one creature. I went to bed another creature. I had found my power."

During her entire after life she kept that anniversary, the seventh of March, in grateful remembrance of her triumph, as a sort of second birthday.

For the next year and a half she worked indefatigably, and her success as an operatic singer seemed assured; she became the star of the Stockholm opera, as well as the most popular singer in Sweden, and was called the "Swedish Nightingale."

After singing without rest for months, she was able to take a short holiday in the summer of 1839, and Fru Lind, who accompanied her, wrote back to her husband, "Our Jenny recruits herself daily, now in the hay-stacks, now on the sea, or in the swing, in perfect tranquillity, while the town people are said to be longing for her concert, and greatly wondering when it will come off. Once or twice she has been singing the divine air of Isabella from _Robert le Diable_. Nearly everybody was crying. One lady actually went into hysterics from sheer rapture. Yes, she captivates all, all! It is a great happiness to be a mother under such conditions!"

Poor Fru Lind was at last receiving her compensation for the hardships of her life!

But Jenny's trials were not yet over. Her voice, though pure and clear, was wanting in flexibility, and she could not easily hold a tone or sing even a slight cadence. These defects she worked constantly to overcome, but saw that she was not thrilling her audiences as before, and yet she was conscious of possessing a God-given power of which she must make the most. She felt sure that she needed teaching of a kind not to be gained in Sweden. In Paris was Manuel Garcia, the greatest singing teacher in the world, and to him she felt she must now go. But this could only be achieved by her own effort, as the trip and the teaching would necessitate spending a large sum of money.

At once, before her star had grown any less dim, the plucky girl persuaded her father to go with her on a concert tour of cities in Norway and Sweden. By this she earned the necessary amount, but the trip was very exhausting, including as it did, so much travelling, in all kinds of weather, and after singing twenty-three times in _Lucia_, fourteen times in _Robert le Diable_, nine times in _Freischutz_, seven times in _Norma_, not to mention other plays and concerts, also appearing for the four hundred and forty-seventh time at the Royal Theatre, where she had first played in the _Polish Mine_, as a child of ten, she was pretty well tired out. Two weeks later, however, she went to Paris and called on the great singing teacher, Signor Garcia. The opera she sang was _Lucia_, and she broke down before she was half way through the part, to her intense mortification. The great teacher, approaching the trembling girl, put a hand on her shoulder, saying brusquely, "It would be useless to teach you, Mademoiselle. You have no voice left. You are worn out. I advise you not to sing a note for six months. At the end of that time come to me and I will see what I can do for you."

Poor Jenny! The words were a death knell to her, and she said afterwards that what she suffered in that moment was beyond all the other agony of her life.

But it was not like her to give way even under such a blow as this. Leaving the great teacher she went to a quiet spot and spent the six months of enforced rest studying French, and at the end of the time went back to Garcia, who to her unspeakable relief said at once, "It is better, far better! I have now something to work on. I will give you two lessons a week!"

In rapture Jenny flew home that day, and in the following months practised scales and exercises, four hours daily, gaining a great deal from Garcia's method, but always conscious that her real power came from another source, as she said years later, "The greater part of what I can do in my art, I have myself acquired by incredible labour, in spite of astonishing difficulties. By Garcia alone have I been taught some few important things. God had so plainly written within me what I had to study; my ideal was and is so high that I could find no mortal who could in the least degree satisfy my demands. Therefore I sing after no one's methods, only as far as I am able, after that of the birds, for their Master was the only one who came up to my demands for truth, clearness, and expression."

After a year under Garcia's tuition, Jenny went back to the Stockholm Theatre, where she met Myerbeer, the composer, who at once declared her voice was "one of the finest pearls in the world's chaplet of song," and immediately arranged to hear her under conditions which would put her voice to a severe test. He arranged a full orchestral rehearsal and Jenny sang in the salon of the Grand Opera, the three great scenes from _Robert le Diable_, _Norma_ and _Der Freischutz_ so successfully that the young singer returned to her native city a new creature, at last assured of her genius and of her ability to use it rightly, and thrilled with joy at the knowledge of her power.

At her first appearance in _Robert le Diable_, the welcome was almost a frenzy of enthusiasm as her clear rich voice rang out. At once she received an offer from a Danish manager, but dreaded to accept it, saying, "Everybody in my native land is so kind. I fear if I made my appearance in Copenhagen, I should be hissed. I dare not venture it."

Her objection, however, was overruled. She went to Copenhagen and sang Alice in _Robert le Diable_ so marvellously that the whole city was in a state of rapture, and it is said the youthful, fresh voice forced itself into every heart. At a later concert she sang Swedish songs and in her manner of singing them there was something so peculiar, so bewitching that the audience were swayed by intense emotion, the young singer was at once so feminine and so great a genius. The Danish students for the first time in their history, gave a serenade in her honour, torches blazed around the villa where the serenade was sung, and Jenny responded to it by singing some of her Swedish songs, for which she was famous, then, overcome with emotion, she hurried to a dark room where no one could see the tears with which her eyes were filled, and exclaimed modestly, "Yes, yes, I will exert myself. I will endeavour. I will be better qualified than I now am when I again come to Copenhagen!"

The wonderful courage and perseverance of Jenny's girlhood in the face of almost insuperable obstacles was now rewarded. She was the great artist of Sweden, never again to be taken from the pedestal on which she was placed by an adoring public, both for her wonderful singing and for her lovely character.

Once on a disengaged night, she gave a benefit performance for unfortunate children, and when informed of the large sum raised by it, exclaimed, "How beautiful that I can sing so!" She felt that both the voice and the money which poured in now in a golden flood, were God-given responsibilities which she assumed with all the earnestness of her sweet, religious nature, and her first pleasure was to buy a little home in the country for her mother and father.

As we leave her on the threshold of mature womanhood, serene in her poise of body and spirit, with a noble purpose and a wonderful gift, we can but feel that Jenny Lind, the girl, was responsible for the marvellous achievements of the great artist of later years, who believed as she said, that "to develop every talent, however small, and use it to the fullest extent possible, is the duty of every human being. Indolence makes thousands of mediocre lives."

The verses written of her by Topelius of Finland sum up the feeling of those who knew her in her girlhood:

"I saw thee once, so young and fair
In thy sweet spring-tide, long ago,
A myrtle wreath was in thy hair
And at thy breast a rose did blow.

"Poor was thy purse, yet gold thy gift,
All music's golden boons were thine,
And yet, through all the wealth of art
It was thy soul which sang to mine.

"Yea, sang as no one else has sung
So subtly skilled, so simply good,
So brilliant! yet as pure and true
As birds that warble in the wood."

ELIZA LUCAS:

A Girl Planter of the 15th Century

IN our day any young woman who shows keen interest in civic, agricultural, or social reforms is loudly applauded and spoken of as a New Woman, a product of the twentieth century, but there is a small volume of letters written by a girl of two centuries ago, which disproves this, and it is worthy of perusal and applause because of what she accomplished for what was then the province of South Carolina, while she was still in her teens.

Lieutenant-Colonel Lucas, an officer in the English army stationed at the West Indian island of Antigua, left the island in 1638 for South Carolina, taking with him his delicate wife, in search of a climate which would be of benefit to her, and with them went their two daughters, Polly and Eliza, who up to that time had been in London with a family friend, Mrs. Boddicott, being educated, only returning to the island for their vacations. Their brothers, Tom and George, were also in London at school, where they remained while Colonel and Mrs. Lucas with the two girls went to the new locality. So delighted with it was the Colonel that he at once bought land, laid out plantations and was hoping to settle down and begin experiments in planting crops in the strange soil and climate, when war broke out between England and Spain and the Colonel received orders to hasten back to his West Indian post, leaving his family alone in their new home. Mrs. Lucas was entirely too frail to burden with plantation cares, so in his hurried leave-taking the Colonel entrusted all his affairs to Eliza, in whose practical common sense and business ability he seems to have placed implicit reliance, and the trust was well merited.

Eliza was only sixteen years old then, but she seems to have assumed the unusual amount of responsibility so unexpectedly thrust upon her with calm assurance that she could carry it, and we find her general manager of the home and the plantation when the series of letters begin which gives such a vivid glimpse of life at that time, and also some idea of the character of the girl on whose slender shoulders rested such a heavy burden.

First, let us look for a moment at the background to our picture. The Lucas plantation was on the Wappoo, a salt creek connecting the Ashley river with another creek and separated from the ocean only by two long sandy islands. Although that part of the country was very flat, it was extremely pretty, and being on a salt creek, sheltered from the north winds, the climate was very mild. Trees grew to a great size, land was very fertile, all growth hardy and luxuriant, and it was no wonder that even in his short stay Colonel Lucas had become deeply interested in discovering what crops could be most profitably raised there for export. At that time rice was the one agricultural product, the others being lumber, skins and naval stores.

Eliza, inheriting her father's love of farming, and having heard many conversations on the subject, determined secretly after her father had gone, to try some experiments herself and became much interested in trying to raise indigo and ginger, with what results her letters disclose. Little farmer that she was, her love of agriculture and of nature then and always amounted to almost a passion, as it is easy to see. Separated as she was from all her old friends, letters were a vital medium of expressing to them what her new life held of work and play, and the fragments which we can reprint here give a clear idea, not only of the times in which she lived, but of Mistress Eliza herself.

To her brother George she writes, telling of the new country and life in this fashion:--

I am now set down my Dear Brother to obey your
commands, and give you a short discription of the
part of the world which I now inhabit. So.
Carolina then, is a large and Extensive Country
near the Sea. Most of the settled parts of it is
upon a flat--the soil near Charles Town Sandy, but
farther distant clay and swamp land. It abounds
with fine navigable rivers and great quantities of
fine timber. The country at great distance, that
is to say about a hundred or a hundred and fifty
miles from Charles Town, very hilly. The soil in
general very fertile, and there is very few
European or American fruits or grain but what grow
here. The country abounds with wild fowl, Venison
and fish, Beaf, veal and mutton are here in much
greater perfection than in the Islands, tho' not
equal to that in England--but their pork exceeds
the wild, and indeed all the poultry is exceeding
good, and peaches, Nectrins and mellons of all
sorts extremely good, fine and in profusion, and
their Oranges exceed any I ever tasted in the West
Indies or from Spain or Portugal.

The people in general--hospitable and honest, and
the better sort and to these a polite gentile
behaviour. The poorer sort are the most indolent
people in the world or they could never be
wretched in so plentiful a country as this. The
winters here are very fine and pleasant, but four
months in the year is extremely disagreeable,
excessive hot, much thunder and lightening and
muskatoes and sand flies in abundance.

C^s Town, the Metropolis is a neat, pretty
place. The streets and houses regularly built, the
ladies and gentlemen gay in their dress, upon the
whole you will find as many agreeable people of
both sexes for the size of the place as almost
anywhere. St. Phillips church in C^s Town is a
very elegant one, and much frequented and the
generality of people of a religious turn of mind.

I began in haste and have observed no method or I
should have told you before I came to summer, that
we have a charming spring in this country,
especially for those who travel through the
country, for the scent of the young mirtle and
yellow Jessamin with Which the woods abound is
delightful. . . .

Yours most affectionately,
E. LUCAS.

With its quaint wording and abbreviations and an occasional slip in spelling, how fragrant the whole letter is of out door life, how intelligent its every phrase is, and how well the little farmer knows her subjects!

Again to Mrs. Boddicott she wrote:

_Dear Madam_:--

I flatter myself it will be a satisfaction to you
to hear that I like this part of the world, as my
lott has fallen here, which I really do. I prefer
England to it 'tis true, but I think Carolina
greatly preferable to the West Indies, and was my
Papa here I should be very happy. We have a very
good acquaintance from whom we have received much
friendship and Civility. . . .

My Papa and Mama's great indulgence to mee leaves
it to mee to chuse our place of residence either
in town or country, but I think it more prudent as
well as most agreeable to my Mama and selfe to be
in the Country during my father's absence. Wee are
17 mile by land, and 6 by water from Charles Town
where wee have about 6 agreeable families around
us with whom wee live in great harmony. I have a
little library well furnished (for My Papa has
left mee most of his books) in w^{ch} I spend part
of my time. My Musick and the Garden w^{ch} I am
very fond of take up the rest that is not imployed
in business, of w^{ch} my father has left mee a
pretty good share, and indeed 'Twas unavoidable,
as my Mama's bad state of health prevents her
going thro' any fatigue.

I have the business of 3 plantations to transact,
w^{ch} requires much writing and more business and
fatigue of other sorts than you can imagine, but
lest you should imagine it too burthensome to a
girl at my early time of life, give mee leave to
assure you I think myself happy that I can be
useful to so good a father. By rising very early I
find I can go through with much business, but lest
you should think I shall be quite moaped with this
way of life, I am to inform you there is two
worthy Ladies in C^{rs} Town, Mrs. Pinckney and
Mrs. Cleland who are partial enough to mee to wish
to have mee with them, and insist upon my making
their houses my home when in Town, and press mee
to relax a little much oftner than 'tis in my
power to accept of their obliging intreaties, but
I am sometimes with one or the other for three
weeks or a monthe at a time, and then enjoy all
the pleasures C^{rs} Town affords. But nothing
gives mee more than subscribing myself

D^r Madam
Y^r most affectionet
and most obliged
hum^{ble} Ser^{vt}
ELIZA LUCAS.

Pray remember me in
the best manner to my
worthy friend M^r Boddicott.
To my good friend Mrs. Boddicott.
May ye 2^{ond}.

What greater proof is needed that Eliza's plantation life was no easy matter than "I have the business of three plantations to transact, w^{ch} requires much writing and more business and fatigue of other sorts than you can imagine." Then comes the other side of the picture. "I am sometimes with one or the other (Mrs. Pinckney or Mrs. Leland) for three weeks or a month at a time and then enjoy all the pleasures C^{rs} Town affords." Truly a versatile young person, this Eliza of long ago!

That her planting was no holiday business is shown by a memorandum of July 1739:

"I wrote my father a very long letter on his
plantation affairs . . . on the pains I had taken to
bring the Indigo, Ginger, Cotton, Lucern, and
Cassada to perfection, and had greater hopes from
the Indigo--if I could have the seed earlier the
next year from the West Indies,--than any of ye
rest of y^e things I had tryd, . . . also concerning
pitch and tarr and lime and other plantation
affairs."

As has been said before, Eliza's ambition was to follow out her father's plan, to discover some crop which could be raised successfully as a staple export, and the determination and perseverance with which she set out to accomplish the task, shows that she was made of no ordinary stuff, even at sixteen, when the majority of girls were occupied with far different activity and diversions. Indigo seems to have been the crop most likely to succeed, and to that Eliza turned her attention with the intensity of purpose which marked all her actions. It was no easy achievement to cultivate indigo, as it required very careful preparation of the soil, much attention during its growth, and a long and critical process to prepare it for the market. After a series of experiments, she reported to her father:

I wrote you in a former letter we had a fine crop
of Indigo seed upon the ground and since informed
you the frost took it before it was dry. I picked
out the best of it and had it planted but there is
not more than a hundred bushes of it come up,
w^{ch} proves the more unlucky, as you have sent a
man to make it. I make no doubt Indigo will prove
a very valueable commodity in time, if we could
have the seed from the east Indies time enough to
plant the latter end of March, that the seed might
be dry enough to gather before our frost. I am
sorry we lost this season we can do nothing
towards it now but make the works ready for next
year.

The death of my Grandmamma was as you imagine very
shocking and grevious to my Mama, but I hope the
consideration of the miserys that attend so
advanced an age will help time to wear it off. I
am very much obliged to you for the present you
were so good to send me of the fifty pound bill of
Exchange w^{ch} I duely received. Mama tenders you
her affections and polly joyns in duty with

My dear Papa
Your ob^t and ever Devoted Daughter,
_E. Lucas_.

In the following letters we find her showing a lively interest in all that concerns her father, her brothers, her "cousens" and neighbours, and also a normally healthy liking for amusement, linked with her passionate love of nature and a milder interest in pretty clothes--and a still milder form of interest in love affairs!

Hard indeed it is in this day of quick delivery to realize the inconveniences of daily life in Eliza's time, and it evokes a smile to hear that if she or one of the family had neuralgia, it was necessary to write an account of the symptoms to Mrs. Boddicott in November, followed by a letter of thanks to her for her promptness, because of which "the meddicines will arrive by May, and tis allways worse in hott weather!" Think of waiting six months for a dose of medicine!

Eliza has already mentioned two neighbours of whom she had become very fond, and between her and Miss Pinckney's niece, a Miss Bartlett, who lived with Mrs. Pinckney either in her home in Charles Town, or at their country seat five miles out of town, a flourishing correspondence sprang up, and the following are some of Eliza's letters to her friend:

Jan^r 14th, 1741/2.

_Dear Miss Bartlett:_:--

'Tis with pleasure I commence a Correspondence
w^{ch} you promise to continue tho' I fear I shall
often want matter to soport an Epistolary
Intercourse in this solotary retirement--;
however, you shall see my inclination, for rather
than not scribble, you shall know both my waking
and sleeping dreams, as well as how the spring
comes on, when the trees bud, and inanimate nature
grows gay to chear the rational mind with delight;
and devout gratitude to the great Author of all;
when my little darling that sweet harmonist the
mocking bird, begins to sing.

Our best respects wait on Col^l. Pinckney and
lady, and believe me to be dear Miss Bartlett

Your most obed^t Serv^t
E. LUCAS.

Again she writes in a tone of quaint sarcasm:

_Dear Miss Bartlett_:--

An old lady in our Neighbourhood is often
querreling with me for rising so early as 5
o'Clock in the morning, and is in great pain for
me least it should spoil my marriage, for she says
it will make me look old long before I am so; in
this however I believe she is mistaken, for what
ever contributes to health and pleasure of mind
must also contribute to good looks; but admitting
what she says, I reason with her thus. If I should
look older by this practise, I really am so; for
the longer time we are awake the longer time we
live, sleep is so much the Emblem of death, that I
think it may be rather called breathing than
living, thus then I have the advantage of the
sleepers in point of long life, so I beg you will
not be frighted by such sort of apprehensions as
those suggested above and for fear of y^r pretty
face give up y^r late pious resolution of early
rising.

My Mama joins with me in comp^{ts}. to M^r and
M^{rs} Pinckney. I send herewith Col^l Pinckney's
books, and shall be much obliged to him for
Virgil's books, notwithstanding this same old
Gentlewoman, (who I think too has a great
friendship for me) has a great spite at my books,
and had like to have thrown a vol^m of my
Plutarcks lives into the fire the other day, she
is sadly afraid she says I shall read myself
mad. . . .

Again in this strain, on the 6th of February, 1741, she writes, showing that although she would have taken a girlish pleasure in amusement, her sense of duty was too keen to allow her to leave the plantation very often:

TO THE HONOURABLE C. PINCKNEY, ESQ.

Feb^r 6th, 1741.

_Sir_:--I received yesterday the favour of your
advice as a phisician and want no arguments to
convince me I should be much better for both my
good friends company, a much pleasanter
Prescription yours is, I am sure, than Doc^t
Mead's w^{ch} I have just received. To follow my
inclination at this time, I must endeavor to
forget I have a Sister to instruct, and a parcel
of little Negroes whom I have undertaken to teach
to read, and instead of writing an answer bring it
My self, and indeed gratitude as well as
inclination obliges me to wait on M^{rs} Pinckney
as soon as I can, but it will not be in my power
til a month or two hence. Mama payes her comp^{ts}
to Mrs Pinckney, and hopes she will excuse her
waiting on her at this time, but will not fail to
do it very soon.

I am a very Dunce, for I have not acquired y^e
writing short hand yet with any degree of
swiftness--but I am not always one for I give a
very good proof of the brightness of my Genius
when I can distinguish well enough to subscribe my
self with great esteem.

Sir
Your most obe^d humble Serv^t
ELIZA LUCAS.

And again:

Why my dear Miss Bartlett, will you so often
repeat y^r desire to know how I trifle away my
time in our retirement in my father's absence;
could it afford you advantage or pleasure I would
not have hesitated, but as you can expect neither
from it I would have been excused; however, to
show you my readiness in obeying y^r commands,
here it is.

In gen^l then I rise at five o'Clock in the
morning, read till seven--then take a walk in the
garden or fields, see that the Servants are at
their respective business, then breakfast. The
first hour after breakfast is spent in musick, the
next is constantly employed in recolecting
something I have learned, lest for want of
practise it should be quite lost, such as french
and shorthand. After that, I devote the rest of
the time till I dress for dinner, to our little
polly, and two black girls who I teach to read,
and if I have my papa's approbation (my mama's I
have got) I intend for school mistress's for the
rest of the Negroe children. Another scheme you
see, but to proceed, the first hour after dinner,
as the first after breakfast, at musick, the rest
of the afternoon in needle work till candle light,
and from that time to bed time read or write.
Mondays my musick Master is here. Tuesday my
friend M^{rs} Chardon (about 3 miles distant) and
I are constantly engaged to each other, she at our
house one Tuesday I at hers the next, and this is
one of y^e happiest days I spend at Wappoo.
Thursday the whole day except what the necessary
affairs of the family take up, is spent in
writing, either on the business of the plantations
or on letters to my friends. Every other Friday,
if no company, we go a vizeting, so that I go
abroad once a week and no oftener.

Now you may form some judgment of what time I can
have to work my lappets. I own I never go to them
with a quite easy conscience as I know my father
has an avertion to my employing my time in that
boreing work, but they are begun, and must be
finished, I hate to undertake anything and not go
thro' with it, but by way of relaxation from the
other, I have begun a piece of work of a quicker
sort, w^{ch} requires neither eyes nor genius, at
least not very good ones. Would you ever guess it
to be a shrimp nett? for so it is.

O! I had like to forgot the last thing I have done
a great while. I have planted a large figg
orchard, with design to dry them, and export them.
I have reckoned my expense and the profits to
arise from those figgs, but was I to tell you how
great an Estate I am to make this way, and how
'tis to be laid out, you would think me far gone
in romance. Y^r good Uncle I know has long thought
I have a fertile brain at scheming, I only confirm
him in his opinion; but I own I love the vegitable
world extreamly. I think it an innocent and useful
amusement, and pray tell him if he laughs much at
my projects, I never intend to have any hand in a
silver mine, and he will understand as well as
you, what I mean! Our best respects wait on him,
and Mrs. Pinckney.

If my eyes dont deceive me, you in y^r last talk
of coming very soon by water, to see how my oaks
grow, is it really so, or only one of your unripe
schemes. While 'tis in y^r head put it speedily
into execution.

Lappets were fashionable parts of the headdresses worn at that time even by young girls, and one can read between her words that Eliza would have enjoyed giving more time to the feminine diversion of embroidery or fine sewing, much in vogue in that day, had her father approved of it. Then with a quick change of mood she shows her real interest in planting a "figg" orchard!--oh, many-sided Eliza!

There are numerous letters too long to include in this sketch, which show the girl's religious, artistic and philosophical tendencies, and through them all we feel the quiet poise of a mind at rest, of a spirit in true harmony with the simplest pleasures of a simple life; and that nature was always her first love, is shown by this letter:

Wont you laugh at me if I tell you I am so busy in
providing for Posterity I hardly allow myself time
to Eat or sleep and can but just snatch a minute
to write to you and a friend or two more.

I am making a large plantation of oaks w^{ch} I
look upon as my own property, whether my father
gives me the land or not, and therefore I design
many years hence when oaks are more valuable than
they are now, w^{ch} you know they will be when we
come to build fleets, I intend I say, 2 thirds of
the produce of my oaks for charrity, (I'll let you
know my scheme another time) and the other 3^d
for those that shall have the trouble of puting my
design in Execution; I suppose according to custom
you will show this to y^r Uncle and Aunt. 'She
is a good girl' says M^{rs} Pinckney, 'she is
never Idle and always means well'--'tell the
little Visionary,' says your Uncle, 'come to town
and partake of some of the amusements suitable to
her time of life,' pray tell him I think these so,
and what he may now think whims and projects may
turn out well by and by--out of many surely one
may hitt.

I promised to tell you when the mocking-bird began
to sing, the little warbler has done wonders; the
first time he opened his soft pipe this spring he
inspired me with the spirrit of Rymeing and
produced the 3 following lines while I was laceing
my Stays.

Sing on thou charming mimick of the feather kind
And let the rational a lesson learn from these
To mimick (not defects) but harmony.

If you let any mortal besides yourself see this
exquisite piece of poetry, you shall never have a
line more than this specimen, and how great will
be your loss you who have seen the above may judge
as well as

Y^r most obed^t Serv^t
ELIZA LUCAS.

Was there ever a more charming example of girlish enthusiasm combined with executive ability, and artistic feeling than this?

That life at Wappoo was not entirely without its diversions is shown by a casual mention of a "festal day" spent at Drayton Hall, a beautiful home on the bank of the Ashley river. One familiar with those early times in the southern provinces can fancy Mistress Eliza setting out for her great day, perhaps going by water in a long canoe, formed by hollowing out a great cypress tree thirty or forty feet long, which made a boat, with room in it for twelve passengers, and was rowed by six or eight negroes who sang in unison as they paddled their skiff down the river. Eliza and her Mama were landed at the foot of the rolling lawn, leading up to the mansion where the reception was being held. Or if they travelled by the road, it was probably in the four-wheeled chaise which Mrs. Lucas had imported from England the year before. And when they joined the gay company gathered in the great house, doubtless the ladies, old and young, wore costumes made of brocade, taffety or lustering, the materials of the time, and worn over enormous hoops, with cloaks made of colours to harmonise with the gowns beneath them--while the men were indeed a great sight in their square cut coats, long waistcoats, powdered hair, breeches and buckled shoes! A festal day indeed, doubtless, with a most elaborate feast washed down with draughts of fine old vintages, and followed by the scraping of fiddlers making ready for the dance, enjoyed not only by guests, but also in the servants' quarters where the negroes were as fleet-footed as mistress or guest.

On her return to Wappoo Eliza feels the reaction, as we see in a letter she wrote to Mrs. Pinckney. She says:

"At my return hither everything appeared gloomy
and lonesome, I began to consider what attraction
there was in this place that used so agreeably to
soothe my pensive humour, and made me indifferent
to everything the gay world could boast; but I
found the change not in the place but in myself,
and it doubtless proceeded from that giddy gaiety,
and want of reflection which I contracted when in
town; and I was forced to consult Mr. Locke over
and over, to see wherein personal Identity
consisted, and if I was the very same Selfe."

Somewhat cheered by the reading of Locke she returns to her usual routine of life and writes to Miss Bartlett:

"I have got no further than the first vol^m of
Virgil but was most agreeably disappointed to find
myself instructed in agriculture as well as
entertained by his charming penn, for I am
persuaded 'tho he wrote for Italy it will in many
Instances suit Carolina. I had never perused those
books before, and imagined I should immediately
enter upon battles, storms and tempests, that put
mee in a maze, and make mee shudder while I read.
But the calm and pleasing diction of pastoral and
gardening agreeably presented themselves not
unsuitably to this charming season of the year,
with w^{ch} I am so much delighted that had I butt
the fine soft Language of our Poet to paint it
properly, I should give you but little respite
'till you came into the country, and attended to
the beauties of pure Nature unassisted by Art."

A little later comes this letter, giving a clear idea of the breadth of the girl's scheme of social service as well as her thoughtfulness and individuality:

_Dear Miss Bartlett:_--

After a pleasant passage of about an hour we
arrived safe at home as I hope you and Mrs.
Pinckney did at Belmont; but this place appeared
much less agreeable than when I left it, having
lost the company that then enlivened it, the Scene
is indeed much changed, for instead of the Easy
and agreeable conversation of our Friends, I am
engaged with the rudiments of the law, to w^{ch} I
am yet but a stranger.

However I hope in a short time with the help of
Dictionary's french and English, we shall be
better friends; nor shall I grudge a little pains
and application, if that will make me useful to
any of my poor Neighbors, we have Some in this
Neighbourhood, who have a little Land a few Slaves
and Cattle to give their children, that never
think of making a will 'till they come upon a sick
bed, and find it too Expensive to send to town for
a Lawyer.

If you will not laugh too immoderately at mee I'll
Trust you with a Secrett. I have made two wills
already! I know I have done no harm, for I con'd
my lesson very perfect, and know how to convey by
will, Estates, Real and Personal, and never
forgett in its proper place, him and his heirs
forever, no that 'tis to be signed by three
witnesses, in presence of one another; bu^t the
most comfortable rememberance of all is that
Doct^r Wood says, the Law makes great allowance
for Last Wills and Testaments, presuming the
Testator could not have Council learned in the
Law. But after all what can I do if a poor
Creature lies a-dying, and their family takes it
into their head that I can serve them. I can't
refuse; but when they are well, and able to employ
a Lawyer, I always shall.