LETTER XXX.
The day before yesterday, the 16th, I left Cincinnati; my kind, excellent host and hostess accompanied me on board the steamer, and overwhelmed me even at the last moment, with proofs of their good-will, all light and agreeable to bear away with me, because they were bestowed with a warm heart, and they were to accompany me to Sweden, and there remind me of the beautiful Ohio and my Cincinnati home. The good Jothun, Mr. S., presented me with a collection of shells from the Ohio river, some of which are extremely beautiful.
It was a lovely sunny day, that on which I commenced my journey, and Cincinnati, its vine-covered hills, its lovely villas, and the river Ohio were brilliant in the sunshine. There was a sunny warmth in my soul likewise, and the proofs of kindness which I received from many friends in the city during the last few days, were to me like the soft summer wind; but I was very weary after a violent headache, and the excitement of departure. I longed for rest and silence.
The giant steamer, Belle Key, moved slowly along, thundering down the clear blue river, the lofty shores of which, with their ever-changing scenes glided past, cheerful and lovely. The river became broader, the hills sank lower, the villas disappeared, farm-houses and log-houses recurred at more and more distant intervals, the banks became more wooded and desolate. We approached the Mississippi.
What is going on? Why do the people rush out from the fields? A chase upon the water?
A stag with branching antlers swims across the river from the Kentucky to the Ohio shore. He is not far from the free shore. But two boats are after him from the slave shore. His proud antlers raise themselves high above the water. He swims rapidly; perhaps he may save himself! He is just at the shore. Ah! and now a boat puts out from the free shore towards him. Woe betide the poor fugitive! He turns round. The two boats from Kentucky meet him. Now he is surrounded. I see the oars lifted from all the three boats to give him his death-blow. That beautiful head is still seen above the water. Now fall the oars!—I turn away my eyes. The steamer rounds a point. We have lost sight of the wild chase. The defenceless fugitive is in the power of his pursuers.
I am weary and dejected. The air is pleasant, the water bright and blue; heaven also is bright. Does the deer find no peaceful meadows beyond the river of death, where he may rest after the wild chase?
The steamer, Belle Key, is of the family of river-giants. I call it Noah's Ark, because it has more than a thousand animals on board, on the deck below us and above us. Immense oxen, really mammoth oxen, so fat that they can scarcely walk,—cows, calves, horses, mules, sheep and pigs, whole herds of them send forth the sound of their gruntings from the lower deck, and send up to us between times, anything but agreeable odours; and on the deck above us turkeys gobble,—geese, ducks, hens and cocks, crow and fight, and little pigs go rushing wildly about, and among the poultry-pens.
On the middle deck, where we, the sons and daughters of Adam are bestowed, everything in the meantime is remarkably comfortable. The ladies' saloon is large and handsome, and the passengers few, and of an excellent class. I have my state-room to myself. I am like a princess in a fairy-tale. My cavalier for the journey, Mr. Lerner H., is one of the energetic and warm-hearted class of American men, and add to this a very agreeable fellow also, who in his behaviour to “a lady entrusted to his care,” has that blending of brotherly cordiality and chivalric politeness, which makes the man of the New World the most agreeable companion that a lady can desire. No screaming children disturb the quietness on board; and we do not allow the grunting of the swine, and other animal sounds in our Noah's Ark to trouble us. All these animals are destined to the Christmas market of New Orleans.
December 17th.—The Mississippi-Missouri flows turbidly and broad with its increasing waters, full of drift-wood, trees, branches and stumps, which give us sometimes no inconsiderable shocks. The shores are low and swampy, covered with the now leafless woods of a kind of poplar called cotton-wood. It is horribly monotonous. The weather is grey and cold, and everything looks grey around us. We have now Missouri on our right and Kentucky on our left. I am sorry not to have had time to see more of Kentucky and her people. They are peculiar in appearance and in disposition. They are tall and very limber in their joints, and are a dexterous, generous, freespoken, good-natured, cordial, droll people, whom I should have become very fond of. And then, “Skyrnir's Glove,” the mammoth cave, and the little green river which flows there.—I ought to have seen them! Lerner H. talks about that cave till I almost fancy I have seen it.
I must tell you of a pleasure which he prepared for me one evening on the Ohio. He asked me whether I should like to hear the negroes of the ship sing, and led me for this purpose to the lowest deck, where I beheld a strange scene. The immense engine-fires are all on this deck, eight or nine apertures all in a row; they are like yawning fiery throats, and beside each throat stood a negro naked to his middle, who flung in fire-wood. Pieces of wood were passed onwards to these feeders by other negroes, who stood up aloft on a large open place between them and yet another negro, who standing on a lofty stack of firewood, threw down with vigorous arms food for the monsters on deck. Lerner H. encouraged the negroes to sing; and the negro up aloft on the pile of fire-wood began immediately an improvised song in stanzas, and at the close of each, the negroes down below joined in vigorous chorus. It was a fantastic and grand sight to see these energetic, black athletes lit up by the wildly flashing flames from the fiery throats, whilst, amid their equally fantastic song, they kept time most exquisitely, and hurled one piece of firewood after another into the yawning, fiery gulf. Everything went on with so much life, and so methodically, and the whole scene was so accordant and well arranged that it would have produced a fine effect upon any theatre whatever. The improvisation was brought finally to a close with a hint that the singers would become doubly merry, and would sing twice as well, if they could have a little brandy when they reached Louisville, and that they could buy brandy if they could have a little money, and so on.
Nor did Mr. H. allow them to be mistaken in their anticipations.
We are still in the grain-district of the Mississippi, but shall soon reach the region of cotton. We have now Arkansas on our right hand, and Tennesee on our left, both slave-states rich in natural beauty, but still rude in spiritual and material culture.
December 20th.—We are now in the region of cotton. The shores on both sides are low and swampy, covered by forests of cotton-wood trees, now leafless. Here and there however are interspersed cotton-plantations with the white slave-villages and the habitations of the planters; and one sees swarthy figures moving about on the grey soil gathering the cotton-pods that still remain upon the blackening shrubs. I went on shore to-day with Mr. Lerner H. at a cotton-plantation, and broke off some branches with tufts of cotton still hanging upon them, from shrubs which grew round a slave-hut. The tufts of cotton are extremely beautiful as they come forth from the opening capsules of the seed-pod. Every seed is embedded in a pillow of cotton. Cotton is the envelope of the seed. You shall see it when I return.
We have now Arkansas on our right, and the State of Mississippi on our left. Along the river lie the canebrakes, thick reed-like canes, which stand up as impenetrable as a wall between the water and the land.
Thus far came Father Marquetta upon his sun-bright Mississippi journey, from the North; thus far also from the South advanced the first European discoverer, the Spaniard, Ferdinand de Soto.
The discovery of the Mississippi is two poems; the one heautiful and sun-bright as its Idyllian islands and its clear waters in the North, the other as melancholy, as tragically gloomy as the tint and the scenery of the river in its southern portion, through which I am now journeying. The hero of the former is the mild, unpretending Father Marquetta. The hero of the latter is the proud warrior Ferdinand de Soto.
Soto had been the favourite companion of Pizarro in the conquest of Peru; he had distinguished himself at the storming of Cusco, and was favoured by Charles V. in Spain, and rewarded both with honour and wealth, and finally appointed by him Governor of Cuba. But his proud ambitious mind desired more. Fooled by false prophets, and most of all by his own heart, he desired to fit out an expedition at his own cost, which should advance from Florida into North America, and there conquer for the Spaniards richer treasure, and more beautiful lands than those of Mexico and Peru. And his own belief possessed so great a power of influencing the mind of the Spaniards, that vast numbers of young men of noble birth and good fortune enlisted under his command. They sold their vineyards, their houses, and valuables to purchase expensive arms, equipments and horses. Out of multitudes who offered themselves as volunteers on this new expedition of discovery he selected six hundred young men, all adventurous, wealthy and proud as himself.
A more magnificent spectacle was never beheld than that of the landing of these proud cavaliers on the shore of the New World; their banners and standards floating in the air, in the soft air of Florida, full, as it were, of youthful vitality, of the intoxicating elixir of life. Thus galloped they onward in burnished armour, “very gallant, with silk upon silk,” along the shore between the sea and the unknown land which they believed to be full of gold and great cities.
Ferdinand de Soto, who wished to prevent all possibility, either for himself or his troop, of retreat, which might be desired by fickleness or by fear, sent back all his vessels to Cuba, and advanced with his warriors into the wildernesses of the New World. They took with them weapons of all kinds, work-tools, as well as chains and bloodhounds for the subjection of the natives.
It was in the month of May, 1539.
And ever, as they advanced onward through the wilderness, mass was punctually performed by priests with all the pomp of Catholic observance, and ever as they advanced onward they practised cruelty against the natives, whilst in their own camp they occupied themselves with the excitement of desperate gaming.
The wanderings of the first year westward, thence into Georgia, which was then, like all the rest of the undetermined south-eastern continent, called Florida. Their journeyings were difficult and often dangerous from the hostility of the Indians. They found abundance of maize, but no gold and no cities, only small Indian villages. Nor could the natives inform them of any land in which gold was to be found. Some of the adventurers now desired that their leader should turn back, but he replied—
“I will not turn back till I have seen the poverty of the country with my own eyes.”
And he ordered the Indians to be burned or mutilated, in the belief they had intentionally misled him. Other captive Indians, alarmed at this, assured him that gold might be found further towards the north-west. And De Soto and his men journeyed on still farther, plundering and desolating as they went.
The second year brought them into the highlands of Georgia, where they fell in with the peaceful and gentle Cherokee Indians. A number of De Soto's people wished to settle themselves down here in the midst of this beautiful region, to till the soil and enjoy the good things of the earth. But De Soto had promised Spain gold and great cities, and the proud Spaniard would not rest until he had found them. He was an obstinate man of few words, and strong will, and all his attendants yielded themselves to him.
They wandered still farther; advanced into Alabama, where there was a large town called Mavilla (afterwards Mobile). Here the Indians rose up against him. A battle ensued, the Spanish cavalry overcame the enemy; a more bloody Indian battle was never fought on American soil; the town was set on fire; two thousand five hundred Indians are said to have been slain, suffocated or burned; the Spaniards lost a few of their number, and most of their baggage, which perished in the flames with the Indian town.
Spanish ships had, however, in the meantime arrived from Cuba at Pensacola Bay, near Mavilla. But De Soto had not yet found either silver or gold; the flames of Mavilla had destroyed the curious collections which he had made, and too proud to acknowledge his hopes defeated, he resolved to send no news of himself until he had obtained that for which he sought. He turned away from the sea-coast and proceeded north-westward, in the State of Mississippi. His little band was now diminished to five hundred men.
In the northern parts of Mississippi they were surprised by winter, with severe frost and snow. But maize was still standing in the fields, and the Spaniards were able to obtain a supply of food and shelter for the winter also, in the deserted huts of the Chickasaw Indians. But they had not yet found gold; neither had the Indians golden ornaments. They were poor, but loved freedom. When spring came, and De Soto demanded from them an escort to carry the baggage of his soldiers, the Indians set fire to his camp, and their fierce war-whoop rang through the night and amid the flames.
The Spaniards lost here the clothing and the stores which had been saved from the fires of Mavilla. They were now as naked as their Indian enemies, and they suffered from cold and hunger; but with his difficulties increased the pride and obstinacy of de Soto. Was it for him who had promised to conquer the treasures of the world, to return with half-naked men despoiled of their all?
He ordered the chains to be taken from the limbs of the captives, and new weapons to be forged; he clothed his troops in garments of skin and mats of ivy-leaves, and advanced still farther west, in search of the land of gold.
For seven days they wandered through a wilderness of forests and morasses. They then reached the Indian settlements on the banks of the Mississippi.
Ferdinand de Soto was the first European who beheld the mighty river.
The lapse of three centuries has not changed its character. It was then described as broad and turbid, flowing on with a powerful current, and with a quantity of trees and timber always floating on its stream.
In May, 1541, the Spaniards crossed the river in large boats, which they themselves had built. De Soto proceeded into Arkansas. Here the Spaniards were saluted by the natives as children of the Sun, and the blind were brought to them that they might receive their sight from the children of the light.
“Pray only to God who dwells in heaven,” replied De Soto, “and He will give you what you need.”
Following his dark impulse, De Soto advanced still farther towards the north-west, and finally reached the highlands of the White River, two hundred miles from the Mississippi. But neither did these mountains yield gold nor precious stones!
De Soto and his people took up their winter quarters in an Indian town on the banks of the White River, Washita, among a peaceful Indian tribe, who were employed in agriculture, and who had fixed towns. The young cavaliers practised upon the unoffending natives every cruelty which their unbridled caprice suggested. De Soto, it is said, had no pleasure in cruelty; but the lives and rights of the Indians were counted as nothing by him.
In the following spring De Soto determined to descend the Washita to its junction, and to obtain tidings of the sea. He bewildered himself among the morasses which border the Red River and its tributaries. In one province called Guachoya, he inquired from the chief how far it was thence to the sea? The chief could not tell. Were there settlements through the country from that point to the junction of the river? He was told that the whole country there was an uninhabitable swamp. De Soto, unwilling to credit such discouraging intelligence, sent men on horseback to examine the land southward along the Mississippi. In eight days they were not able to advance farther than thirty miles, they were so constantly impeded by morasses, by the denseness of the forests, and the impenetrable cane-brakes.
The governor heard their report in gloomy silence. Horses and men were dying around him, and the Indians were becoming more and more dangerous. He attempted to overawe a tribe of Indians near Natchez by saying that he was of supernatural descent, and therefore demanded of them obedience and tribute.
“You say that you are the child of the sun,” replied the chief, “dry up this river and I will believe you!”
Ferdinand de Soto could no longer overawe or punish. His arrogance and his stubborn pride were now subdued by a gloomy melancholy, and his health began to decline under the conflict, with adversity and suffering. He was attacked by a malignant fever, during which he was neither cared-for nor visited as his state required. His little company had now melted away to three hundred men.
When he felt his death approach he called around him the remnant of his faithful followers, who obeyed him to the last, and named his successor.
The following day he died. His soldiers pronounced
his eulogy by sorrowing for his loss. The priests
chaunted over his body the first requiem which was ever
heard by the waters of the Mississippi. In order to
conceal his death, they wrapped his body in a mantle,
and, in the depth of night, bore him out upon the Mississippi
and sank his body silently into the middle of the
stream.
It was now again May, and the spring burst forth gloriously over the Mississippi, but De Soto rose up no more to meet it.
“The discoverer of the Mississippi,” adds the historian, to whom I am much indebted for the above, “slept beneath its waters. For four years he had wandered to and fro over a great portion of the continent in search of gold, but had found nothing so remarkable as the place of his burial.”
Father Marquetta slumbered at the foot of the altar, without sickness and sorrow, after a life of peaceful conquest, and uninterrupted success; and Ferdinand de Soto, slowly dying amid morasses and adversities, his proud heart the prey of anxiety and of humiliation——what pictures they present! Has poetry anything brighter than the former, anything more gloomy than the latter?
December 21st.—The Mississippi flows grey, turbid, and broad; still broader and still more turbid it seems to me under this grey, chilly, wintry sky. Its waters become more and more swollen every day, and the shores become still more flat and swampy, bordered with cotton-wood and cane-brake. Huge blocks of timber, trees, and all kind of things float along the Mississippi, all telling of wreck and desolation. This great river seems to me like the waters of the Deluge, and they bear along with them a vast register of sin. Our magnificent Noah's Ark, however, more cosmopolitan than its ancient predecessor, floats upon the great cosmopolitan waters with an easy conscience, and is such a capital place altogether, that though I sometimes think of the Deluge and the Mississippi register of sin, and of De Soto's fate in these regions, and see the impression of his spirit stamped upon the gloomy landscape, upon the grey earth and sky, yet even so musing, I cannot but feel cheerful of mood. I seem to see myself here, like a citizeness of the world, conveyed along by the great citizen of the world; and thus I know that I shall now become acquainted with its geographical history to its very close, and that I shall see that beautiful Cuba and the life of the tropics; and thus, I think——many thoughts.
Everything on board is quiet, and all goes on with order and propriety. I spend the forenoons by myself, read a little in the “History of America,” and in Buchanan's “Journal of Man,” and let my thoughts flow with the stream forth into the ocean. The afternoons and evenings are passed in company with some agreeable passengers on board. At meal-times Mr. Lerner H. always stands ready in the saloon to conduct me to table, and in the morning extends to me his hand, with a brotherly salutation. He sits beside me at table, mentions the various dishes to me, and tells me what I may eat, and always is right; is charming and agreeable in every way; reminds me often in his manner of our Captain G., and resembles him also, inasmuch as he abuses his own head for being badly furnished, whilst he is possessed of a very excellent, acute, and sound intellect. How it may be with regard to his acquired knowledge I cannot say, but this I know, that these strong practical characters, when they are united to a warm heart and a noble disposition, are to me, at the same time both a repose and a refreshment. A man who from his own acquired property, purchases and furnishes a house for his father and sister, is one whom I should like to have for a brother; but not for the sake of the house.
The animals which are both below and above us, amuse me also, all except the pigs, which I would were all of them drowned together in the Mississippi, because they send such repulsive odours up to our piazza every now and then. Their various voices are not at all unpleasing to hear at a distance, and they all look in such good condition, and are so well off, that I generally once a-day make a round of salutation among them. The oxen are so fat that they can hardly get up when they have laid themselves down; and they are obliged to be roused to that every morning, by the keen caresses of the whip.
I must now tell you about some new acquaintance whom I have made on board. First two young sisters from Vermont, real rose-buds in their exterior, and with souls of the purest crystal; genuine daughters of New England, even in this, that though they might live in ease in their own home, they prefer as teachers to earn their own bread, and thus obtain an independent life for themselves. You would be as much fascinated with them as I am. The eldest sister is twenty-five, and is now on her way to undertake the management of a ladies' seminary in the state of Mississippi. The younger is only seventeen, and is going as a pupil in the school where her sister is teacher. Both are most charming girls, and both have each their favourite brother, of whom they cannot say enough in praise, and whose portraits they have shown me. Their parents are dead. They are here quite alone on the vessel. Sometimes they stand together on the piazza, and sing duets together very sweetly.
The eldest is the loveliest type of the young teacher of the New World, that young woman, who although delicate and slender in figure, and gifted with every feminine grace, stands more stedfastly upon her ground than the Alps or the pyramids of the earth; who understands Euclid and Algebra as well as any master of arts, and who understands better than they how to manage a school of unmanageable boys.
“I love to rule little boys,” said Miss G., with a smile, which had a good deal of conscious power mingled with its amiability. And with this power of goodness and beautiful womanliness, she goes calmly to assume her vocation of teacher; not merely however as the teacher, but with the feeling of being one of the young mothers of humanity.
And I do not know any image more beautiful. Such young women are the true heroines of romance of our day.
When I inquired whence that amiable young girl had derived both her strength and her gentle grace, her lofty view of the nobility of life, and the purpose of humanity, I was presented with a sweet and gravely beautiful image of her deceased mother.
“I remember,” said she, as we sate together one evening in the twilight, “I remember how she used to go out with me in the morning when I was a little girl, and wander over the green hills whilst the dew was yet on the grass; and how she would show me the little clover-flowers on the field-turf, which my foot trod, and let me see their perfect beauty, and taste how sweet they were with their honied juice!”
Bright tears shone in the beautiful eyes of the speaker. The little clover-flower had raised its head. It had become human.
I here saw once more Hiram Powers' American, but not merely in marble, in living reality.
My other agreeable acquaintance on board, are a gentleman between forty and fifty, with one of those pure, handsome countenances, which one cannot do otherwise than put one's entire trust in, and which reminds me of that of our king, Gustavus Adolphus II., from its frankness and manliness, although it has less of the warlike in expression. My new friend is somewhat phlegmatic and contemplative. His conversation gives me especial pleasure. Do not be afraid if I tell you that he has lived long in the Southern States, as a planter and a slave-owner; you may see immediately by his beautiful deep blue eyes, that he was the best of masters in the world. Are you afraid that I am in love with him, and in spirit do you see me give him my hand, and settle down on a cotton plantation on the Mississippi, in the midst of negro slaves?
Yes, if I were younger, and if my life's purpose were less decided than it now is, I confess that there is here and there one of these American gentlemen, with their energy, their cordiality, and chivalric spirit, who might be dangerous to my heart. But as it now is, I receive every sentiment of cordial liking which is evinced toward me, by man or by woman, with calm gratitude, as a cream on the good food of life, as the sunbeam and the spring-breeze, which makes the day beautiful. I seek not for them, but when they come, I enjoy them as flowers given by the hand of the all-good Father.
But now as particularly regards this agreeable gentleman, he is already married, and is travelling with his family to Cuba where, on account of the health of his wife, they will spend the winter, and after that proceed to Europe. His wife is an invalid, but has the same character of seriousness and gentleness as himself. Both husband and wife appear to be sincerely attached to each other. Why should such people be slave-owners? or rather, why could not all slave-owners be such people?
The planter's wife told me that her husband never was able to enjoy real peace of mind on the plantations, for that the thought of his slaves, and the wish to do them justice and to treat them well, disturbed him day and night; he was always afraid of not doing enough for them.
We are now near Wicksburg, a city of bad reputation on the Mississippi, but a city also which shows the ability of the North Americans for self-government. A few years since a band of desperate gamblers and adventurers settled themselves down there. They set up a gambling-club and decoyed young men thither; purposely excited quarrels, and fought with pistols in the streets, and even in houses, and committed every kind of outrage. The wise men of the city assembled and announced to the gamblers that they must either vacate the city within eight days or that they would be seized and hanged. The gamblers treated the announcement with scorn, and gambled and quarrelled, and had their pistol-fights as before. When the eight days of grace were past, the friends of order in the city assembled, seized them, and hanged the one who was the worst of the set, and then putting the rest in a boat, they turned them adrift on the Mississippi. Such summary treatment is called Lynch-law, and is the self-assumed administration of law, by a sense of justice, where there exists no ordinary executive power able to administer the law, according to its usual forms. After this execution, which I believe occurred last year, Wicksburg became a creditable place.
We shall soon leave the region of cotton for that of sugar. But when shall we arrive at the region of summer? It is constantly cold and cheerless.
December 22nd.—Now we are there! Now we are there! And summer breezes and sunshine surround us! But—But I must tell you consecutively that which has formed a turning point in my whole state of feeling.
This is the seventh day of my journey down the Mississippi. When I came out on the piazza this morning, I felt as if I were in an enchanted world. The sweetest summer breezes caressed me, the softest blue heaven lay over the Mississippi and the open, cultivated fields on its banks, snowy masses of summer-cloud were chased by the warm breeze, and upon the verdant meadows which covered the shores shone out lovely habitations, standing in groves of orange-trees, shrubberies of roses, cypresses, and cedars. An indescribably mild and delicious life of beauty breathed in everything and over everything. Everything was changed. We had, below Memphis, entered the region of sugar, or the country in which the sugar-cane is cultivated, as well as cotton and maize. We had passed Natchez, where formerly a powerful Indian tribe had worshipped the sun, and maintained a perpetual fire; a place with bloody memories. We had left the city of the bloody memories behind us; we had left behind us the States of Mississippi and Arkansas. We were now in Louisiana, which embraced both shores of the river. We were speeding into the bosom of the south, and it received us with a warm heart. So I felt it, and my own heart expanded itself to every gentle power of life and of nature. I sate silently aft on the piazza the whole forenoon, in a sort of quiet intoxication of enjoyment, inhaling the delicious atmosphere and the southern landscape, thrilled with the enchanting aspect of heaven and earth, and the indescribable soft mild air which was diffused through infinite space between them.
It was noon. The air became more and more delicious, and more and more animated became the scenes on the river-banks. Caravans of black men and women were seen driving out from the planter's-house to the fields. After them came one or two buggies, or cabriolets, in which were probably the overseers or the masters themselves. I gazed on the whole scene in that spirit of human love in which, to keep one's self in good-humour one believes the best of all men, and in which one endeavours to see every thing and all circumstances on the sunny side.
Two hours later I still sate aft on the piazza, and inhaled the same mild, delicious atmosphere; still beheld the same scene of southern beauty, but gazed upon it with a heart full of bitterness. Yes, for a dark picture had been unfolded before my gaze, a picture which I never shall forget, which perpetually, like a spectre of the abyss will step between me and the memory of that enchantmg veil, which for a moment captivated and darkened my vision.
I sate and gazed upon that beautiful scene, as one looks at the scene of a theatre. I enjoyed with childish delight the decorations. Then came my new friend, the planter, and seated himself in an arm-chair on the piazza. We spoke a few words about the deliciousness of the air, which he enjoyed as much as I did. Then we sate silently contemplating the scenery of the shores. We saw the caravans of slaves and their overseers proceeding over the fields. I said to my neighbour, in that spirit of human-love which I have mentioned,—
“There is a great deal more happiness and comfort in this life (the slaves' life), than one commonly imagines.”
The planter turned to me his beautiful head, with a glance which I shall never forget; there was astonishment, almost reproach in it, and a profound melancholy.
“Oh!” said he in a low voice, “you know nothing of that which occurs on these shores; if you did, you would not think so. Here is much violence and much suffering! At this season in particular, and from the time when the cotton is ready to pluck, a great deal of cruelty is practised on the plantations around here. There are plantations here where the whip never rests during all these months. You can have no idea of such flogging.”
I will not repeat those scenes which the planter related to me, scenes which he himself had witnessed of violence, cruelty and suffering, during more than fourteen years; abominations which finally drove him thence, which drove him to sell his plantation, and leave the Slave States for ever. I will merely introduce some of this excellent man's words.[1]
“I have known men and women who were actual devils towards their slaves; whose pleasure it was to torment them.
“People can flog a negro almost to death, and yet not let a drop of blood flow. The strip of cow-hide which is used in-doors, can cause the most horrible torture without any mark being left.
“Women are not unfrequently the most horrible tormentors of the house-slaves; and I would rather be one of the field-hands than the house-slave of a passionate woman. The institution of slavery seems to change the very nature of woman.
“Slavery is destructive of the white. I have known young men and women, amiable in all respects, of the most attractive manners and dispositions, but towards their slaves they were unjust and severe.
“There are naturally exceptions. There are good and tender masters and mistresses, but these are few. The rule is, that slavery blinds and hardens the mind of the slave-owner from childhood upwards.
“The state of things is considerably improved of late years, and still is improving. Light is beginning to enter this country; people are no longer afraid of speaking. A few years ago, if a person had published a seventh part of what I have now told you, he would have been shot without any further process. The slave-owner now acknowledges that the eye of the public is directed to him. It makes him more careful. Slaves, for the last ten or twelve years, have been better clothed and fed in this part of the country than they used to be; but sadly too much injustice, and sadly too much cruelty exists still, and must always exist so long as this institution lasts. And it is my conviction that it will soon become ‘the question’— the question of life and death within the American Union.
“Even now a man makes no demur about shooting down a negro whom he suspects of intending to run away, and the law is silent on all such acts of violence. I have seen many slaves severely wounded from having been shot at under such circumstances; but one only killed.
“Passion, and that of the most frantic description, is common in the treatment of slaves.
“The law is no protection to the slave. It is nominally so, but it is not any actual defence. The slave suffers from his master; the lawyers shut their eyes to the affair as long as they can; and the negro cannot be a witness in a court of justice.
“They talk of public opinion; but public opinion is here as yet, for the most part, the product of demagogues. And the cotton interest is its only conscience. Many people see all this as very wrong, and deplore it, but they are silent, from the fear of involving themselves in trouble.
“The festivals of the slaves are for the most part a fiction. On some plantations the slaves are allowed to dance at Christmas, if the cotton is picked and the sugar is ground; but when the harvest is late, as it is this year, the festival is put off to eternity; and for the greater number it always remains there. If the harvest has been good and the work is done, then the negroes may sometimes dance.
“Hitherto no religious instruction has been allowed to the slave on the plantations, nor is it even to this hour. But God knows how it has happened, some of these poor creatures have, notwithstanding, got hold of some of the truths of the Gospel, and you can scarcely imagine the eagerness with which they listen to every word. I know two plantations where the slaves have regular Christian instruction, and it is very probable that this may spread and produce a change in the relationship between slave and master.
“The time is perhaps not far distant when public opinion will become a real defence to the slave, and more so than law can ever be.
“People are becoming compelled to more justice and gentleness towards their slaves, for their own safety. I have known times here, when there was not a single planter who had a calm night's rest; they then never lay down to sleep without a brace of loaded pistols at their side.
“If people would only attempt to treat the slave with justice and with reason, they would be astonished at the results of these methods. The negro is in a high degree susceptible of kindness and justice. He is disposed to subordination under any real superior, and if the whites would avail themselves of such means they would be able to govern the negro, or at all events, he would work for them without the whip.
“I never allowed the whip to be used on my plantation to drive them to work; there was no need of it. Justice, regularity, reason, sufficed with them; and they worked well. I only allowed the whip to be used (and one cannot in the present uncultivated condition of the negroes do without the whip on the plantations) as a punishment for theft and quarrels; but for driving them to their work it is not at all necessary.
“I am convinced that slaves might become free servants, and as such would work very well. All those dangers which are predicted in emancipation are, in my opinion, mere dreams. If emancipation were to take place gradually and wisely, it would then proceed without danger or difficulty. The experiments which some persons, and among these Mr. Macdonald and Mr. Henderson, have tried with their slaves, have proved this.
“Education, accompanied by a prospect of emancipation, would be the right means.
“But a great many things must be changed here before such an idea as this becomes general. I know men of high religious professions who have been the most cruel of slave-owners.
“And if I were to divulge all that I have seen, and that I know has taken place, and still takes place in these States, it would be enough to make the hair stand on end on the head of every right-minded person.
“The histories of fugitive slaves, some of which I have read, are not always to be relied upon. I often see that they fabulate, and there is no need of fabulation to make the condition of the slave horrible. The reality is worse than any fiction. And if I were a slave, I should—oh, I should certainly—leap into the river, and put an end to my life!”
These words, and the narratives with which they were interspersed of fearful things which have occurred, and are still of daily occurrence on these shores, mingled themselves like a poisoned wind with the summer breezes which still caressed me. I beheld the old slave hunted to death because he dared to visit his wife,—beheld him mangled, beaten, recaptured, fling himself into the water of the Black River, over which he was retaken into the power of his hard master. And the law was silent!
I beheld a young woman struck, for a hasty word, upon the temples, so that she dropped down dead! And the law was silent!
I heard the law, through its jury, adjudicate between a white man and a black, and sentence the latter to be flogged, when the former only was guilty. And they who were honest among the jurymen in vain opposed the verdict!
I beheld here, on the shore of the Mississippi, only a few months since, a young negro girl fly from the maltreatment of her master, and he a professor of religion, and fling herself into the river.
I saw multitudes of captives, men and women, condemned to labour early and late, deprived of every ray of that light which could give hope to captivity, and prevented from hearing the voice of the Saviour, which says, “Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden;” debarred from all this by men who call themselves Christians. But forgive me, my Agatha! Why should your eyes be tormented with these gloomy pictures? I would that I could avoid seeing them. But the effect of them will never leave me. There was an end of all my enjoyment of the air and the beauty of the South. I seemed to hate my own kind who could perpetrate such cruelties and such injustice. I hated those who could gloss all this over for the interests of trade. I was indignant with myself for having wished to spare myself, to blind myself, to what I must have known would be the inevitable consequences of the institution of slavery. Yes, I ought to have known it; but I thought that it now no longer could be so!
Georgia and Carolina have, however, allowed the introduction of Christianity among the slaves. I had heard in Georgia and Carolina, the children of Africa, burst forth into songs of praise of their Redeemer!
But here, in the beautiful southern land of the Mississippi Valley, it was worse than heathenism! Mississippi, thou great Noah's flood, now do I know thy history to the end!
But in the midst of its darkest career, I have seen the conscience of the South glance brightly upwards in a pure eye, directed towards heaven, in a warm and honest heart; and this is my consolation and my hope. The sunshine on the Mississippi is no mere lie. “Darkness was upon the face of the deep, but the spirit of God moved over the waters——.”
We have passed Baton Rouge, as the political capital of Louisiana is called, situated upon a high bluff, upon the lofty shore of the Mississippi. A fine capitol commands the little city, and a magnificent State prison, just completed, stands with its foundations in the waters of the Noah's flood.
The Mississippi is at this point very broad. There are in the river sand-banks and verdant islands. Its waters are now clearer; the sun shines; the scenery of the shores is pleasing and quiet: plantations, orange groves, white slave-villages, amid the green fields; extensive views beneath the mild heavens of summer. The river is full of vessels, steamers, boats, and barges. We are approaching the gay city of New Orleans.
I had some conversation to-day with our stewardess, a pretty, well-disposed mulatto-girl. I found her in her little cabin busily studying a large alphabet. I had seen her twice before so employed. “The steward,” she said, “had promised to teach her to read in secret. He could read, that he could!” She longed so much to be able to read. I found her one day in our saloon, standing before the open Bible, which always lies upon the table there. I asked her what she was doing. “Oh, this book,” said she; “I turn and I turn over its leaves, and wish that I understood what is on them. I try and try; I should be so happy if I could read, but I cannot.”
We are approaching New Orleans, “that gay city.” In a couple of hours we shall be there. All the animals in Noah's Ark make themselves heard.
Far in the South, but without sun, at least for the present. It shone brightly, however, as we arrived at the Crescent city, which in the form of a half-moon stands upon a broad tongue of land between the Mississippi and Lake Pontchartrain, into which great inland-sea the waters of the Gulf of Mexico enter.
No less than three steamers had been blown up a short time before our arrival, one of them was quite new, and was out on an expedition of pleasure with several of the most wealthy people of New Orleans on board. Many of these were very severely hurt, and two killed.
Our Noah's Ark however has borne us and all the animals safely to land.
The harbour which we entered was beautiful and inviting in its crescent form; but the roadstead was bad, and the quay, which was of wood, ill-built.
On the arm of my faithful cavalier, Lerner H., I went on shore, and up to a magnificent building resembling the Pantheon at Rome, shining out white with its splendid columns, not of marble, but of stucco. This was the Hotel St. Charles, and here we at first took up our quarters.
But when I found that for a cold little room with an immense bed up three pair of stairs, with the privilege of the great saloon, where I would not go if I could help it, and the privilege of eating a variety of meals which I could not eat without making myself ill, and at hours that did not suit me, when I found that for all this magnificence I must pay three dollars per day, without being able with it all, to enjoy one pleasant hour, I became anxious to find another home.
And another home I soon found, through the kind care of my kind countryman, Mr. Charles S., brother to the Justitierråd. And this morning Lerner H. brought me hither in a carriage amid rain and cold. I am now living in a private boarding-house, with a respectable widow. I have a large handsome room, carpeted and with a fire-place, and two large windows looking out into a market-place planted with young trees still green, and with a grass-plot in the centre. This is La Fayette Square. It is a beautiful and very quiet place. I esteem myself quite happy in my dwelling, for which I pay, together with my board, only ten dollars per week, which is low for New Orleans.
I became acquainted in St. Charles's Hotel with two persons who may hereafter become more to me than mere acquaintance; these are Mr. and Mrs. G. They are from Cincinnati, but are residing, like Mr. Lerner H., through the winter in New Orleans, where both gentlemen have business. Lerner H. had prepared me to like Mrs. G. very much.
When on the morning after my arrival, I went down to breakfast in the great eating-hall, no one was as yet there, and I set myself to guess my new friend's friend from among those who entered.
I beheld ladies enter one after another, all in dresses made high to the throat, with little collars and without caps; and all dressed as much alike, as if they had been modelled from one block. All were delicate, thin, or rather dried up, and looked, it seemed to me, dried up inwardly as well as outwardly. But in this I might be mistaken. Certain it is I thirsted for a little life, a little individuality in the exterior as well as the interior. The Quakeresses are also all alike in costume. But what a clearly impressed individuality one reads in their countenances! Here again it was uniformity devoid of character; the simplicity was monotonous and tiresome. I had not discovered Mrs. G.
I said so to Lerner H. as he sate beside me at breakfast.
“Turn round,” said he, “she sits at the table behind you!” (N.B. We ate at long, narrow tables.)
I turned round and met a gentle, oval, somewhat pale countenance, and a pair of deep, beautiful eyes, a clear forehead, over which the dark-brown hair lay smooth on the temples in bands. That was Mrs. G. She was dressed like all the rest of the ladies, but in black silk; her hair was put up in the same style as the others, but still there was a great difference. She seemed to me a little stiff, but not dry; she was mild and noble.
I made a closer acquaintance with her on Christmas Eve, and on the afternoon of Christmas day, which I spent in company in the great saloon, with a portion of the population of St. Charles's Hotel, and she cordially pleased me. She has those refined, regular features, which belong to American female beauty, and beside this, there is that quiet demeanour, that modest dignified grace which one does not so often meet with among the beauties of the New World. Mr. G., who is a good deal older than his handsome wife, has an animated strongly marked countenance; he is a warm Swedenborgian, and I foresee that we shall have some little contentions on this subject; but all in good part, for he is evidently a good Swedenborgian.
There was dancing in the great saloon. A young, handsome, and evidently consumptive girl waltzed with as much zeal as if she would make an end of herself; and her partner and lover helped her most loyally. I could not feel gay. I thought of Christmas in Sweden and at home. Here they did not understand how to celebrate Christmas. In Sweden however we do understand this festival.
I went to church on Christmas-day, to a grand church, the darkly painted windows of which deprived it of all light, and heard a dry, soul-less sermon. I was not edified, and felt as if New Orleans was a dry and wearisome place. I thought of the Christmas early-morning service in our country churches, of the sledgings thither in the morning-twilight through pine woods, along the fresh snow; I thought of the little cottages in the woods, shining out with their Christmas candles; of the train of small peasant sledges with their bells ringing merrily by the way; of the beautiful church with its dark back-ground of wood beaming with all its lighted windows; of the cheerful scene of light and people within it; those good country folk in their warm costume; I saw the representative of the Diet of Thyreste enter in his wolf-skin cloak at the church door; I saw the children with their beaming glances; I heard the animated, powerful hymn,
“Hail to thee, lovely morning hour!”
Yes that was Christmas life, and Christmas joy!
In New Orleans Christmas is no Christmas. I felt as if I were in a heathen country.
On the evening of Christmas-day I was amused by a free-spoken, original, elderly lady—a somewhat unusual personage among the women of the New World. Mrs. D. is worldly, but witty and peculiar with a vengeance; does not bend to the world, but has the courage to do what she likes, even in dress. And her red velvet blouse which, without a girdle, enwrapped her like a mantle, whether it is becoming or not in company, is very becoming to her tall, strong figure, which had quite a regal appearance, and was a refreshing sight to me. Thanks, Mrs. D.!
If it clears up in the afternoon or in the morning, Mr. Lerner H. will take me to see the slave-market, which is one of the great sights of “the gay city.” I begin now to have a presentiment of why I must go down the Mississippi, and why I must visit New Orleans.
December 27th.—Three days' rain and bad weather in New Orleans; each day worse than the preceding, with sleet and cold. But I am quite well, my little heart; amuse myself in my excellent, cheerful room, and have to-day again one of those inward spring days which sometimes, in the midst of winter, astonish me with overflowing life, when everything within my soul lives and grows in an infinite sunshine; when every thought bursts forth into blossom, and, as it were, produces abundant harvests, in a manner which astonishes and enchants me; when the head and breast feel too narrow for the emotions and the presentiments which are agitating within, and will, as it were, burst forth; when I feel myself to be a citizen of the world, and am ready to embrace the whole world; when I live, live, live! But enough of this. I cannot, nevertheless, describe the animating impulse within me.
I embrace you and mama in the fulness of my heart; and now close and send off this letter, for I believe it is long since I last wrote home.
P.S. December 25th.—At length a bright and beautiful day after three days of incessant bad weather. And now one must be up and doing; visit asylums, schools, prisons, and drive out to plantations. I was yesterday, in the midst of the rain, surprised by a visit from unknown friends in New Orleans, warm, cordial people, so that it made me very happy. The heartfelt kindness of one young, amiable girl affected me to tears.
My new friends came with violets and invitations to go out with them to a plantation up the Mississippi, where they would show me “what slavery really is;” thus speak they who merely see it, or choose to see it, as it is in one or two cases, under good masters. But I now know enough not to let myself be beguiled, even by good people, to believe what a young, handsome gentleman (either stupid or false) assured me last evening, that the slaves in America are “as happy as can be!” My new friends are evidently kind and warm-hearted people, and forget how often others are different.
When I write next I shall tell you more about the free people, and the slave people, and slavery in the gay city of New Orleans.
- ↑ I should not, however, now publish them if I did not know that he is now safe from all the unpleasantness which his integrity possibly might have drawn upon him; did I not consider that by communicating them I am performing his last will and—a higher will also.