became of the coachman I do not know. The carriage was broken to pieces
and thrown into the swamp, and the horses stabbed and left dead upon the
road. The house was gutted, the two poor girls having just time to
escape from a window. They are now living, in great poverty, in one of
the faubourgs. The piano, tables, and chairs were burned before the
house. The feather-beds were ripped up, and the feathers emptied into
the street, where they afforded a delicate footing for some days. The
house stands, and is meant to stand, in its ruined state. It was the
strange sight of its gaping windows and empty walls, in the midst of a
busy street, which excited my wonder, and was the cause of my being told
the story the first time. I gathered other particulars afterward from
eyewitnesses.
The crowd at first intended to proceed to the examination of other
premises, whose proprietors were under suspicion of cruelty to their
slaves; but the shouts of triumph which went up from the whole negro
population of the city showed that this would not be safe. Fearing a
general rising, the gentlemen organized themselves into a patrol, to
watch the city night and day till the commotion should have subsided.
They sent circulars to all proprietors suspected of cruelty, warning
them that the eyes of the city were upon them. This is the only benefit
the negroes have derived from the exposure. In reply to inquiries, I was
told that it was very possible that cruelties like those of Madame
Lalaurie might be incessantly in course of perpetration. It may be
doubted whether any more such people exist; but if they do, there is
nothing to prevent their following her example with impunity as long as
they can manage to preserve that secrecy which was put an end to by
accident in her case.
I could never get out of the way of the horrors of slavery in this
region. Under one form or another, they met me in every house, in every
street; everywhere but in the intelligence pages of newspapers, where I
might read on in perfect security of exemption from the subject. In the
advertising columns there were offers of reward for runaways, restored
dead or alive; and notices of the capture of a fugitive with so many
brands on his limbs and shoulders, and so many scars on his back. But
from the other half of the newspaper, the existence of slavery could be
discovered only by inference. What I saw elsewhere was, however,
dreadful enough. In one house, the girl who waited on me with singular
officiousness was so white, with blue eyes and light hair, that it never
occurred to me that she could be a slave. Her mistress told me
afterward that this girl of fourteen was such a depraved hussy that she
must be sold. I exclaimed involuntarily, but was referred to the long
heel in proof of the child's being of negro extraction. She had the long
heel, sure enough. Her mistress told me that it is very wrong to plead
in behalf of slavery that families are rarely separated; and gave me, as
no unfair example of the dealings of masters, this girl's domestic
history.
The family had consisted of father, mother, and four children, this girl
being the eldest, and the youngest an infant at the breast. The father
was first sold separately, and then the rest of the family were
purchased in the market by the husband of my friend, the mother being
represented to be a good cook and house servant. She proved to be both;
but of so violent a temper that it was necessary to keep her own
children out of her way when she had a knife in her hand, lest she
should murder them. The anxiety of watching such a temper was not to be
borne, and the woman was sold with her infant. Here was the second
division of this family. The behaviour of the eldest girl was so
outrageously profligate, that she was about to be disposed of also. And
yet she was only a fair illustration of the results of the education by
circumstance that slaves receive. When detected in some infamous
practices, this young creature put on air of prudery, and declared that
it gave her great pain to be thought immodest; that, so far from her
being what she was thought, she had no wish to have any other lover than
her master. Her master was so enraged at this--being a domestic Northern
man, and not a planter--that he tied her to the whipping-post and
flogged her severely with his own hands. The story of this dispersed and
wretched family has nothing singular in it. With slight variations, it
may be found repeated in every Southern settlement the traveller visits.
Just about the time that this was happening, a family in the
neighbourhood was poisoned by a slave. I think one died, and the others
had a narrow escape. The poisoner was sold in the market, as the
proprietor could not afford to lose his human property by the law taking
its course.
About the same time the cashier of a bank in New-Orleans sent one of his
slaves out of the way, in order to be undisturbed in the violence which
he meditated against the negro's attached wife. The negro understood the
case, but dared not refuse to go where he was bid. He returned
unexpectedly soon, however; found his home occupied, and stabbed the
defiler of it. The cashier was the stronger man, and, in spite of his
wound, he so maltreated the negro that he expired on the barrow on which
he was being conveyed to jail. Nothing ensued on account of this affair;
though, when the cashier was some time after found to be a defaulter, he
absconded.
I would fain know what has become of a mulatto child in whom I became
much interested at New-Orleans. Ailsie was eight years old, perfectly
beautiful, and one of the most promising children I ever saw. She was
quick, obedient, and affectionate to a touching degree. She had a kind
master and mistress. Her mistress's health was delicate, and the child
would watch her countenance wistfully, in the constant hope of saving
her trouble. She would look very grave if the lady went up stairs with a
languid step, take hold of her gown, and timidly ask, "What, an't ye
well?" I used to observe her helping to dress her mistress's hair, her
little hands trembling with eagerness, her eye following every glance of
the eye which ever looked tenderly upon her. Her master declared he did
not know what to make of the child, she looked so scared, and trembled
so if she was spoken to; and she was, indeed, the most sensitive of
children. As she stood at the corner of the dinner-table to fan away the
flies, she was a picture from which it was difficult to turn away. Her
little yellow headdress suited well with her clear brown complexion and
large soft black eyes; nothing that she could at all understand of the
conversation escaped her, while she never intermitted her waving of the
huge brush of peacock's feathers. Her face was then composed in its
intelligence, for she stood by her mistress's elbow; a station where she
seemed to think no harm could befall her. Alas! she has lost her kind
mistress. Amid the many sad thoughts which thronged into my mind when I
heard of the death of this lady, one of the wisest and best of American
women, I own that some of my earliest regrets were for little Ailsie;
and when I think of her sensibility, her beauty, and the dreadful
circumstances of her parentage, as told me by her mistress, I am almost
in despair about her future lot; for what can her master, with all his
goodness, do for the forlorn little creature's protection? None but a
virtuous mistress can fully protect a female slave, and that too seldom.
Ailsie was born on an estate in Tennessee. Her father is a white
gentleman not belonging to the family, her mother the family cook. The
cook's black husband cherished such a deadly hatred against this poor
child as to be for ever threatening her life, and she was thought to be
in such danger from his axe that she was sent down the river to be taken
into the family where I saw her. What a cruel world, what a hard human
life must Ailsie find that she is born into!
Such facts, occurring at every step, put the stranger on the watch for
every revelation of the feelings of the masters about the relation of
the two races. Some minute circumstances surprised me in this connexion.
At the American Theatre in New-Orleans, one of the characters in the
play which my party attended was a slave, one of whose speeches was, "I
have no business to think and feel."
At a dinner-party where three negroes were waiting, and where Ailsie
stood fanning, a gentleman of very high official rank told a facetious
story, at which everybody laughed heartily (being, indeed, quite unable
to help it, the manner of the narrator was so droll) except a gentleman
next me who had once been a slavetrader. The senator told us of a couple
from the Green Island, Pat and Nancy, who had settled on the
Mississippi, and, in course of time (to use the language of the region),
"acquired six children and nine negroes." Pat had a mind to better his
fortunes, and to go unencumbered higher up the river; and he therefore
explained his plans to Nancy, finishing with, "and so, my darlin', I'll
lave you; but I'll do my best by you; I'll lave you the six dear, nate,
pretty little childer, and I'll take the nine nasty dirty negroes."
While every other American at the table laughed without control, I saw
my neighbour, the former slavetrader, glance up at the negroes who were
in attendance, and use a strong effort not to laugh.
The stranger has great difficulty in satisfying himself as to the bounds
of the unconsciousness of oppression which he finds urged as the
exculpatory plea of the slaveholder, while he mourns over it as the
great hinderance in the way of social reformation. It has been seen that
an audience at the theatre will quietly receive a hit which would
subject the author to punishment if he were an abolitionist. When I
listened to the stories told by ladies to each other in their morning
calls, showing the cleverness of their slaves, I often saw that they
could not but be as fully convinced as I was that their slaves were as
altogether human as themselves. I heard so many anecdotes--somewhat of
the character of the following--that I began to suspect that one use of
slaves is to furnish topics for the amusement of their owners.
Sam was sadly apt to get drunk, and had been often reproved by his
master on that account. One day his master found him intoxicated, and
cried out, "What, drunk again, Sam? I scolded you for being drunk last
night, and here you are drunk again." "No, massa, same drunk, massa;
same drunk."
But enough of this dark side of the social picture. I find myself
dwelling long upon it, and frequently recurring to it, because all other
subjects shrink into insignificance beside it; but these others must not
be forgotten.
The gay visiting season at New-Orleans was over before we arrived, but
we were in several parties. The division between the American and French
factions is visible even in the drawing-room. The French complain that
the Americans will not speak French; will not meet their neighbours even
half way in accommodation of speech. The Americans ridicule the toilet
practices of the French ladies; their liberal use of rouge and pearl
powder. If the French ladies do thus beautify themselves, they do it
with great art. I could not be quite sure of the fact in any one
instance, while I am disposed to believe it from the clumsy imitation of
the art which I saw in the countenance of an American rival or two. I
beheld with strong disgust the efforts of a young lady from Philadelphia
to make herself as French as possible by these disagreeable means. She
was under twenty, and would have been rather pretty if she had given
herself a fair chance; but her coarsely-painted eyebrows, daubed cheeks,
and powdered throat inspired a disgust which she must be singularly
unwise not to have anticipated. If this were a single case it would not
be worth mentioning; but I was told by a resident that it is a common
practice for young ladies to paint both white and red, under the idea of
accommodating themselves to the French manners of the place. They had
better do it by practising the French language than by copying the
French toilet. New-Orleans is the only place in the United States where
I am aware of having seen a particle of rouge.
Large parties are much alike everywhere, and they leave no very distinct
impression. Except for the mixture of languages, and the ample provision
of ices, fans, and ventilators, the drawing-room assemblages of
New-Orleans bear a strong resemblance to the routs and dinner-parties of
a country town in England. Our pleasantest days in the great Southern
city were those which we spent quietly in the homes of intimate
acquaintances. I vividly remember one which I was told was a true
Louisiana day. We ladies carried our workbags, and issued forth by
eleven o'clock, calling by the way for a friend, Ailsie's mistress. The
house we were to visit was a small shaded dwelling, with glass doors
opening into a pretty garden. In a cool parlour we sat at work, talking
of things solemn and trivial, of affairs native and foreign, till
dinner, which was at two. We were then joined by the gentlemen. We left
the dinner-table early, and the gentlemen trundled rocking-chairs and
low stools into the garden, where we sat in the shade all the afternoon,
the ladies working, the gentlemen singing Irish melodies, telling good
native stories, and throwing us all into such a merry mood, that we
positively refused the siesta which we were urged to take, and forgot
what a retribution we might expect from the moschetoes for sitting so
long under the trees. After tea we got to the piano, and were reminded
at last by the darkness of the number of hours which this delightful
Louisiana visit had consumed. We all walked home together through the
quiet streets, the summer lightning quivering through the thick trees in
singular contrast with the steady moonlight.
We should have liked to spend every day thus, with friends who always
made us forget that we were far from home; but a traveller's duty is to
see every variety of society which comes within his reach. I was sought
by some, and met accidentally with other persons who were on the eve of
departure for Texas. Attempts were made to induce me to go myself, and
also to convince me of the eligibility of the country as a place of
settlement for British emigrants, in the hope that the arrival of a
cargo of settlers from England might afford to the Texans a plea of
countenance from the British government. The subject of Texas is now so
well understood, that there is no occasion to enlarge upon the state of
the question as it was two years and a half ago; and besides, if I were
to give a precise account of the conversations between myself and the
friends of the Texan aggression, my story would not be believed. The
folly and romance of some of the agents employed, and the villany which
peeped out of every admission extorted from the advocates of the scheme,
would make my readers as astonished as I was myself, that any attempts
should be made in the neighbourhood of the scene to gain the sympathy of
strangers who were at all above the rank of knaves and fools. Suffice it
that one class of advocates told me that I should be perfectly safe
there, as the inhabitants were chiefly persons who could fight bravely
against the Mexicans, from having nothing to lose, and from their having
been compelled to leave the United States by their too free use of arms:
while the opposite species of agent enlarged, not only on the beauty of
the sunsets and the greenness of the savannahs, but on the delightful
security of living under the same laws as the people of the United
States, and amid a condition of morals kept perfectly pure by Colonel
Austin's practice of having every person whom he conceived to have
offended whipped at the cart's tail; the fact being carefully concealed
that Colonel Austin was at that time, and had been for two years, in
jail in the Mexican capital.
Our friends indulged us in what they knew to be our favourite pleasure,
in country drives. There can be no great choice of drives in the
neighbourhood of a city which stands in a swamp; but such places as were
attainable we reached. One was a ropewalk, 1200 feet long, under a roof.
It looked picturesque, like every other ropewalk that I ever saw; but
what struck me most about it was the sudden and profound repose we
plunged into from the bustle of the city. The cottages of the negroes
were imbowered in green, and the whole place had a tropical air, with
its thickets of fig and catalpa, and its rows of Pride-of-India trees.
This last tree looks to my eye like a shrub which has received mistaken
orders to grow into a tree. Its fragrance is its great charm. The
mixture of its lilach flowers with its green leaves impairs the effect
of the foliage, as far as colour is concerned; and the foliage is,
besides, not massy enough. A single sprig of it is beautiful; and,
probably, its fragrance propitiates the eyes of those who plant it, for
I found it considered a beautiful tree. The dark shades of these
thickets are enlivened by a profusion of roses, and the air is fanned
by myriads of insects' wings. How the negroes make friendship with the
tribes of insects which drive the white man to forego the blessing of
natural shade, I could never understand; but the black never looks more
contented than when he shrouds himself in rank vegetation, and lives in
a concert of insect chirping, droning, and trumpeting.
We were taken to the Battle-ground, the native soil of General Jackson's
political growth. Seeing the Battle-ground was all very well; but my
delight was in the drive to it, with the Mississippi on the right hand,
and on the left gardens of roses which bewildered the imagination. I
really believed at the time that I saw more roses that morning than
during the whole course of my life before. Gardens are so rare in
America, from want of leisure and deficiency of labour, that, when they
do occur, they are a precious luxury to the traveller, especially when
they are in their spring beauty. In the neighbourhood of Mobile, my
relative, who has a true English love of gardening, had introduced the
practice; and I there saw villas and cottages surrounded with a
luxuriant growth of Cherokee roses, honeysuckles, and myrtles, while
groves of orange-trees appeared in the background; but not even these
equalled what I saw, this warm 4th of May, on our way to the
Battle-ground. One villa, built by an Englishman, was obstinately
inappropriate to the scene and climate; red brick, without gallery, or
even eaves or porch; the mere sight of it was scorching. All the rest
were an entertainment to the eye as they stood, white and cool, amid
their flowering magnolias, and their blossoming alleys, hedges, and
thickets of roses. In returning, we alighted at one of these delicious
retreats, and wandered about, losing each other among the thorns, the
ceringas, and the wilderness of shrubs. We met in a grotto, under the
summer-house, cool with a greenish light, and veiled at its entrance
with a tracery of creepers. There we lingered, amid singing or silent
dreaming. There seemed to be too little that was real about the place
for ordinary voices to be heard speaking about ordinary things.
The river was rising, as we were told in a tone of congratulation. The
eddies would be filled, and our voyage expedited. The canes in the
sugar-grounds were showing themselves above the soil; young sprouts that
one might almost see grow. A negro was feed to gather flowers for us,
and he filled the carriage with magnolia, honeysuckle, and roses,
grinning the while at our pleasure, and at his own good luck in falling
in with us.
The Battle-ground is rather more than four miles from the city. We were
shown the ditch and the swamp by which the field of action was bounded
on two sides, and some remains of the breastwork of earth which was
thrown up. There has been great exaggeration about the cotton-bags, of
which there were only a few in a line with the earthen defence, instead
of an entire breastwork, as has been supposed in all the jokes and all
the admiration which have been expended on the expedient. It was a
deadly battle-field. It makes the spectator shudder to see the wide open
space, the unsheltered level, over which the British soldiers were
compelled to march to certain destruction. Never was greater bravery
shown by soldiers; and never, perhaps, was bravery more abused by the
unskilfulness of leaders. The result proves this. The British killed
were nearly 3000: the Americans had six killed and seven wounded. By all
accounts, General Jackson showed consummate ability throughout the whole
brief campaign, and the British leaders an imbecility no less
remarkable.
I was shown a house on a plantation where, twelve days before the
battle, the son of the proprietor was quietly dining at one o'clock,
when a slave ran in and told him that some men in red coats were in the
yard. The young man instantly comprehended that the British had captured
the American scouts. He bolted through the window, and into a canoe, and
crossed the river amid a shower of balls, seized a horse, and galloped
to the city. The troops, dispersed on different points, were collected
by drum and bell; and, between two o'clock and eleven at night, the city
was made ready to abide the enemy's approach. It is still
incomprehensible to the Americans why the British, who actually did
throw a party over the river, did not all step ashore on the opposite
side of the Mississippi, and quietly march the four miles up to the
city, and into it. It could have offered no defence, nor was there any
impediment by the way.
The headquarters of both generals are very conspicuous on the plain. Sir
Edward Pakenham and a party of his officers were spied by the Americans
standing in the balcony of the house they inhabited. A gunner was
ordered to take aim at them. Seeing the importance of the shot, he was
flurried, and struck the river a mile off. He was ordered to retire. He
knew that this was the crisis of his professional fate, and implored
that he might be granted one more chance. He then hit the pillar which
supported the balcony, immediately under the feet of the group of
officers, who hurried pellmell into the house.
After eleven days of housekeeping in New-Orleans we were obliged to
depart, having been fortunate enough to secure berths in a capital boat
which started northward on the 6th of May. The slaves in our temporary
abode had served us intelligently and well. Wishing to see what they
could do, we did not give any orders about our table. We were rarely at
home at dinner, but our breakfasts and occasional dinners were more
luxurious than if we had provided for ourselves. Excellent coffee,
French bread, radishes, and strawberries at breakfast; and at dinner,
broth, fowls, beefsteak, with peas, young asparagus, salad, new
potatoes, and spinach, all well cooked; claret at dinner, and coffee
worthy of Paris after it; this was the kind of provision with which we
were favoured. Everything was done to make us cool. The beds were
literally as hard as the floor. We had a bath of the coldest water
prepared morning and night; all the doors and windows were kept open,
and the curtains drawn, to establish draughts and keep out the sun.
There was ice in the water-jug, ice on the lump of butter, ice in the
wineglass, and icecream for dessert.
Abroad, all was, as in every other American city, hospitality and
gayety. I had rather dreaded the visit to New-Orleans, and went more
from a sense of duty than from inclination. A friendship that I formed
there, though already eclipsed by death, left me no feeling but
rejoicing that I had gone; and I also learned much that was useful in
helping me to interpret some things which met my observation both
previously and subsequently. But my strongest impression of New-Orleans
is, that while it affords an instructive study, and yields some
enjoyment to a stranger, it is the last place in which men are gathered
together where one who prizes his humanity would wish to live.
END OF VOL. I.