town in the next train of cars; so we are forced to content ourselves with gleaning
a few items now and then, taking care to appear quite indifferent to her story, and
to cut it short by despatching her on some trifling errand; being equally careful,
however, to note down her peculiar expressions as soon as she has disappeared.
A copy of these I have thought you would like to see, especially as illustrating the
views of the marriage institution, which is a necessary result of the great human
property relation system.
A Southern lady, who thinks “negro sentiment” very much exaggerated in
“Uncle Tom's Cabin,” assures us that domestic attachments cannot be very strong
where one man will have two or three wives and families on as many different
plantations (!) And the lady of our hotel tells us of her cook having received a
message from her husband, that he has another wife, and she may get another
husband, with perfect indifference; simply expressing a hope that “she won't find
another here during the next month, as she must then be sent to her owner, in
Georgia, and would be unwilling to go.” And yet, both of these ladies are quite
religious, and highly resent any insinuation that the moral character of the slaves
is not far above that of the free negroes at the North.
With Violet's story, I will also enclose that one of our waiters, in which I think
you will be interested.
Violet's father and mother both died, as she says, “'fore I had any sense,” leaving
eleven children; all scattered. “To sabe my life, Missis, couldn't tell dis yer night
where one of dem is. Massa lib in Charleston. My first husband--when we was
young--nice man; he had seven children; den he sold off to Florida--neber hear
from him 'gain. Ole folks die. Oh, dat's be my boderation, Missis--when ole
people be dead, den we be scattered all 'bout. Den I sold up here--now hab
'noder husband--hab four children up here. I lib bery easy when my young hus-
band 'libe--and we had children bery fast. But now dese yer ones tight fellers.
Massa don't 'low us to raise noting; no pig, no goat, no dog, no noting; won't
allow us raise a bit of corn. We has to do jist de best we can. Dey don't gib
us a single grain but jist two homespun frocks--no coat't all.
“Can't go to meetin, 'cause, Missis, get dis work done--den get dinner. In
summer, I goes ebery Sunday ebening; but dese yer short days, time done get
dinner dishes washed, den time get supper. Gen'lly goes Baptist church.”
“Do your people usually go there?”
“Dere bees tree shares ob dem; Methodist gang, Baptist gang, 'Piscopal
gang. Last summer, used to hab right smart* meetins in our yard, Sunday night.
Massa Johnson preach to us. Den he said couldn't hab two meetins; we might
go to church.”
“Why?”
“Gracious knows. I lubs to go to meetin allers--'specially when dere's good
preaching. Lubs to hab people talk good to me. Likes to hab people read to me,
too. 'Cause don't b'long to church, no reason why I shan't.”
“Does your master like to have others read to you?”
“He won't hinder; I an't bound tell him when folks reads to me. I hab my
soul to sabe--he hab his soul to sabe. Our owners won't stand few minutes and
read to us; dey tink it too great honour; dey's bery hard on us. Brack preachers
sometimes talk good to us and pray wid us; and pray a heap for dem too.
“I jest done hab great quarrel wid Dinah, down in de kitchen. I tells Dinah,
`De way you goes on spile all de women's character.' She say she didn't care,
she do what she please wid herself. Dinah, she slip away somehow from her first
husband, and hab 'noder child by Sambo (he b'long to Massa D.); so she and her
first husband dey fall out somehow. Dese yer men, yer know, is so queer, Missis,
dey don't neber like sich tings.
“Ye know, Missis, tings we lub, we don't like anybody else hab 'em. Such
a ting as dat, Missis, tetch your heart so, ef you don't mind, 'twill fret you almost
to death. Ef my husband was to slip away from me, Missis, dat ar way, it ud
wake me right up. I'm brack, but I wouldn't do so to my husband, neider. What
Thide behind de curtain now, I can't hide it behind de curtain when I stand before
God--de whole world know it den.
--now, my husband don't feel so. He say he wouldn't do as Daniel do--he
would'nt buy tings for de oder children--dem as has de children might buy de tings
for dem. Well, so dere dey is.--Dinah's first husband come up wheneber he can,
to see his children; and Sambo, he come up to see his child, and gib Dinah tings
for it.
“You know, Missis, Massa hab no nigger but me and one yellow girl, when he
bought me and my four children. Well, den Massa, he want me to breed; so he
say, `Violet, you must take some nigger here in C.'
“Den I say, No, Massa, I can't take any here.' `Den he say, `You must,
Violet;' 'cause you see he want me breed for him; so he say plenty young fellers
here, but I say I can't hab any ob dem. Well, den, Missis, he go down Virginia,
and he bring up two niggers--and dey was pretty ole men--and Missis say, `One
of dem's for you, Violet;' but I say, `No, Missis, I can't take one of dem, 'cause
I don't lub 'em, and I can't hab one I don't lub.' Den Massa, he say, `You must
take one of dese--and den, ef you can't lub him you must find somebody else you
can lub.' Den I say, `O, no, Massa! I can't do dat--I can't hab one ebery day.'
Well, den, by-and-by, Massa he buy tree more, and den Missis say, `Now, Violet,
ones dem is for you.' I say, `I do'no--maybe I can't lub one dem neider;' but she
say, You must hab one ob dese.' Well, so Sam and I we lib along two year--he
watchin my ways, and I watchin his ways.
“At last, one night, we was standin' by de wood-pile togeder, and de moon bery
shine, and I do'no how 'twas, Missis, he answer me, he want a wife, but he didn't
know where he get one. I say, plenty girls in G. He say, `Yes--but maybe I
shan't find any I like so well as you.' Den I say maybe he wouldn't like my ways,
cause I'se an ole woman, and I hab four children by my first husband; and any-
body marry me, must be jest kind to dem children as dey was to me, else I couldn't
lub him. Den he say, `Ef he had a woman 't had children'--mind you, he didn't
say me--`he would be jest as kind to de children as he was to de moder, and dat's
'cordin to how she do by him.' Well, so we went on from one ting to anoder, till
at last we say we'd take one anoder, and so we've libed togeder eber since--and
I's had four children by him--and he neber slip away from me, nor I from him.”
“How are you married in your yard?”
“We jest takes one anoder--we asks de white folks' leave--and den takes one
anoder. Some folks, dey's married by de book; but den, what's de use? Dere's
my fus husband, we'se married by de book, and he sold way off to Florida, and
I's here. Dey wants to do what dey please wid us, so dey don't want us to be
married. Dey don't care what we does, so we jest makes money for dem.
“My fus husband--he young, and he bery kind to me--O Missis, he bery kind
indeed. He set up all night and work, so as to make me comfortable. O, we got
'long bery well when I had him; but he sold way off Florida, and, sence then,
Missis, I jest gone to noting. Dese yer white people dey hab here, dey won't
'low us noting--noting at all--jest gibs us food, and two suits a year--a broad
stripe and a narrow stripe; you'll see 'em, Missis.”
And we did “see 'em;” for Violet brought us the “narrow stripe,” with a re-
quest that we would fit it for her. There was just enough to cover her, but no
hooks and eyes, cotton, or even lining; these extras she must get as she can; and
yet her master receives from our host eight dollars per month for her services.
We asked how she got the “broad stripe” made up.
“O Missis, my husband--he working now out on de farm--so he hab
'lowance four pounds bacon and one peck of meal ebery week; so he stinge
heself, so as to gib me four pounds bacon to pay for making my frock.”
[Query.--Are there any husbands in refined circles who would do more than
this?]
Once, finding us all three busily writing, Violet stood for some moments
silently watching the mysterious motion of our pens, and then, in a tone of
deepest sadness, said--
“O! dat be great comfort, Missis. You can write to your friends all 'bout
ebery ting, and so hab dem write to you. Our people can't do so. Wheder
dey be 'live or dead, we can't neber know--only sometimes we hears dey be
dead.”
What more expressive comment on the cruel laws that forbid
the slave to be taught to write!
The history of the serving-man is thus given:
George's father and mother belonged to somebody in Florida. During the war,
two older sisters got on board an English vessel, and went to Halifax. His
mother was very anxious to go with them, and take the whole family; but her
husband persuaded her to wait till the next ship sailed, when he thought he
should be able to go too. By this delay an opportunity of escape was lost, and
the whole family were soon after sold for debt. George, one sister, and their
mother were bought by the same man. He says, “My old boss cry powerful
when she (the mother) die; say he'd rather lost two thousand dollars. She was
part Indian--hair straight as yourn--and she was white as dat ar pillow.”
George married a woman in another yard. He gave this reason for it:--
“'Cause, when a man sees his wife 'bused, he can't help feelin' it. When he hears
his wife's 'bused, 'tan't like as how it is when he sees it. Then I can fadge for
her better than when she's in my own yard.” This wife was sold up country, but
after some years became “lame and sick--couldn't do much--so her Massa gabe
her her time, and paid her fare to G.”--[The sick and infirm are always provided
for, you know.]--“Hadn't seen her for tree years,” said George; “but soon as I
heard of it, went right down--hired a house, and got some one to take care ob
her--and used to go to see her ebery tree months.” He is a mechanic, and
worked sometimes all night to earn money to do this. His master asks twenty
dollars per month for his services, and allows him fifty cents per week for clothes,
&c. J. says, if he could only save, by working nights, money enough to buy
himself, he would get some one he could trust to buy him; “den work hard as
eber, till I could buy my children, den I'd get away from dis yer.”
“Where?”
“Oh! Philadelphia--New York--somewhere North.”
“Why, you'd freeze to death!”
“Oh, no, Missis, I can bear cold. I want to go where I can belong to myself,
and do as I want to.”
The following communication has been given to the writer
by Captain Austin Bearse, ship-master in Boston. Mr. Bearse
is a native of Barnstable, Cape Cod. He is well known to our
Boston citizens and merchants:
I am a native of the State of Massachusetts. Between the years 1818 and
1830, I was, from time to time, mate on board of different vessels engaged in the
coasting-trade on the coast of South Carolina.
It is well known that many New England vessels are in the habit of spending
their winters on the southern coast in pursuit of this business. Our vessels used
to run up the rivers for the rough rice and cotton of the plantations, which we
took to Charleston.
We often carried gangs of slaves to the plantations, as they had been ordered.
These slaves were generally collected by slave-traders in the slave-pens in Charles-
ton--brought there by various causes, such as the death of owners and the
division of estates, which threw them into the market. Some were sent as
punishment for insubordination, or because the domestic establishment was too
large, or because persons moving to the North or West preferred selling their
slaves to the trouble of carrying them. We had on board our vessels, from time to
time, numbers of these slaves--sometimes two or three, and sometimes as high as
seventy or eighty. They were separated from their families and connexions with
as little concern as calves and pigs are selected out of a lot of domestic animals.
Our vessels used to lie in a place called Poor Man's Hole, not far from the city.
We used to allow the relations and friends of the slaves to come on board and
stay all night with their friends, before the vessel sailed.
In the morning it used to be my business to pull off the hatches and warn them
that it was time to separate; and the shrieks and heart-rending cries at these
times were enough to make anybody's heart ache.
In the year 1828, while mate of the brig “Milton,” from Boston, bound to New
Orleans, the following incident occurred, which I shall never forget:--
The traders brought on board four quadroon men in handcuffs, to be stowed
away for the New Orleans market. An old negro woman, more than eighty years
of age, came screaming after them, “My son, O my son, my son!” She seemed
almost frantic, and when we had got more than a mile out in the harbour we
heard her screaming yet.
When we got into the Gulf Stream, I came to the men, and took off their
handcuffs. They were resolute fellows, and they told me that I would see that
they would never live to be slaves in New Orleans. One of the men was a car-
penter, and one a blacksmith. We brought them into New Orleans, and con-
signed them over to the agent. The agent told the captain afterwards that in
forty-eight hours after they came to New Orleans they were all dead men, having
every one killed themselves, as they said they should. One of them, I know, was
bought for a fireman on the steamer “Post Boy,” that went down to the Balize.
He jumped over, and was drowned.
The others--one was sold to a blacksmith, and one to a carpenter. The par-
ticulars of their death I didn't know, only that the agent told the captain that they
were all dead.
There was a plantation at Coosahatchie, back of Charleston, S. C., kept by a
widow lady, who owned eighty negroes. She sent to Charleston, and bought a
quadroon girl, very nearly white, for her son. We carried her up. She was more
delicate than our other slaves, so that she was
not put with them, but was carried
up in the cabin.
I have been on the rice-plantations on the river, and seen the cultivation of the
rice. In the fall of the year, the plantation hands, both men and women, work
all the time above their knees in water in the rice-ditches, pulling out the grass,
to fit the ground for sowing the rice. Hands sold here from the city, having been
bred mostly to house-labour, find this very severe. The plantations are so deadly
that white people cannot remain on them during the summer time, except at a risk
of life. The proprietors and their families are there only through the winter, and
the slaves are left in the summer entirely under the care of the overseers. Such
overseers as I saw were generally a brutal, gambling, drinking set.
I have seen slavery, in the course of my wanderings, in almost all the countries
in the world. I have been to Algiers, and seen slavery there. I have seen slavery
in Smyrna, among the Turks. I was in Smyrna when our American consul ran-
somed a beautiful Greek girl in the slave-market. I saw her come aboard the brig
“Suffolk,” when she came on board to be sent to America for her education. I
have seen slavery in the Spanish and French ports, though I have not been on their
plantations.
My opinion is, that American slavery, as I have seen it in the internal slave-
trade, as I have seen it on the rice and sugar plantations, and in the city of New
Orleans, is full as bad as slavery in any country of the world, heathen or Chris-
tian. People who go for visits or pleasure through the Southern States cannot
possibly know those things which can be seen of slavery by shipmasters who run
up into the back plantation of countries, and who transport the slaves and produce
of plantations.
In my past days the system of slavery was not much discussed. I saw these
things as others did, without interference. Because I no longer think it right to
see these things in silence, I trade no more south of Mason & Dixon's line.
Austin Bearse. The following account was given to the writer by Lewis
Hayden. Hayden was a fugitive slave, who escaped from
Kentucky by the assistance of a young lady named Delia
Webster, and a man named Calvin Fairbanks. Both were
imprisoned. Lewis Hayden has earned his own character as