By F. Colburn Adams

"An honest tale speeds best being plainly told."

NEW YORK AND AUBURN:

1855.

CONTENTS

PREFACE.

CHAPTER I. — MARSTON'S PLANTATION.

CHAPTER II. — HOW A NIGHT WAS SPENT ON MARSTON'S PLANTATION.

CHAPTER III. — THINGS ARE NOT SO BRIGHT AS THEY SEEM.

CHAPTER IV. — AN UNEXPECTED CONFESSION.

CHAPTER V. — THE MAROONING PARTY.

CHAPTER VI. — ANOTHER SCENE IN SOUTHERN LIFE.

CHAPTER VII. — "BUCKRA-MAN VERY UNCERTAIN."

CHAPTER VIII. — A CLOUD OF MISFORTUNE HANGS OVER THE PLANTATION.

CHAPTER IX. — WHO IS SAFE AGAINST THE POWER?

CHAPTER X. — ANOTHER SHADE OF THE PICTURE.

CHAPTER XI. — MRS. ROSEBROOK'S PROJECT.

CHAPTER XII. — ELDER PEMBERTON PRAISEWORTHY CHANGES HIS BUSINESS.

CHAPTER XIII. — A FATHER TRIES TO BE A FATHER.

CHAPTER XIV. — IN WHICH THE EXTREMES ARE PRESENTED.

CHAPTER XV. — A SCENE OF MANY LIGHTS.

CHAPTER XVI. — ANOTHER PHASE OF THE PICTURE.

CHAPTER XVII. — PLEASANT DEALINGS WITH HUMAN PROPERTY.

CHAPTER XVIII. — A NOT UNCOMMON SCENE SLIGHTLY CHANGED.

CHAPTER XIX. — THEY ARE ALL GOING TO BE SOLD.

CHAPTER XX. — LET US FOLLOW POOR HUMAN NATURE TO THE MAN SHAMBLES.

CHAPTER XX. — A FATHER'S TRIALS.

CHAPTER XXI. — WE CHANGE WITH FORTUNE.

CHAPTER XXII. — THE VICISSITUDES OF A PREACHER.

CHAPTER XXIII. — HOW WE MANUFACTURE POLITICAL FAITH.

CHAPTER XXIV. — MR. M'FADDEN SEES SHADOWS IN THE FUTURE.

CHAPTER XXV. — HOW THEY STOLE THE PREACHER.

CHAPTER XXVI. — COMPETITION IN HUMAN THINGS.

CHAPTER XXVII. — THE PRETTY CHILDREN ARE TO BE SOLD.

CHAPTER XXVIII. — NATURE SHAMES ITSELF.

CHAPTER XXX. — THE VISION OF DEATH HAS PAST.

CHAPTER XXXI. — A FRIEND IS WOMAN.

CHAPTER XXXII. — MARSTON IN PRISON.

CHAPTER XXXIII. — VENDERS OF HUMAN PROPERTY ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ITS MENTAL CAPRICES.

CHAPTER XXXIV. — A COMMON INCIDENT SHORTLY TOLD.

CHAPTER XXXV. — THE CHILDREN ARE IMPROVING.

CHAPTER XXXVI. — WORKINGS OF THE SLAVE SYSTEM.

CHAPTER XXXVII. — AN ITEM IN THE COMMON CALENDAR.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. — IN WHICH REGRETS ARE SHOWN OF LITTLE WORTH.

CHAPTER XXXIX. — HOW WE SHOULD ALL BE FORGIVING.

CHAPTER XL. — CONTAINING VARIOUS MATTERS.

CHAPTER XLI. — NICHOLAS'S SIMPLE STORY.

CHAPTER XLII. — HE WOULD DELIVER HER FROM BONDAGE.

CHAPTER XLIII. — OTHER PHASES OF THE SUBJECT.

CHAPTER XLIV. — HOW DADDY BOB DEPARTED.

CHAPTER XLV. — HOW SLAVEHOLDERS FEAR EACH OTHER.

CHAPTER XLVI. — SOUTHERN ADMINISTRATION OF JUSTICE.

CHAPTER XLVII. — PROSPERITY THE RESULT OF JUSTICE.

CHAPTER XLVIII. — IN WHICH THE FATE OF FRANCONIA IS SEEN.

CHAPTER XLIX. — IN WHICH IS A SAD RECOGNITION.

CHAPTER L. — IN WHICH A DANGEROUS PRINCIPLE IS ILLUSTRATED.

CHAPTER LI. — A CONTINUATION OF THE LAST CHAPTER.

CHAPTER LII. — IN WHICH ARE PLEASURES AND DISAPPOINTMENTS.

CHAPTER LIII. — A FAMILIAR SCENE, IN WHICH PRINGLE BLOWERS HAS BUSINESS.

CHAPTER LIV. — IN WHICH ARE DISCOVERIES AND PLEASANT SCENES.

CHAPTER LV. — IN WHICH IS A HAPPY MEETING, SOME CURIOUS FACTS DEVELOPED, AND CLOTILDA'S HISTORY DISCLOSED.

CHAPTER LVI. — IN WHICH A PLOT IS DISCLOSED, AND THE MAN-SELLER MADE TO PAY THE PENALTY OF HIS CRIMES.

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.

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!