The planter's northern bride

Front matter

MORELAND ENTERING NANCY’S COTTAGE.

THE

PLANTER’S NORTHERN BRIDE.

Preface

It was the intention of the author to have given this book to the world during the course of the past season, but unforeseen occurrences have prevented the accomplishment of her pur¬ pose. She no longer regrets the delay, as she believes it will meet a more cordial reception at the present time.

When individual or public feeling is too highly wrought on any subject, there must inevitably follow a reaction, and reason, recovering from the effects of transient inebriation, is ready to assert its original sovereignty.

Not in the spirit of egotism, do we repeat wha i was said in the preface of a former work, that we were born at the North, and though destiny has removed us far from our native scenes, we cherish for them a sacred regard, an undying attachment.

iv

PREFACE.

It cannot therefore be supposed that we are ac¬ tuated by hostility or prejudice, in endeavouring io represent the unhappy consequences of that intolerant and fanatical spirit, whose fatal influ¬ ence we so deeply deplore.

We believe that there are a host of noble, liberal minds, of warm, generous, candid hearts, at the North, that will bear us out in our views of Southern character, and that feel with us that our national honour is tarnished, when a portion of our country is held up to public disgrace and foreign insult, by those, too, whom every feeling of patriotism should lead to defend it from igno¬ miny and shield it from dishonour. The hope that they will appreciate and do justice to our motives, has imparted enthusiasm to our feelings, and energy to our will, in the prosecution of our literary labour.

When we have seen the dark and horrible pictures drawn of slavery and exhibited to a gaz¬ ing world, we have wondered if we were one of those favoured individuals to whom the fair side of life is ever turned, or whether we were created with a moral blindness, incapable of distinguish¬ ing its lights and shadows. One thing is certain, and if we were on judicial oath we would repeat

PREFACE.

it, that during our residence in the South, we have never witnessed one scene of cruelty or op¬ pression, never beheld a chain or a manacle, or the infliction of a punishment more severe than Parental authority would be justified in applying to filial disobedience or transgression. This is not owing to our being placed in a limited sphere of observation, for we have seen and studied do¬ mestic, social, and plantation life, in Carolina, Alabama, Georgia, and Florida. We have been admitted into close and familiar communion with numerous families in each of these States, not merely as a passing visiter, but as an indwelling guest, and we have never been pained’ by an in¬ human exercise of authority, or a wanton abuse of power.

On the contrary, we have been touched and gratified by the exhibition of affectionate kind¬ ness and care on one side, and loyal and devoted attachment on the other. We have been espe¬ cially struck with the cheerfulness and content¬ ment of the slaves, and their usually elastic and buoyant spirits. From the abundant opportu¬ nities we have had of judging, we give it as our honest belief, that the negroes of the South are 1* the happiest labouring class on the face of the globe ; even subtracting from their portion of en¬ joyment all that can truly he said of their trials and sufferings. The fugitives who fly to the Northern States are no proof against the truth of this statement. They have most of tb ' n been made disaffected by the influence of others — tempted by promises which are seldom fulfilled Even in the garden of Eden, the seeds of discon¬ tent and rebellion were sown; surely we need not wonder that they sometimes take root in the beautiful groves of the South.

In the large cities we have heard of families who were* cruel to their slaves, as well as unna¬ turally severe in the discipline of their children. (Are there no similar instances at the North ?) But the indignant feeling which any known in¬ stance of inhumanity calls forth at the South, proves that they are not of common occurrence.

We have conversed a great deal with the co¬ loured people, feeling the deepest interest in learning their own views of their peculiar situa¬ tion, and we have almost invariably been de¬ lighted and affected by their humble devotion to their master’s family, their child-like, affectionate reliance on their care and protection, and above all, with their genuine cheerfulness and content¬ ment.

This very morning, since commencing these remarks, our sympathies have been strongly moved by the simple eloquence of a negro wo¬ man in speaking of her former master and mis¬ tress, who have been dead for many years.

“Oh !” said she, her eyes swimming with tears, and her voice choking with emotion, “I loved my master and mistress like my own soul. If X could have died in their stead, I would gladly done it. I would have gone into the grave and brought them up, if the Lord had let me do it. Oh! they were so good— -so kind/ All on ns black folks would ’ave laid down our lives fnr ’em at any minute.”

“Then you were happy?” we said; “you did not sigh to be free ?”

“ No, mistress, that I didn’t. I was too well off for that. I wouldn’t have left my master and mistress for all the freedom in the world. I’d left my own father and mother first. I loved ’em better than I done them. I loved their chil¬ dren too. Every one of ’em has been babies in

PREFACE.

viii

my arms — and I loved ’em a heap better than I done my own, I want to stay with ’em as long as I live, and I know they will take care of me when I get too old to work.”

These are her own words. We have not sought this simple instance of faithful and endur¬ ing love. It came to us as if in corroboration of our previous remarks, and we could not help re¬ cording it.

The history of Crissy and the circumstances of her abduction are true.

The character of Dr. Darley is drawn from life. Though death has now set the seal of eternity on his virtues, we would not violate the sanctity of private life by bringing his real name before the public. Should those he loved best on earth recognise the lineaments we have attempted to draw, may they accept this imperfect tribute to his exalted worth, his brilliant and commanding talents, as well as his pure and genuine philan¬ thropy.

Many of the circumstance we have recorded in these pages are founded on truth. The plot of the insurrection, the manner in which it was instigated and detected, and the brief history of

Nat, the giant, with his domestication in a North¬ ern family, are literally true.

If any one should think the affection mani¬ fested by the slaves of Moreland for their master is too highly coloured, we would refer them to the sketch of Thomas Jefferson’s arrival at Monticello on his return from Paris, after an absence of five years. It is from the pen of his daughter, and no one will doubt its authenticity.

“ The negroes discovered the approach of the carriage as soon as it reached Shad well, and such a scene I never witnessed in my life. They Col¬ lected in crowds around it, and almost drew it up the mountain by hand. The shouting, &c., had been sufficiently obstreperous before, but the moment the carriage arrived on the top it reached the climax. When the door of the carriage was opened, they received him in their arms and bore him into the house, crowding around, kissing his hands and feet, some blubbering and crying, others laughing. It appeared impossible to satisfy their eyes, or their anxiety to touch, and even to kiss the very earth that bore him. These were the first ebullitions of joy for his return, after a long absence, which they would of courfee

PREFACE.

feel; but it is perhaps not out of place to add here, that they were at all times very devoted in their attachment to their master. They believed him to he one of the greatest, and they knew him o be one of the best of men, and kindest of mas¬ ters. They spoke to him freely, and applied confidingly to him in all their difficulties and distresses; and he watched over them in sickness and health ; interested himself in all their con¬ cerns; advising them, and showing esteem and confidence in the good, and indulgence to all.”

We can add nothing to this simple, pathetic description. Monticello is hallowed ground, and the testimony that proceeds from its venerated retreat should be listened to with respect and confidence. The same accents might be heard from Mount Vernon’s august shade s, where the grave of Washington has been bedewed by the tears of the grateful African.

But we have done.

If we fail to accomplish the purpose for which we have written, we shall at least have the con¬ solation of knowing that our motives are disin¬ terested, and our aim patriotic and true.

Should no Northern heart respond to our earnest appeal, we trust the voice of the South will answer to our own, not in a faint, cold, dying echo, but in a full, spontaneous strain, whose re¬ verberations shall reach to the green hills and granite clifls of New England’s “rock-bound coast.”

Caroline Lee Hentz.

THE

PLANTER’S NORTHERN BRIDE.

Chapter I

Mr. Moreland, a Southern planter, was travelling through the New England States in the bright season of a Northern spring. Business with some of the mer¬ chant princes of Boston had brought him to the North ; but a desire to become familiar with the beautiful sur¬ roundings of the metropolis induced him to linger long after it was transacted, to gratify the taste and curiosity of an intelligent and liberal mind. He was rich and independent, had leisure as well as wealth at his com¬ mand, and there was something in the deep green fields and clear blue waters of New England that gave a freshness, and brightness, and elasticity to his spirits, wanting in his milder, sunnier latitude.

He found himself one Saturday night in a sweet country village, whose boundaries were marked by the 136 (13)

THE PLANTER’S NORTHERN BRIDE.

most luxuriant 'shubbery and trees, in the midst of which a thousand silver rills were gushing. He was pleased with the prospect of passing the ensuing Sunday in a valley so serene and quiet, that it seemed as if Nature enjoyed in its shades the repose of an eternal Sabbath. The inn where he stopped was a neat, orderly place, and though the landlord impressed him, at first, as a hard, repulsive looking man, with a dark, Indian face, and large, iron-bound frame, he found him ready to perform all the duties of a host. Requesting to be shown to a private apartment, he ordered Albert, a young mulatto, who accompanied him on his journey, to follow him with his valise. Albert was a handsome, golden-skinned youth, with shining black hair and eyes, dressed very nearly as genteelly as his master, and who generally attracted more attention on their Northern tour. Accus¬ tomed to wait on his master and listen to the conversa¬ tion of refined and educated gentlemen, he had very little of the dialect of the negro, and those familiar with the almost unintelligible jargon which delineators of the sable character put into their lips, could not but be astonished at the propriety of his language and pronun¬ ciation.

When Mr. Moreland started on his journey to the North, his friends endeavoured to dissuade him from taking a servant with him, as he would incur the danger of losing him among the granite hills to which he was bound : — they especially warned him of the risk of taking

THE PLANTER’S NORTHERN BRIDE.

Albert, whose superior intelligence and cultivation would render him more accessible to the arguments which would probably be brought forward to lure him from his alle¬ giance.

“I defy all the eloquence of the North to induce Albert to leave me,” exclaimed Mr. Moreland. “Let them do it if they can. Albert,” he said, calling the boy to him, who was busily employed in brushing and polishing his master’s boots, with a friction quick enough to create sparkles of light.. “ Albert, — I am going to the North, — would you like to go with me ?”

“ To be sure I would, master, I would like to go any¬ where in the world with you.”

“You know the people are all free at the North, Albert.” 5^

“Yes, master.

“And when you are there, they will very likely try to persuade you that you are free too, and tell you it is your duty to run away from me, and set up for a gentle¬ man yourself. What do you think of all this ?”

Albert suspended his brush in the air, drew up his left shoulder with a significant shrug, darted an oblique glance at his master from his bright black eyes, and then renewed his friction with accelerated velocity.

“ Well, my boy, you have not answered me,” cried Mr. Moreland, in a eareless, yet interested manner, peculiar to himself.

“Why, you see, Mars. Bussell (when he addressed his l6 THE PLANTER’S NORTHERN BRIDE.

master by his Christian name, he always abbreviated his title in this manner, though when the name was omitted he uttered the title in all its dignity), — “ you see, Mars. Bussell,” — here the mulatto slipped the boot from his arm, placed it on the floor, and still retaining the brush in his right hand, folded his arms across his breast, and spoke deliberately and earnestly, — “ they couldn’t come round this boy with that story ; I’ve hearn it often enough already ; I ain’t afraid of anything they can say and do, to get me away from you as long as you want me to stay with you. But if you are afraid to trust me, mas¬ ter, that’s another thing. You’d better leave me, if you think I’d be mean enough to run away.”

“ Well said, Albert ^claimed Mr. Moreland, laugh¬ ing at the air of injured honour and conscious self-appre¬ ciation he assumed ; “ I do trust you, and shall surely take you with me ; you can make yourself very amusing to the people, by telling them of your home frolics, such as being chained, handcuffed, scourged, flayed, and burned alive, and all those little trifles they are so much in¬ terested in.”

“ Oh ! master, I wish I may find everybody as well off as I am. If there’s no lies told on you but what I tell, you’ll be mighty safe, I know. Ever since Mis Claudia” —

“Enough,” cried Mr. Moreland, hastily interrupting him. He had breathed a name which evidently awakened painful recollections, for his sunshiny countenance be-

THE PLANTER’S NORTHERN BRILE.

eame suddenly dark and cold. Albert, -who seemed familiar with his master’s varying moods, respectfully resumed his occupation, while Mr. Moreland took up his hat and plunged into the soft, balmy atmosphere of a Southern spring morning.

It is not our intention to go back and relate the past history of Mr. Moreland. It will be gathered in the midst of unfolding events, at least all that is necessary for the interest of our story. We will therefore return to the white-walled inn of the fair New England village, where our traveller was seated, enjoying the long, dewy twilight of the new region in which he was making a temporary rest. The sun had gone down, but the glow of his parting smile lingered on the landscape and red¬ dened the stream that gleamed and flashed through the distant shrubbery. Not far from the inn, on a gradual eminence, rose the village church, whose tali spire, sur¬ mounted by a horizontal vane, reposed on the golden clouds of sunset, resembling the crucifix of some gor¬ geous cathedral. This edifice was situated far back from the road, surrounded by a common of the richest green, in the centre of which rose the swelling mound, conse¬ crated by the house of God. Some very hands, me buildings were seen at regular intervals, on either side of the road, among which the coufrt-house stood conspi¬ cuous, with its freestone-coloured wall and lofty cupola. There was something in the aspect of that church, with its heaven-ascendiug spire, whose glory-crown of linger-

18 tbs planter's northern bribe.

ing day-beams glittered with a kind of celestial splen¬ dour, reminding him of the halo which encircles the brows of saints ; something in the deep tranquillity of the hour, the soft, hazy, undulating outline of the dis¬ tant horizon, the swaying motion of the tall poplars that margined the Btreet far as his eye could reach, and through whose darkening vista a solitary figure gradu¬ ally lessened on the eye, that solemnized and even sad¬ dened the spirits of our traveller. The remembrances of early youth and opening manhood pressed upon him with suddenly awakened force. Hopes, on which so sad and awful a blight had fallen, raised themselves like faded flowers sprinkled with (lew, and mocked him with their visior ^y bloom. In the excitement of travelling, the realities of business, the frequent collision of inte¬ rests, the championship of oft invaded rights, he had lost much of that morbidness of feeling and restlessness of character, which, being more accidental than inherent, would naturally yield to the force of circumstances counter to those in which they were born. But at the close of any arbitrary division of time, such as the last day of the week or the year, the mind is disposed to deeper meditation, and the mental burden, whose weight has been equipoised by worldly six-day cares, rolls back upon the mind with leaden oppression.

Moreland had too great a respect for the institutions of religion, too deep an inner sense of its power, to think of continuing his journey on the Sabbath, and he

THE PLANTER'S NORTHERN BRIDE. It

was glad that the chamber which he occupied looked out upon that serene landscape, and that the morning shadow of the lofty church-spire would be thrown across his win¬ dow. It seemed to him he had seen this valley before, with its beautiful green, grassy slopes, its sunset-gilde church, and dark poplar avenue. And it seemed to him also, that he had seen a fair maiden form gliding through the central aisle of that temple, in robes of virgin white, and soft, down-bending eyes of dark brown lustre, and brow of moonlight calmness. It was one of those dim reminiscences, those vague, dream-like consciousnesses of a previous existence, which every being of poetic tem¬ perament is sometimes aware of, and though they come, faint shadows of a far-off world, quick and vanishing as lightning, they nevertheless leave certain traces of their presence, “trails of glory,” as a great poet has called them, proceeding from the spirit’s home.

While he sat leaning in silence against the window frame, the bell of the church began to toll slowly and solemnly, and as the sounds rolled heavily and gloomily along, then reverberated and vibrated with melancholy prolongation, sending out a sad, dying echo, followed by another majestic, startling peal, he wondered to hea. such a funeral knell at that twilight hour, and looked up the shadowy line of poplars for the dark procession leading to the grave. Nothing was seen, however, and nothing heard but those monotonous, heavy, mournful peals, which seemed to sweep by him with the flaps of

20 TEE PLANTER'S NORTHERN BRIDE.

the raven’s -wings. Twenty times the hell tolled, and then all was still.

“ What means the tolling of the hell ?” asked he of the landlord, who was walking beneath the window. “ Is there a funeral at this late hour ?”

“ A young woman has just died,” replied the land¬ lord. “ They are tolling her age. It is a custom of our village.”

Moreland drew hack with a shudder. Just twenty. That was her age. She had not died, and yet the deathbell might well ring a deeper knell over her than the being who had just departed. In the grave the remem¬ brance of the bitterest wrongs are buried, and the most vindictive cease to thirst for vengeance. Moreland was glad when a summons to supper turned his thoughts into a different channel.

There might have been a dozen men seated around the table, some whose dress and manners proclaimed that they were gentlemen, others evidently of a coarser grain. They all looked up at the entrance of Moreland, who, with a bow, such as the courteous stranger is always ready to make, took his seat, while Albert placed himself behind his master’s chair.

“Take a seat,” said Mr. Grimby, the landlord, looking at Albert. “There’s one by the gentleman. Plenty of room for us all.”*

“My boy will wait,” cried Mr. Moreland, with un-

* A fact.

.HE I‘LANTEE’8 NORTHERN BRIDE.

conscious haughtiness, while his pale cheek visibly red¬ dened. “ I would thank you to leave the arrangement of such things to myself.”

“No offence, I hope, sir,” rejoined Mr. Grimby.

1 We look upon everybody here as free and equal. This _s a free country, and when folks come among us we don’t see -why they can’t conform to our ways of think¬ ing. There’s a proverb that says — ‘ when you’re with the Romans, it’s best to do as the Romans do.’ ”

“ Am I to understand,” said Mr. Moreland, fixing his eye deliberately on his Indian-visaged host* “ that you wish my servant to sit down with yourself and these gentlemen ?”

“ To be sure I do,” replied the landlord, winking his small black eye knowingly at his left-hand neighbour. “ I don’t see why he isn’t as good as the rest of us. I’m an eremy to all distinctions myself, and I’d like to bring everybody round to my opinion.”

“Albert!” cried his master, “obey the landlord’s wishes. Zwant no supper ; take my seat and see that you are well attended to.”

“ Mars. Russell,” said the mulatto, in a confused and deprecating tone.

“ Do as I tell you,” exclaimed Mr. Moreland, in a tone of authority, which, though tempered by kindness, Albert understood too well to resist. As Moreland passed from the room, a gentleman, with a very prepos-

THE PLANTER'S NORTHERN BRIDE.

sessing countenance and address, who was seated on the opposite side of the table, rose and followed him.

“ I am sorry you have had so poor a specimen of Northern politeness,” said the gentleman, accosting Moreland, with a slight embarrassment of manner. “ I trust you do not think we all endorse such sentiments.”

“I certainly must make you an exception, sir,” replied Moreland, holding out his hand with involuntary frankness ; “ but I fear there are but very few. This is, however, the first direct attack I have received, and I hardly kn^w in what way to meet it. I have too much self-respect to place myself on a level with a man so infinitely my inferior. That he intended to insult me, I know by his manner. He knows our customs at home, and that nothing could be done in more positive viola¬ tion of them than his unwarrantable proposition.”

They had walked out in the open air while they were speaking, and continued their walk through the poplar avenue, through whose stiff and stately branches the first stars of evening were beginning to glisten.

“ I should think you would fear the effect of these things on your servant,” said the gentleman, — “that it would make him insolent and rebellious. Pardon me, sir, but I think you were rather imprudent in bringing him with you, and exposing him to the influences which must meet him on every side. You will not be surprised, after the instance which has just occurred, when I tell you, that, in this village, you are in the very hot-bed of fanaticism ; and that a Southern planter, accompanied by his slave, can meet but little sympathy, consideration, or toleration ; I fear there will be strong efforts made to induce your boy to leave you.”

“ I fear nothing of that kind,” answered Moreland. “ If they can bribe him from me, let him go. I brought him far less to minister to my wants than to test his fidelity and affection. I believe them proof against any temptation or assault ; if I am deceived I wish to know it, though the pang would be as severe as if my own brother should lift his hand against me.”

“ Indeed ! — I did not imagine that the feelings were ever so deeply interested. While I respect your rights, and resent any ungentlemanlike infringement of them, as in the ease of our landlord, I cannot conceive how beings, who are ranked as goods and chattels, things of bargain and traffic, can ever fill the place of a friend or brother in the heart.”

“Nevertheless, I assure you, that next to our own kindred, we look upon our slaves as our best friends.”

As they came out of the avenue into the open street, they perceived the figure of a woman, walking with slow steps before them, bearing a large bundle under her arm ; she paused several times, as if to recover breath, and once she stopped and leaned against the fence, while a dry, hollow cough rent her frame.

“Nancy,” said the gentleman, “is that you? — you should not be out in the night air.”

THE PLANTER’S NORTHERN BRIDE.

The woman turned round, and the starlight fell on a pale and wasted face.

“I can’t help it,” she answered, — “I can’t hold out any longer, — I can’t work any more ; — I ain’t strong 'mough to do a single chore now ; and Mr. Grimby says he hain’t got any room for me to lay by in. My wages stopped three weeks ago. He says there’s no use in my hanging on any longer, for I’ll never be good for any¬ thing any more.”

“Where are you going now?” said the gentleman.

“ Home !” was the reply, in a tone of deep ar.d hope¬ less despondency, — “ Home, to my poor old mother. I’ve supported her by my wages ever since I’ve been hired out; that’s the reason I haven’t laid up any. God knows - ”

Here she stopped, for her words were evidently choked by an awful realization of the irremediable misery of her condition. Moreland listened with eager interest. His compassion was awakened, and so were other feelings. Here was a problem he earnestly desired to solve, and he determined to avail himself of the opportunity thrown in his path.

“ How far is your home from here ?” he asked.

“ About three-quarters of a mile.”

“ Give me your bundle — I’ll carry it for you, you are too feeble ; nay, I insist upon it.”

Taking the bundle from the reluctant hand of the poor woman, he swung it lightly upward and poised it on his left shoulder. His companion turned with a look of unfeigned surprise towards the elegant and evidently high-bred stranger, thus courteously relieving poverty and weakness of an oppressive burden.

« “ Suffer me to assist you,” said he. “ You must be

very unaccustomed to services of this kind ; I ought to have anticipated you.”

“ I am not accustomed to do such things for myself,” answered Moreland, “ because there is no occasion ; but it only makes me more willing to do them for otherk You look upon us as very self-indulging beings, do you not ?”

“We think your institutions calculated to promote the growth of self-indulgence and selfishness. The virtues that resist their opposing influences must have more than common vitality.”

“We, who know the full length and breadth of our responsibilities, have less time than any other men for self-indulgence. We feel that life is too short for the performance of our duties, made doubly arduous and irksome by the misapprehension and prejudice of those who ought to know us better and judge us more justly and kindly. My good woman, do we walk too fast ?”

“ Oh, no, sir. I .so long to get home, but I am so ashamed to have you carry that bundle.”

He had forgotten the encumbrance in studying the domestic problem, presented to for solution. Here was a uoor young woman, en tire, , dependent on her daily labour for the support of herself and aged mother, incapacitated by sickness from ministering to their ne¬ cessities, thrown back upon her home, without the means of subsistence : in prospective, a death of lingering tor¬ ture for herself, for her mother a life of destitution or a helter in the almshouse. For every comfort, for the bare necessaries of life, they must depend upon the com¬ passion of the public ; the attendance of a physician must be the work of charity, their existence a burden on others.

She had probably been a faithful labourer in her em¬ ployer’s family, while health and strength lasted. He was an honest man in the common acceptation of the word, and had doled out her weekly wages as long as they were earned ; but he was not rich, he had no super¬ fluous gold, and could not afford to pay to her what was due to her stronger and more healthy successor; he could not afford to give her even the room which was required by another. What could she do but go to her desolate home *nd die ? She could not murmur. She had no claim on the affection of the man in whose ser vice she had been employed. She had lived with him in the capacity of a hireling, and he, satisfied that he paid her the utmost farthing which justice required, dis¬ missed her, without incurring the censure of unkindness or injustice. We ought to add, without deserving it. There were others far more able than himself to take care of her, and a home provided by the parish for every unsheltered head.