Books: Our World, or, The Slaveholders Daughter

F >> F. Colburn Adams >> Our World, or, The Slaveholders Daughter

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PREFACE.

IN presenting this work to the public, we are fully conscious of the
grave charges of misrepresenting society, and misconstruing facts,
which will be made by our friends of the South, and its very
peculiar institution; but earnestly do we enjoin all such champions
of "things as they are," to read and well digest what is here set
before them, believing that they will find the TRUTH even "stranger
than fiction." And, as an incentive to the noble exertions of those,
either North or South, who would rid our country of its "darkest,
foulest blot," we would say, that our attempt has been to give a
true picture of Southern society in its various aspects, and that,
in our judgment, the institution of Slavery is directly chargeable
with the various moral, social and political evils detailed in OUR
WORLD.

THE AUTHOR.

CONTENTS.

I. Marston's Plantation,
II. How a Night was spent on Marston's Plantation
III. Things not so bright as they seem
IV. An Unexpected Confession
V. The Marooning Party
VI. Another Scene in Southern Life
VII. "Buckra-Man very Uncertain,"
VIII. A Cloud of Misfortune hangs over the Plantation
IX. Who is Safe against the Power?
X. Another Shade of the Picture,
XI. Mrs. Rosebrook's Project,
XII. Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy Changes his Business,
XIII. A Father tries to be a Father,
XIV. In which Extremes are Presented,
XV. A Scene of Many Lights,
XVI. Another Phase of the Picture,
XVII. Pleasant Dealings with Human Property,
XVIII. A not uncommon Scene slightly changed,
XIX. They are going to be Sold,
XX. Let us follow poor Human Nature to the Man Shambles,
XXI. A Father's Trials,
XXII. We Change with Fortune,
XXIII. The Vicissitudes of a Preacher,
XXIV. How we Manufacture Political Faith,
XXV. Mr. M'Fadden sees Shadows of the Future,
XXVI. How they stole the Preacher,
XXVII. Competition in Human Things,
XXVIII. The Pretty Children are to be Sold,
XXIX. Nature Shames Itself,
XXX. The Vision of Death is Past,
XXXI. A Friend is Woman,
XXXII. Marston in Prison,
XXXIII. Venders of Human Property are not Responsible for its
Mental Caprices,
XXXIV. A Common Incident shortly told,
XXXV. The Children are Improving,
XXXVI. Workings of the Slave System,
XXXVII. An Item in the Common Calendar,
XXXVIII. In which Regrets are shown of little Worth,
XXXIX. How we should all be Forgiving,
XL. Containing Various Matters,
XLI. Nicholas's Simple Story,
XLII. He would Deliver her from Bondage,
XLIII. Other Phases of the Subject,
XLIV. How Daddy Bob Departed,
XLV. How Slaveholders Fear each other,
XLVI. Southern Administration of Justice,
XLVII. Prosperity the Result of Justice,
XLVIII. In which the Fate of Franconia is seen,
XLIX. In which is a Sad Recognition,
L. In which a Dangerous Principle is Illustrated,
LI. A Continuation of the Last Chapter,
LII. In which are Pleasures and Disappointments,
LIII. A Familiar Scene, in which Pringle Blowers has Business,
LIV. In which are Discoveries and Pleasant Scenes,
LV. In which is a Happy Meeting, some Curious Facts Developed,
and Clotild History Disclosed,
LVI. In which a Plot is Disclosed, and the Man-Seller made to
Pay the Penalty of his Crimes,

OUR WORLD.

CHAPTER I

MARSTON'S PLANTATION.

ON the left bank of the Ashly River, in the State of South Carolina,
and a few miles from its principal city, is a plantation once the
property of Hugh Marston. It was near this spot, the brave
Huguenots, fleeing religious and political persecution, founded
their first American colony-invoked Heaven to guard their
liberties-sought a refuge in a new world! And it was here the pious
Huguenot forgot his appeals to high heaven-forgot what had driven
him from his fatherland, and-unlike the pilgrim fathers who planted
their standard on "New England's happy shore,"-became the first to
oppress. It was here, against a fierce tyranny, the gallant
Yamassee,

A tribe of faithful and heroic Indians. loyal to his professed
friend, struggled and died for his liberty. It was here the last
remnant of his tribe fought the fierce battle of right over might!
It was here, in this domain, destined to be the great and powerful
of nations-the asylum of an old world's shelter seeking poor, and
the proud embodiment of a people's sovereignty,-liberty was first
betrayed! It was here men deceived themselves, and freedom
proclaimers became freedom destroyers. And, too, it was here Spanish
cupidity, murderous in its search for gold, turned a deaf ear to
humanity's cries, slaughtered the friendly Indian, and drenched the
soil with his innocent blood. And it is here, at this moment,
slavery-fierce monster, threatening the peace of a happy people-runs
riot in all its savage vicissitudes, denying man his commonest
birthright.

If history did but record the barbarous scenes yet enacted on the
banks of this lovely stream, the contrast with its calm surface
sweeping gently onward to mingle its waters with the great deep,
would be strange indeed. How mellowed by the calm beauty of a summer
evening, the one!-how stained with scenes of misery, torment, and
death, the other!

Let us beg the reader to follow us back to the time when Marston is
found in possession of the plantation, and view it as it is when his
friends gather round him to enjoy his bounteous hospitality.

We have ascended the Ashly on a bright spring morning, and are at a
jut covered with dark jungle, where the river, about twenty rods
wide, sweeps slowly round ;-flowering brakes, waving their tops to
and fro in the breeze, bedeck the river banks, and far in the
distance, on the left, opens the broad area of the plantation. As we
near it, a beautifully undulating slope presents itself, bounded on
its upper edge by a long line of sombre-looking pines. Again we
emerge beneath clustering foliage overhanging the river; and from
out this-sovereign of a southern clime-the wild azalia and fair
magnolia diffuse their fragrance to perfume the air. From the pine
ridge the slope recedes till it reaches a line of jungle, or hedge,
that separates it from the marshy bottom, extending to the river,
against which it is protected by a dyke. Most of the slope is under
a high state of cultivation, and on its upper edge is a newly
cleared patch of ground, which negroes are preparing for the
cotton-seed.

Smoking piles burn here and there, burned stumps and trees point
their black peaks upward in the murky atmosphere, half-clad negroes
in coarse osnaburgs are busy among the smoke and fire: the scene
presents a smouldering volcano inhabited by semi-devils. Among the
sombre denizens are women, their only clothing being osnaburg
frocks, made loose at the neck and tied about the waist with a
string: with hoes they work upon the "top surface," gather charred
wood into piles, and waddle along as if time were a drug upon life.

Far away to the right the young corn shoots its green sprouts in a
square plat, where a few negroes are quietly engaged at the first
hoeing. Being tasked, they work with system, and expect, if they
never receive, a share of the fruits. All love and respect Marston,
for he is generous and kind to them; but system in business is at
variance with his nature. His overseer, however, is just the
reverse: he is a sharp fellow, has an unbending will, is proud of
his office, and has long been reckoned among the very best in the
county. Full well he knows what sort of negro makes the best driver;
and where nature is ignorant of itself, the accomplishment is
valuable. That he watches Marston's welfare, no one doubts; that he
never forgets his own, is equally certain. From near mid-distance of
the slope we see him approaching on a bay-coloured horse. The sun's
rays are fiercely hot, and, though his features are browned and
haggard, he holds a huge umbrella in one hand and the inseparable
whip in the other. The former is his protector; the latter, his
sceptre. John Ryan, for such is his name, is a tall, athletic man,
whose very look excites terror. Some say he was born in Limerick, on
the Emerald Isle, and only left it because his proud spirit would
not succumb to the unbending rod England held over his poor bleeding
country.

Running along the centre of the slope is a line of cotton-fields, in
which the young plants, sickly in spots, have reached a stage when
they require much nursing. Among them are men, women, and children,
crouched on the ground like so many sable spectres, picking and
pulling at the roots to give them strength. John Ryan has been
keeping a sharp eye on them. He will salute you with an air of
independence, tell you how he hated oppression and loved freedom,
and how, at the present day, he is a great democrat. Now, whether
John left his country for his country's good, is a question; but
certain it is he dearly delights to ply the lash,-to whip mankind
merely for amusement's sake. In a word, John has a good Irish heart
within him, and he always lays particular emphasis on the good, when
he tells us of its qualities; but let us rather charge to the State
that spare use he makes of its gentler parts.

John Ryan, his face indicating tyranny stereotyped, has just been
placing drivers over each gang of workmen. How careful he was to
select a trustworthy negro, whose vanity he has excited, and who
views his position as dearly important. Our driver not unfrequently
is the monster tyrant of his circle; but whether from inclination to
serve the interests of his master, or a knowledge of the fierce
system that holds him alike abject, we know not. At times he is more
than obedient to his master's will.

Excuse, reader, this distant view of the plantation at early spring,
and follow us back to the Ashly. Here we will still continue along
the river-bank, pass borders of thick jungle, flowering vines, and
rows of stately pines, their tops moaning in the wind,-and soon find
we have reached Marston's landing. This is situated at the
termination of an elevated plat extending from thence to the
mansion, nearly a mile distant. Three negroes lay basking on the
bank; they were sent to wait our coming. Tonio! Murel! Pompe!-they
ejaculate, calling one another, as we surprise them. They are
cheerful and polite, are dressed in striped shirts and trousers,
receive us with great suavity of manner, present master's
compliments, tell us with an air of welcome that master will be
"right glad" to see us, and conclude by making sundry inquiries
about our passage and our "Missuses." Pompe, the "most important
nigger" of the three, expresses great solicitude lest we get our
feet in the mud. Black as Afric's purest, and with a face of great
good nature, Pompe, in curious jargon, apologises for the bad state
of the landing, tells us he often reminds Mas'r how necessary it is
to have it look genteel. Pompe, more than master, is deeply
concerned lest the dignity of the plantation suffer.

Planks and slabs are lain from the water's edge to the high ground
on the ridge, upon which we ascend to the crown, a piece of natural
soil rising into a beautiful convex of about six rods wide,
extending to the garden gate. We wend our way to the mansion,
leaving Pompe and his assistants in charge of our luggage, which
they will see safely landed. The ridge forms a level walk,
sequestered by long lines of huge oaks, their massive branches
forming an arch of foliage, with long trailing moss hanging like
mourning drapery to enhance its rural beauty. At the extreme of this
festooned walk the mansion is seen dwindling into an almost
imperceptible perspective. There is something grand and impressive
in the still arch above us-something which revives our sense of the
beauty of nature. Through the trunks of the trees, on our right and
left, extensive rice fields are seen stretching far into the
distance. The young blades are shooting above the surface of the
water, giving it the appearance of a frozen sheet clothed with
green, and protected from the river by a serpentine embankment. How
beautiful the expanse viewed from beneath these hoary-headed oaks!

On the surface and along the banks of the river aligators are
sporting; moccason snakes twist their way along, and scouring
kingfishers croak in the balmy air. If a venerable rattlesnake warn
us we need not fear-being an honourable snake partaking of the old
southerner's affected chivalry;-he will not approach disguised;-no!
he will politely give us warning. But we have emerged from the mossy
walk and reached a slab fence, dilapidated and broken, which
encloses an area of an acre of ground, in the centre of which stands
the mansion: the area seems to have been a garden, which, in former
days, may have been cultivated with great care. At present it only
presents a few beds rank with weeds. We are told the gardener has
been dismissed in consideration of his more lucrative services in
the corn-field. That the place is not entirely neglected, we have
only to add that Marston's hogs are exercising an independent right
to till the soil according to their own system. The mansion is a
quadrangular building, about sixty feet long by fifty wide, built of
wood, two stories high, having upper and lower verandas.

We pass the dilapidated gate, and reach it by a narrow passage
through the garden, on each side of which is a piece of antique
statuary, broken and defaced. Entering the lower veranda, we pace
the quadrangle, viewing innumerable cuttings and carvings upon the
posts: they are initials and full names, cut to please the vanity of
those anxious to leave the Marston family a memento. Again we arrive
at the back of the mansion where the quadrangle opens a courtyard
filled with broken vines, blackened cedars, and venerable-looking
leaks;-they were once much valued by the ancient and very
respectable Marston family. A few yards from the left wing of the
mansion are the "yard houses"-little, comely cabins, about twelve
feet by twenty, and proportionately high. One is the kitchen: it has
a dingy look, the smoke issuing from its chinks regardless of the
chimney; while from its door, sable denizens, ragged and greasy, and
straining their curious faces, issue forth. The polished black cook,
with her ample figure, is foaming with excitement, lest the feast
she is preparing for master's guests may fail to sustain her
celebrity. Conspicuous among these cabins are two presenting a much
neater appearance: they are brightly whitewashed, and the little
windows are decorated with flowering plants. Within them there is an
air of simple neatness and freshness we have seldom seen surpassed;
the meagre furniture seems to have been arranged by some careful
hand, and presents an air of cheerfulness in strange contrast with
the dingy cabins around. In each there is a neatly arranged bed,
spread over with a white cover, and by its side a piece of soft
carpet. It is from these we shall draw forth the principal
characters of our story.

Upon a brick foundation, about twenty rods from the right wing of
the mansion, stands a wood cottage, occupied by the overseer. Mr.
John Ryan not being blessed with family, when Marston is not
honoured with company takes his meals at the mansion. In the
distance, to the left, is seen a long line of humble huts, standing
upon piles, and occupied by promiscuous negro families:--we say
promiscuous, for the marriage-tie is of little value to the master,
nor does it give forth specific claim to parentage. The sable
occupants are beings of uncertainty; their toil is for a life-time-a
weary waste of hope and disappointment. Yes! their dreary life is a
heritage, the conditions of which no man would share willingly.
Victors of husbandry, they share not of the spoils; nor is the sweat
of their brows repaid with justice.

Near these cabins, mere specks in the distance, are two large sheds,
under which are primitive mills, wherein negroes grind corn for
their humble meal. Returning from the field at night, hungry and
fatigued, he who gets a turn at the mill first is the luckiest
fellow. Now that the workpeople are busily engaged on the
plantation, the cabins are in charge of two nurses, matronly-looking
old bodies, who are vainly endeavouring to keep in order numerous
growing specimens of the race too young to destroy a grub at the
root of a cotton plant. The task is indeed a difficult one, they
being as unruly as an excited Congress. They gambol round the door,
make pert faces at old mamma, and seem as happy as snakes in the
spring sun. Some are in a nude state, others have bits of frocks
covering hapless portions of their bodies; they are imps of mischief
personified, yet our heart bounds with sympathy for them. Alive with
comicality, they move us, almost unconsciously, to fondle them. And
yet we know not why we would fondle the sable "rascals." One knot is
larking on the grass, running, toddling, yelling, and hooting;
another, ankle-deep in mud, clench together and roll among the
ducks, work their clawy fingers through the tufts of each other's
crispy hair, and enjoy their childish sports with an air of genial
happiness; while a third sit in a circle beside an oak tree, playing
with "Dash," whose tail they pull without stint. "Dash" is the
faithful and favourite dog; he rather likes a saucy young "nigger,"
and, while feeling himself equal to the very best in the clan, will
permit the small fry, without resenting the injury, to pull his
tail.

It being "ration day," we must describe the serving, that being an
interesting phase of plantation life. Negroes have gathered into
motley groups around two weatherbeaten store-houses--the overseer
has retired to his apartment-when they wait the signal from the head
driver, who figures as master of ceremonies. One sings:---"Jim Crack
corn, an' I don't care, Fo'h mas'r's gone away! way! way!" Another
is croaking over the time he saved on his task, a third is trying to
play a trick with the driver (come the possum over him), and a third
unfolds the scheme by which the extra for whiskey and molasses was
raised. Presenting a sable pot pourri, they jibber and croak among
themselves, laugh and whistle, go through the antics of the
"break-down" dance, make the very air echo with the music of their
incomprehensible jargon. We are well nigh deafened by it, and yet it
excites our joy. We are amused and instructed; we laugh because they
laugh, our feelings vibrate with theirs, their quaint humour forces
itself into our very soul, and our sympathy glows with their happy
anticipations. The philosophy of their jargon is catching to our
senses; we listen that we may know their natures, and learn good
from their simplicity. He is a strange mortal who cannot learn
something from a fool!

The happy moment has arrived: "Ho, boys!" is sounded,-the doors
open, the negroes stop their antics and their jargon; stores are
exposed, and with one dinning mutter all press into a half-circle at
the doors, in one of which stands the huge figure of Balam, the head
driver. He gives a scanning look at the circle of anxious faces; he
would have us think the importance of the plantation centred in his
glowing black face. There he stands-a measure in his hand-while
another driver, with an air of less dignity, cries out, with a
stentorian voice, the names of the heads of families, and the number
of children belonging thereto. Thus, one by one, the name being
announced in muddled accents, they step forward, and receive their
corn, or rice, as may be. In pans and pails they receive it, pass it
to the younger members of the family; with running and scampering,
they carry the coarse allotment to their cabin with seeming
cheerfulness. Marston, esteemed a good master, always gives bacon,
and to receive this the negroes will gather round the store a second
time. In this, the all-fascinating bacon is concealed, for which the
children evince more concern; their eyes begin to shine brighter,
their watchfulness becomes more intent. Presently a negro begins to
withdraw the meat, and as he commences action the jargon gets
louder, until we are deafened, and would fain move beyond it. Just
then, the important driver, with hand extended, commands,-"Order!"
at the very top of his loud voice. All is again still; the man
returns to his duty. The meat is somewhat oily and rancid, but Balam
cuts it as if it were choice and scarce. Another driver weighs it in
a pair of scales he holds in his hands; while still another, cutting
the same as before, throws it upon some chaff at the door, as if it
were a bone thrown to a hungry dog. How humbly the recipient picks
it up and carries it to his or her cabin! Not unfrequently the young
"imps" will scramble for it, string it upon skewers, and with great
nonchalance throw it over their shoulders, and walk off. If it bathe
their backs with grease so much more the comfort. Those little
necessaries which add so much to the negro's comfort, and of which
he is so fond, must be purchased with the result of his extra
energy. Even this allowance may serve the boasted hospitality; but
the impression that there is a pennyworth of generosity for every
pound of parsimony, forces itself upon us. On his little spot, by
moonlight or starlight, the negro must cultivate for himself, that
his family may enjoy a few of those fruits of which master has many.
How miserable is the man without a spark of generosity in his soul;
and how much more miserable the man who will not return good for
good's worth! To the negro, kindness is a mite inspiring the
impulses of a simple heart, and bringing forth great good.

Let us again beg the reader to return with us to those conspicuous
cottages near the court-yard, and in which we will find several of
our characters.

We cross the threshold of one, and are accosted by a female who,
speaking in musical accents, invites us to sit down. She has none of
Afric's blood in her veins;-no! her features are beautifully olive,
and the intonation of her voice discovers a different origin. Her
figure is tall and well-formed; she has delicately-formed hands and
feet, long, tapering fingers, well-rounded limbs, and an oval face,
shaded with melancholy. How reserved she seems, and yet how quickly
she moves her graceful figure! Now she places her right hand upon
her finely-arched forehead, parts the heavy folds of glossy hair
that hang carelessly over her brown shoulders, and with a
half-suppressed smile answers our salutation. We are welcome in her
humble cabin; but her dark, languishing eyes, so full of intensity,
watch us with irresistible suspicion. They are the symbols of her
inward soul; they speak through that melancholy pervading her
countenance! The deep purple of her cheek is softened by it, while
it adds to her face that calm beauty which moves the gentle of our
nature. How like a woman born to fill a loftier sphere than that to
which a cruel law subjects her, she seems!

Neither a field nor a house servant, the uninitiated may be at a
loss to know what sphere on the plantation is her's? She is the
mother of Annette, a little girl of remarkable beauty, sitting at
her side, playing with her left hand. Annette is fair, has light
auburn hair-not the first tinge of her mother's olive invades her
features. Her little cheerful face is lit up with a smile, and while
toying with the rings on her mother's fingers, asks questions that
person does not seem inclined to answer. Vivacious and sprightly,
she chatters and lisps until we become eager for her history. "It's
only a child's history," some would say. But the mother displays so
much fondness for it; and yet we become more and more excited by the
strange manner in which she tries to suppress an outward display of
her feelings. At times she pats it gently on the head, runs her
hands through its hair, and twists the ends into tiny ringlets.

In the next cabin we meet the shortish figure of a tawny female,
whose Indian features stand boldly out. Her high cheek bones, long
glossy black hair, and flashing eyes, are the indexes of her
pedigree. "My master says I am a slave:" in broken accents she
answers our question. As she sits in her chair near the fire-place
of bricks, a male issue of the mixed blood toddles round and round
her, tossing her long coarse hair every time he makes a circut. The
little boy is much fairer than the brawny daughter who seems his
mother. Playful, and even mischievous, he delights in pulling the
hair which curls over his head; and when the woman calls him he
answers with a childish heedlessness, and runs for the door. Reader!
this woman's name is Ellen Juvarna; she has youth on her side, and
though she retains the name of her ancient sire, is proud of being
master's mistress. She tells us how comfortable she is; how
Nicholas, for such is his name, resembles his father, how he loves
him, but how he fails to acknowledge him. A feud, with its
consequences, is kept up between the two cabins; and while she makes
many insinuations about her rival, tells us she knows her features
have few charms. Meanwhile, she assures us that neither good looks
nor sweet smiles make good mothers. "Nicholas!" she exclaims, "come
here; the gentlemen want to know all about papa." And, as she
extends her hand, the child answers the summons, runs across the
room, fondles his head in his mother's lap,-seems ashamed!