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Clotelle: A Tale of the Southern States by William Wells Brown

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from her prison-house and followed her husband had told her story
to him. He had seen the newly-arrived wife rush into the arms of
the husband, whose dark face she had not looked upon for long,
weary years. Some told of how a sister had been ill-used by the
overseer; others of a husband's being whipped to death for having
attempted to protect his wife. He had sat in the little log-hut,
by the fireside, and heard tales that caused his heart to bleed;
and his bosom swelled with just indignation when he thought that
there was no remedy for such atrocious acts. It was with such
feelings that he informed his employer that he should leave him at
the expiration of a month.

In vain did Mr. Streeter try to persuade Jerome to remain with him;
and late, in the month of February, the latter found himself on
board a small vessel loaded with pine-lumber, descending the St.
Lawrence, bound for Liverpool. The bark, though an old one, was,
nevertheless, considered seaworthy, and the fugitive was working
his way out. As the vessel left the river and gained the open sea,
the black man appeared to rejoice at the prospect of leaving a
country in which his right to manhood had been denied him, and his
happiness destroyed.

The wind was proudly swelling the white sails, and the little craft
plunging into the foaming waves, with the land fast receding in
the distance, when Jerome mounted a pile of lumber to take a last
farewell of his native land. With tears glistening in his eyes,
and with quivering lips, he turned his gaze toward the shores that
were fast fading in the dim distance, and said,--

"Though forced from my native land by the tyrants of the South, I
hope I shall some day be able to return. With all her faults, I
love my country still."



THE rain was falling on the dirty pavements of Liverpool as Jerome
left the vessel after her arrival. Passing the custom-house, he
took a cab, and proceeded to Brown's Hotel, Clayton Square.

Finding no employment in Liverpool, Jerome determined to go into
the interior and seek for work. He, therefore, called for his
bill, and made ready for his departure. Although but four days at
the Albion, he found the hotel charges larger than he expected;
but a stranger generally counts on being "fleeced" in travelling
through the Old World, and especially in Great Britain. After
paying his bill, he was about leaving the room, when one of the
servants presented himself with a low bow, and said,--

"Something for the waiter, sir?"

"I thought I had paid my bill," replied the man, somewhat surprised
at this polite dun.

"I am the waiter, sir, and gets only what strangers see fit to give

Taking from his pocket his nearly empty purse, Jerome handed the
man a half-crown; but he had hardly restored it to his pocket,
before his eye fell on another man in the waiting costume.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Whatever your honor sees fit to give me, sir. I am the tother

The purse was again taken from the pocket, and another half-crown
handed out. Stepping out into the hall, he saw standing there a
good-looking woman, in a white apron, who made a very pretty

"What's your business?" he inquired.

"I am the chambermaid, sir, and looks after the gentlemen's beds."

Out came the purse again, and was relieved of another half-crown;
whereupon another girl, with a fascinating smile, took the place
of the one who had just received her fee.

"What do you want?" demanded the now half-angry Jerome.

"Please, sir, I am the tother chambermaid."

Finding it easier to give shillings than half-crowns, Jerome handed
the woman a shilling, and again restored his purse to his pocket,
glad that another woman was not to be seen.

Scarcely had he commenced congratulating himself, however, before
three men made their appearance, one after another.

"What have you done for me?" he asked of the first.

"I am the boots, sir."

The purse came out once more, and a shilling was deposited in the
servant's hand.

"What do I owe you?" he inquired of the second.

"I took your honor's letter to the post, yesterday, sir."

Another shilling left the purse.

"In the name of the Lord, what am I indebted to you for?" demanded
Jerome, now entirely out of patience, turning to the last of the

"I told yer vership vot time it vas, this morning."

"Well!" exclaimed the indignant man, "ask here what o'clock it is,
and you have got to pay for it."

He paid this last demand with a sixpence, regretting that he had
not commenced with sixpences instead of half-crowns.

Having cleared off all demands in the house, he started for the
railway station; but had scarcely reached the street, before he
was accosted by an old man with a broom in his hand, who, with an
exceedingly low bow, said,--

"I is here, yer lordship."

"I did not send for you; what is your business?" demanded Jerome.

"I is the man what opened your lordship's cab-door, when your
lordship came to the house on Monday last, and I know your honor
won't allow a poor man to starve."

Putting a sixpence in the old man's hand, Jerome once more started
for the depot. Having obtained letters of introduction to persons
in Manchester, he found no difficulty in getting a situation in a
large manufacturing house there. Although the salary was small,
yet the situation was a much better one than he had hoped to
obtain. His compensation as out-door clerk enabled him to employ a
man to teach him at night, and, by continued study and attention
to business, he was soon promoted.

After three years in his new home, Jerome was placed in a still
higher position, where his salary amounted to fifteen hundred
dollars a year. The drinking, smoking, and other expensive habits,
which the clerks usually indulged in, he carefully avoided.

Being fond of poetry, he turned his attention to literature.
Johnson's "Lives of the Poets," the writings of Dryden, Addison,
Pope, Clarendon, and other authors of celebrity, he read with
attention. The knowledge which he thus picked up during his
leisure hours gave him a great advantage over the other clerks,
and caused his employers to respect him far more than any other in
their establishment. So eager was he to improve the time that he
determined to see how much he could read during the unemployed
time of night and morning, and his success was beyond his



BROKEN down in health, after ten years of close confinement in his
situation, Jerome resolved to give it up, and thereby release
himself from an employment which seemed calculated to send him to
a premature grave.

It was on a beautiful morning in summer that he started for
Scotland, having made up his mind to travel for his health. After
visiting Edinburgh and Glasgow, he concluded to spend a few days
in the old town of Perth, with a friend whose acquaintance he had
made in Manchester. During the second day of his stay in Perth,
while crossing the main street, Jerome saw a pony-chaise coming
toward him with great speed. A lady, who appeared to be the only
occupant of the vehicle, was using her utmost strength to stop the
frightened horses. The footman, in his fright, had leaped from
behind the carriage, and was following with the crowd. With that
self-forgetfulness which was one of his chief characteristics,
Jerome threw himself before the horses to stop them; and, seizing
the high-spirited animals by the bit, as they dashed by him, he
was dragged several rods before their speed was checked, which was
not accomplished until one of the horses had fallen to the ground,
with the heroic man struggling beneath him.

All present were satisfied that this daring act alone had saved the
lady's life, for the chaise must inevitably have been dashed in
pieces, had the horses not been thus suddenly checked in their mad

On the morning following this perilous adventure, Col. G----called
at Jerome's temporary residence, and, after expressing his
admiration for his noble daring, and thanking him for having saved
his daughter's life, invited him to visit him at his country
residence. This invitation was promptly accepted in the spirit in
which it was given ; and three days after, Jerome found himself at
the princely residence of the father of the lady for whose safety
he had risked his own life. The house was surrounded by fine
trees, and a sweet little stream ran murmuring at the foot,
while beds of flowers on every hand shed their odors on the summer
air. It was, indeed, a pleasant place to spend the warm weather,
and the colonel and his family gave Jerome a most cordial welcome.
Miss G. showed especial attention to the stranger. He had not
intended remaining longer than the following day: but the family
insisted on his taking part in a fox-hunt that was to come off on
the morning of the third day. Wishing to witness a scene as
interesting as the chase usually proves to be, he decided to

Fifteen persons, five of whom were ladies, were on the ground at
the appointed hour. Miss G. was, of course, one of the party. In
vain Jerome endeavored to excuse himself from joining in the
chase. His plea of ill-health was only met by smiles from the
young ladies, and the reply that a ride would effect a cure.

Dressed in a scarlet coat and high boots, with the low, round cap
worn in the chase, Jerome mounted a high-spirited horse, whip in
hand, and made himself one of the party. In America, riding is a
necessity; in England, it is a pleasure. Young men and women
attend riding-school in our fatherland, and consider that they are
studying a science. Jerome was no rider. He had not been on
horseback for more than ten years, and as soon as he mounted,
every one saw that he was a novice, and a smile was on the
countenance of each member of the company.

The blowing of the horn, and assembling of the hounds, and finally
the release of the fox from his close prison, were the signals for
the chase to commence. The first half-mile the little animal took
his course over a beautiful field where there was neither hedge
nor ditch. Thus far the chase was enjoyed by all, even by the
American rider, who was better fitted to witness the scene than to
take part in it.

We left Jerome in our last reluctantly engaged in the chase; and
though the first mile or so of the pursuit, which was over smooth
meadow-land, had had an exhilarating effect upon his mind, and
tended somewhat to relieve him of the embarrassment consequent
upon his position, he nevertheless still felt that he was far from
being in his proper element. Besides, the fox had now made for a
dense forest which lay before, and he saw difficulties in that
direction which to him appeared insurmountable.

Away went the huntsmen, over stone walls, high fences, and deep
ditches. Jerome saw the ladies even leading the gentlemen, but
this could not inspire him. They cleared the fences, four and five
feet high with perfect ease, showing they were quite at home in
the saddle. But alas for the poor American! As his fine steed came
up to the first fence, and was about to make the leap, Jerome
pulled at the bridle, and cried at the top of his voice, "Whoa!
whoa! whoa!" the horse at the same time capering about, and
appearing determined to keep up with the other animals.

Away dashed the huntsmen, following the hounds, and all were soon
lost to the view of their colored companion. Jerome rode up and
down the field looking for a gate or bars, that he might get
through without risking his neck. Finding, however, that all hope
of again catching up with the party was out of the question, he
determined to return to the house, under a plea of sudden illness,
and back he accordingly went.

"I hope no accident has happened to your honor," said the groom, as
he met our hero at the gate.

"A slight dizziness," was the answer.

One of the servants, without being ordered, went at once for the
family physician. Ashamed to own that his return was owing to his
inability to ride, Jerome resolved to feign sickness. The doctor
came, felt his pulse, examined his tongue, and pronounced him a
sick man. He immediately ordered a tepid bath, and sent for a
couple of leeches.

Seeing things taking such a serious turn, the American began to
regret the part he was playing; for there was no fun in being
rubbed and leeched when one was in perfect health. He had gone too
far to recede, however, and so submitted quietly to the directions
of the doctor; and, after following the injunctions given by that
learned Esculapius, was put to bed.

Shortly after, the sound of the horns and the yelp of the hounds
announced that the poor fox had taken the back track, and was
repassing near the house. Even the pleasure of witnessing the
beautiful sight from the window was denied to our hero; for the
physician had ordered that he must be kept in perfect quiet.

The chase was at last over, and the huntsmen all in, sympathizing
with their lost companion. After nine days of sweating, blistering
and leeching, Jerome left his bed convalescent, but much reduced
in flesh and strength. This was his first and last attempt to
follow the fox and hounds.

During his fortnight's stay at Colonel G.'s, Jerome spent most of
his time in the magnificent library. Claude did not watch with
more interest every color of the skies, the trees, the grass, and
the water, to learn from nature, than did this son of a despised
race search books to obtain that knowledge which his early life as
a slave had denied him.



AFTER more than a fortnight spent in the highlands of Scotland,
Jerome passed hastily through London on his way to the continent.

It was toward sunset, on a warm day in October, shortly after his
arrival in France, that, after strolling some distance from the
Hotel de Leon, in the old and picturesque town of Dunkirk, he
entered a burial ground--such places being always favorite walks
with him--and wandered around among the silent dead. All nature
around was hushed in silence, and seemed to partake of the general
melancholy that hung over the quiet resting-place of the departed.
Even the birds seemed imbued with the spirit of the place, for
they were silent, either flying noiselessly over the graves, or
jumping about in the tall grass. After tracing the various
inscriptions that told the characters and conditions of the
deceased, and viewing the mounds beneath which the dust of
mortality slumbered, he arrived at a secluded spot near where an
aged weeping willow bowed its thick foliage to the ground, as
though anxious to hide from the scrutinizing gaze of curiosity the
grave beneath it. Jerome seated himself on a marble tombstone, and
commenced reading from a book which he had carried under his arm.
It was now twilight, and he had read but a few minutes when he
observed a lady, attired in deep black, and leading a boy,
apparently some five or six years old, coming up one of the
beautiful, winding paths. As the lady's veil was drawn closely
over her face, he felt somewhat at liberty to eye her more
closely. While thus engaged, the lady gave a slight scream, and
seemed suddenly to have fallen into a fainting condition. Jerome
sprang from his seat, and caught her in time to save her from
falling to the ground.

At this moment an elderly gentleman, also dressed in black, was
seen approaching with a hurried step, which seemed to indicate
that he was in some way connected with the lady. The old man came
up, and in rather a confused manner inquired what had happened,
and Jerome explained matters as well as he was able to do so.
After taking up the vinaigrette, which had fallen from her hand,
and holding the bottle a short time to her face, the lady began to
revive. During all this time, the veil had still partly covered the
face of the fair one, so that Jerome had scarcely seen it. When
she had so far recovered as to be able to look around her, she
raised herself slightly, and again screamed and swooned. The old
man now feeling satisfied that Jerome's dark complexion was the
immediate cause of the catastrophe, said in a somewhat petulant

"I will be glad, sir, if you will leave us alone."

The little boy at this juncture set up a loud cry, and amid the
general confusion, Jerome left the ground and returned to his

While seated at the window of his room looking out upon the crowded
street, with every now and then the strange scene in the graveyard
vividly before him, Jerome suddenly thought of the book he had
been reading, and, remembering that he had left it on the
tombstone, where he dropped it when called to the lady's
assistance, he determined to return for it at once.

After a walk of some twenty minutes, he found himself again in the
burial-ground and on the spot where he had been an hour before. The
pensive moon was already up, and its soft light was sleeping on
the little pond at the back of the grounds, while the stars seemed
smiling at their own sparkling rays gleaming up from the beautiful
sheet of water.

Jerome searched in vain for his book; it was nowhere to be found.
Nothing, save the bouquet that the lady had dropped and which lay
half-buried in the grass, from having been trodden upon, indicated
that any one had been there that evening. The stillness of death
reigned over the place; even the little birds, that had before
been twittering and flying about, had retired for the night.

Taking up the bunch of flowers, Jerome returned to his hotel.

"What can this mean?" he would ask himself; "and why should they
take my book?" These questions he put to himself again and again
during his walk. His sleep was broken more than once that night,
and he welcomed the early dawn as it made its appearance.



AFTER passing a sleepless night, and hearing the clock strike six,
Jerome took from his table a book, and thus endeavored to pass
away the hours before breakfast-time. While thus engaged, a
servant entered and handed him a note. Hastily tearing it open,
Jerome read as follows:--

"Sir,--I owe you an apology for the abrupt manner in which I
addressed you last evening, and the inconvenience to which you
were subjected by some of my household. If you will honor us with
your presence to-day at four o'clock, I shall be most happy to
give you due satisfaction. My servant will be waiting with the
carriage at half-past three.

I am, sir, yours, &c, J.DEVENANT.

Who this gentleman was, and how he had found out his name and the
hotel at which he was stopping, were alike mysteries to Jerome.
And this note seemed to his puzzled brain like a challenge.
"Satisfaction?" He had not asked for satisfaction. However, he
resolved to accept the invitation, and, if need be, meet the
worst. At any rate, this most mysterious and complicated affair
would be explained.

The clock on a neighboring church had scarcely finished striking
three when a servant announced to Jerome that a carriage had
called for him. In a few minutes, he was seated in a sumptuous
barouche, drawn by a pair of beautiful iron-grays, and rolling
over a splendid gravel road entirely shaded by trees, which
appeared to have been the accumulated growth of many centuries.
The carriage soon stopped at a low villa, which was completely
embowered in trees.

Jerome alighted, and was shown into a superb room, with the walls
finely decorated with splendid tapestry, and the ceilings
exquisitely frescoed. The walls were hung with fine specimens from
the hands of the great Italian masters, and one by a German
artist, representing a beautiful monkish legend connected with the
"Holy Catharine," an illustrious lady of Alexandria. High-backed
chairs stood around the room, rich curtains of crimson damask hung
in folds on either side of the window, and a beautiful, rich,
Turkey carpet covered the floor. In the centre of the room stood a
table covered with books, in the midst of which was a vase of
fresh flowers, loading the atmosphere with their odors. A faint
light, together with the quiet of the hour, gave beauty beyond
description to the whole scene. A half-open door showed a fine
marble floor to an adjoining room, with pictures, statues, and
antiquated sofas, and flower-pots filled with rare plants of every
kind and description.

Jerome had scarcely run his eyes over the beauties of the room when
the elderly gentleman whom he had met on the previous evening made
his appearance, followed by the little boy, and introduced himself
as Mr. Devenant. A moment more and a lady, a beautiful brunette,
dressed in black, with long black curls hanging over her
shoulders, entered the room. Her dark, bright eyes flashed as she
caught the first sight of Jerome. The gentleman immediately arose
on the entrance of the lady, and Mr. Devenant was in the act of
introducing the stranger when he observed that Jerome had sunk
back upon the sofa, in a faint voice exclaiming,--

"It is she!"

After this, all was dark and dreary. How long he remained in this
condition, it was for others to tell. The lady knelt by his side
and wept; and when he came to, he found himself stretched upon the
sofa with his boots off and his head resting upon a pillow. By his
side sat the old man, with the smelling-bottle in one hand and a
glass of water in the other, while the little boy stood at the
foot of the sofa. As soon as Jerome had so far recovered as to be
able to speak, he said,--

"Where am I, and what does all this mean?"

"Wait awhile," replied the old man, "and I will tell you all."

After the lapse of some ten minutes, Jerome arose from the sofa,
adjusted his apparel, and said,--

"I am now ready to hear anything you have to say."

"You were born in America?" said the old man.

"I was," he replied.

"And you knew a girl named Clotelle," continued the old man.

"Yes, and I loved her as I can love none other."

"The lady whom you met so mysteriously last evening was she," said
Mr. Devenant.

Jerome was silent, but the fountain of mingled grief and joy stole
out from beneath his eyelashes, and glistened like pearls upon his
ebony cheeks.

At this juncture, the lady again entered the room. With an
enthusiasm that can be better imagined than described, Jerome
sprang from the sofa, and they rushed into each other's arms, to
the great surprise of the old gentleman and little Autoine, and to
the amusement of the servants who had crept up, one by one and
were hid behind the doors or loitering in the hall. When they had
given vent to their feelings and sufficiently recovered their
presence of mind, they resumed their seats.

"How did you find out my name and address?" inquired Jerome.

"After you had left the grave-yard," replied Clotelle, "our little
boy said, 'Oh, mamma! if there ain't a book!' I opened the book,
and saw your name written in it, and also found a card of the
Hotel de Leon. Papa wished to leave the book, and said it was only
a fancy of mine that I had ever seen you before; but I was
perfectly convinced that you were my own dear Jerome."

As she uttered the last words, tears--the sweet bright tears that
love alone can bring forth--bedewed her cheeks.

"Are you married?" now inquired Clotelle, with a palpitating heart
and trembling voice.

"No, I am not, and never have been," was Jerome's reply.

"Then, thank God!" she exclaimed, in broken accents.

It was then that hope gleamed up amid the crushed and broken
flowers of her heart, and a bright flash darted forth like a

"Are you single now?" asked Jerome.

"Yes, I am," was the answer.

"Then you will be mine after all?" said he with a smile.

Her dark, rich hair had partly come down, and hung still more
loosely over her shoulders than when she first appeared; and her
eyes, now full of animation and vivacity, and her sweet,
harmonious, and well-modulated voice, together with her modesty,
self-possession, and engaging manners, made Clotelle appear lovely
beyond description. Although past the age when men ought to think
of matrimony, yet the scene before Mr. Devenant brought vividly to
his mind the time when he was young and had a loving bosom
companion living, and tears were wiped from the old man's eyes. A
new world seemed to unfold itself before the eyes of the happy
lovers, and they were completely absorbed in contemplating the
future. Furnished by nature with a disposition to study, and a
memory so retentive that all who knew her were surprised at the
ease with which she acquired her education and general
information, Clotelle might now be termed a most accomplished
lady. After her marriage with young Devenant, they proceeded to
India, where the husband's regiment was stationed. Soon after their
arrival, however, a battle was fought with the natives, in which
several officers fell, among whom was Captain Devenant. The father
of the young captain being there at the time, took his
daughter-in-law and brought her back to France, where they took up
their abode at the old homestead.

Old Mr. Devenant was possessed of a large fortune, all of which he
intended for his daughter-in-law and her only child.

Although Clotelle had married young Devenant, she had not forgotten
her first love, and her father-in-law now willingly gave his
consent to her marriage with Jerome. Jerome felt that to possess
the woman of his love, even at that late hour, was compensation
enough for the years that he had been separated from her, and
Clotelle wanted no better evidence of his love for her than the
fact of his having remained so long unmarried. It was indeed a
rare instance of devotion and constancy in a man, and the young
widow gratefully appreciated it.

It was late in the evening when Jerome led his intended bride to
the window, and the magnificent moonlight illuminated the
countenance of the lovely Clotelle, while inward sunshine,
emanating from a mind at ease, and her own virtuous thoughts, gave
brightness to her eyes and made her appear a very angel. This was
the first evening that Jerome had been in her company since the
night when, to effect his escape from prison, she disguised herself
in male attire. How different the scene now. Free instead of
slaves, wealthy instead of poor, and on the eve of an event that
seemed likely to result in a life of happiness to both.



IT was a bright day in the latter part of October that Jerome and
Clotelle set out for the church, where the marriage ceremony was
to be performed. The clear, bracing air added buoyancy to every
movement, and the sun poured its brilliant rays through the
deeply-stained windows, as the happy couple entered the sanctuary,
followed by old Mr. Devenant, whose form, bowed down with age,
attracted almost as much attention from the assembly as did the
couple more particularly interested.

As the ceremonies were finished and the priest pronounced the
benediction on the newly-married pair, Clotelle whispered in the
ear of Jerome,--

"'No power in death shall tear our names apart,
As none in life could rend thee from my heart.'"

A smile beamed on every face as the wedding-party left the church
and entered their carriage. What a happy day, after ten years'
separation, when, both hearts having been blighted for a time,
they are brought together by the hand of a beneficent and kind
Providence, and united in holy wedlock.

Everything being arranged for a wedding tour extending up the
Rhine, the party set out the same day for Antwerp. There are many
rivers of greater length and width than the Rhine. Our Mississippi
would swallow up half a dozen Rhines. The Hudson is grander, the
Tiber, the Po, and the Minclo more classic; the Thames and Seine
bear upon their waters greater amounts of wealth and commerce; the
Nile and the Euphrates have a greater antiquity; but for a
combination of interesting historical incidents and natural
scenery, the Rhine surpasses them all. Nature has so ordained it
that those who travel in the valley of the Rhine shall see the
river, for there never will be a railroad upon its banks. So
mountainous is the land that it would have to be one series of
tunnels. Every three or four miles from the time you enter this
glorious river, hills, dales, castles, and crags present
themselves as the steamer glides onward.

Their first resting-place for any length of time was at Coblentz,
at the mouth of the "Blue Moselle," the most interesting place on
the river. From Coblentz they went to Brussels, where they had the
greatest attention paid them. Besides being provided with letters
of introduction, Jerome's complexion secured for him more
deference than is usually awarded to travellers.

Having letters of introduction to M. Deceptiax, the great lace
manufacturer, that gentleman received them with distinguished
honors, and gave them a splendid soiree, at which the elite of the
city were assembled. The sumptuously-furnished mansion was
lavishly decorated for the occasion, and every preparation made
that could add to the novelty or interest of the event.

Jerome, with his beautiful bride, next visited Cologne, the largest
and wealthiest city on the banks of the Rhine. The Cathedral of
Cologne is the most splendid structure of the kind in Europe, and
Jerome and Clotelle viewed with interest the beautiful arches and
columns of this stupendous building, which strikes with awe the
beholder, as he gazes at its unequalled splendor, surrounded, as
it is, by villas, cottages, and palace-like mansions, with the
enchanting Rhine winding through the vine-covered hills.

After strolling over miles and miles of classic ground. and
visiting castles, whose legends and traditions have given them an
enduring fame, our delighted travellers started for Geneva,
bidding the picturesque banks of the Rhine a regretful farewell.
Being much interested in literature, and aware that Geneva was
noted for having been the city of refuge to the victims of
religious and political persecution, Jerome arranged to stay here
for some days. He was provided with a letter of introduction to M.
de Stee, who had been a fellow-soldier of Mr. Devenant in the East
India wars, and they were invited to make his house their home
during their sojourn. On the side of a noble mountain, whose base
is kissed by the waves of Lake Geneva, and whose slopes are decked
with verdure to the utmost peak of its rocky crown, is situated
the delightful country residence of this wealthy, retired French
officer. A winding road, with frequent climbs and brakes, leads
from the valley to this enchanting spot, the air and scenery of
which cannot be surpassed in the world.



THE clouds that had skirted the sky during the day broke at last,
and the rain fell in torrents, as Jerome and Clotelle retired for
the night, in the little town of Ferney, on the borders of Lake
Leman. The peals of thunder, and flashes of vivid lightening,
which seemed to leap from mountain to mountain and from crag to
crag, reverberating among the surrounding hills, foretold a heavy

"I would we were back at Geneva," said Clotelle, as she heard
groans issuing from an adjoining room. The sounds, at first faint,
grew louder and louder, plainly indicating that some person was
suffering extreme pain.

"I did not like this hotel, much, when we came in," I said Jerome,
relighting the lamp, which had been accidentally extinguished.

"Nor I," returned Clotelle.

The shrieks increased, and an occasional "She's dead!" "I killed
her!" "No, she is not dead!" and such-like expressions, would be
heard from the person, who seemed to be deranged.

The thunder grew louder, and the flashes of lightning more vivid,
while the noise from the sick-room seemed to increase.

As Jerome opened the door, to learn, if possible, the cause of the
cries and groans, he could distinguish the words, "She's dead!
yes, she's dead! but I did not kill her. She was my child! my own
daughter. I loved her, and yet I did not protect her."

"Whoever he is," said Jerome, "he's crack-brained; some robber,
probably, from the mountains."

The storm continued to rage, and the loud peals of thunder and
sharp flashes of lightening, together with the shrieks and moans
of the maniac in the adjoining room, made the night a fearful one.
The long hours wore slowly away, but neither Jerome nor his wife
could sleep, and they arose at an early hour in the morning,
ordered breakfast, and resolved to return to Geneva.

"I am sorry, sir, that you were so much disturbed by the sick man
last night," said the landlord, as he handed Jerome his bill. "I
should be glad if he would get able to go away, or die, for he's a
deal of trouble to me. Several persons have left my house on his

"Where is he from?" inquired Jerome.

"He's from the United States, and has been here a week to-day, and
has been crazy ever since."

"Has he no friends with him?" asked the guest.

"No, he is alone," was the reply.

Jerome related to his wife what he had learned from the landlord,
respecting the sick man, and the intelligence impressed her so
strongly, that she requested him to make further inquiries
concerning the stranger.

He therefore consulted the book in which guests usually register
their names, and, to his great surprise, found that the American's
name was Henry Linwood, and that he was from Richmond, Va.

It was with feelings of trepidation that Clotelle heard these
particulars from the lips of her husband.

"We must see this poor man, whoever he is," said she, as Jerome
finished the sentence.

The landlord was glad to hear that his guests felt some interest in
the sick man, and promised that the invalid's room should be got
ready for their reception.

The clock in the hall was just striking ten, as Jerome passed
through and entered the sick man's chamber. Stretched upon a
mattress, with both hands tightly bound to the bedstead, the
friendless stranger was indeed a pitiful sight. His dark,
dishevelled hair prematurely gray, his long, unshaven beard, and
the wildness of the eyes which glanced upon them as they opened the
door and entered, caused the faint hope which had so suddenly
risen in Clotelle's heart, to sink, and she felt that this man
could claim no kindred with her. Certainly, he bore no
resemblance to the man whom she had called her father, and who had
fondly dandled her on his knee in those happy days of childhood.

"Help!" cried the poor man, as Jerome and his wife walked into the
room. His eyes glared, and shriek after shriek broke forth from
his parched and fevered lips.

"No, I did not kill my daughter!--I did not! she is not dead! Yes,
she is dead! but I did not kill her--poor girl Look! that is she!
No, it cannot be! she cannot come here! it cannot be my poor

At the sound of her own name, coming from the maniac's lips,
Clotelle gasped for breath, and her husband saw that she had grown
deadly pale. It seemed evident to him that the man was either
guilty of some terrible act, or imagined himself to be. His
eyeballs rolled in their sockets, and his features showed that he
was undergoing "the tortures of that inward hell," which seemed to
set his whole brain on fire.

After recovering her self-possession and strength, Clotelle
approached the bedside, and laid her soft hand upon the stranger's
hot and fevered brow.

One long, loud shriek rang out on the air, and a piercing cry, "It
is she!---Yes, it is she! I see, I see! Ah! no, it is not my
daughter! She would not come to me if she could!" broke forth from

"I am your daughter," said Clotelle, as she pressed her
handkerchief to her face, and sobbed aloud.

Like balls of fire, the poor man's eyes rolled and glared upon the
company, while large drops of perspiration ran down his pale and
emaciated face. Strange as the scene appeared, all present saw
that it was indeed a meeting between a father and his long-lost
daughter. Jerome now ordered all present to leave the room, except
the nurse, and every effort was at once made to quiet the
sufferer. When calm, a joyous smile would illuminate the sick man's
face, and a strange light beam in his eyes, as he seemed to
realize that she who stood before him was indeed his child.

For two long days and nights did Clotelle watch at the bedside of
her father before he could speak to her intelligently. Sometimes,
in his insane fits, he would rave in the most frightful manner,
and then, in a few moments, would be as easily governed as a
child. At last, however, after a long and apparently refreshing
sleep, he awoke suddenly to a full consciousness that it was
indeed his daughter who was watching so patiently by his side.

The presence of his long absent child had a soothing effect upon
Mr. Linwood, and he now recovered rapidly from the sad and almost
hopeless condition in which she had found him. When able to
converse, without danger of a relapse, he told Clotelle of his
fruitless efforts to obtain a clew to her whereabouts after old
Mrs. Miller had sold her to the slave-trader. In answer to his
daughter's inquiries about his family affairs up to the time that
he left America, he said,--

"I blamed my wife for your being sold and sent away, for I thought
she and her mother were acting in collusion; But I afterwards
found that I had blamed her wrongfully. Poor woman! she knew that
I loved your mother, and feeling herself forsaken, she grew
melancholy and died in a decline three years ago."

Here both father and daughter wept at the thought of other days.
When they had recovered their composure, Mr. Linwood went on

"Old Mrs. Miller," said he, "after the death of Gertrude, aware
that she had contributed much toward her unhappiness, took to the
free use of intoxicating drinks, and became the most brutal
creature that ever lived. She whipped her slaves without the
slightest provocation, and seemed to take delight in inventing new
tortures with which to punish them. One night last winter, after
having flogged one of her slaves nearly to death, she returned to
her room, and by some means the bedding took fire, and the house
was in flames before any one was awakened. There was no one in the
building at the time but the old woman and the slaves, and
although the latter might have saved their mistress, they made no
attempt to do so. Thus, after a frightful career of many years,
this hard-hearted woman died a most miserable death, unlamented by
a single person."

Clotelle wiped the tears from her eyes, as her father finished this
story, for, although Mrs. Miller had been her greatest enemy, she
regretted to learn that her end had been such a sad one.

"My peace of mind destroyed," resumed the father, "and broke down
in health, my physician advised me to travel, with the hope o
recruiting myself, and I sailed from New York two months ago."

Being brought up in America, and having all the prejudice against
color which characterizes his white fellow-countrymen, Mr. Linwood
very much regretted that his daughter, although herself tinctured
with African blood, should have married a black man, and he did
not fail to express to her his dislike of her husband's

"I married him," said Clotelle, "because I loved him. Why should
the white man be esteemed as better than the black? I find no
difference in men on account of their complexion. One of the
cardinal principles of Christianity and freedom is the equality
and brotherhood of man."

Every day Mr. Linwood became more and more familiar with Jerome,
and eventually they were on the most intimate terms.

Fifteen days from the time that Clotelle was introduced into her
father's room, they left Ferney for Geneva. Many were the
excursions Clotelle made under the shadows of Mont Blanc, and with
her husband and father for companions; she was now in the
enjoyment of pleasures hitherto unknown.



AWARE that her father was still a slave-owner, Clotelle determined
to use all her persuasive power to induce him to set them free,
and in this effort she found a substantial supporter in her

"I have always treated my slaves well," said Mr. Linwood to
Jerome, as the latter expressed his abhorrence of the system; "and
my neighbors, too, are generally good men; for slavery in.
Virginia is not like slavery in the other States," continued the
proud son of the Old Dominion.

"Their right to be free, Mr. Linwood," said Jerome, "is taken from
them, and they have no security for their comfort, but the
humanity and generosity of men, who have been trained to regard
them not as brethren, but as mere property. Humanity and
generosity are, at best, but poor guaranties for the protection of
those who cannot assert their rights, and over whom law throws no

It was with pleasure that Clotelle obtained from her father a
promise that he would liberate all his slaves on his return to
Richmond. In a beautiful little villa, situated in a pleasant
spot, fringed with hoary rocks and thick dark woods, within sight
of the deep blue waters of Lake Leman, Mr. Linwood, his daughter,
and her husband, took up their residence for a short time. For
more than three weeks, this little party spent their time in
visiting the birth-place of Rousseau, and the former abodes of
Byron, Gibbon, Voltaire, De Stael, Shelley, and other literary

We can scarcely contemplate a visit to a more historic and
interesting place than Geneva and its vicinity. Here, Calvin, that
great luminary in the Church, lived and ruled for years; here,
Voltaire, the mighty genius, who laid the foundation of the French
Revolution, and who boasted, "When I shake my wig, I powder the
whole republic," governed in the higher walks of life.

Fame is generally the recompense, not of the living, but of the
dead,--not always do they reap and gather in the harvest who sow
the seed; the flame of its altar is too often kindled from the
ashes of the great. A distinguished critic has beautifully said,
"The sound which the stream of high thought, carried down to
future ages, makes, as it flows--deep, distant, murmuring ever
more, like the waters of the mighty ocean." No reputation can be
called great that will not endure this test. The distinguished men
who had lived in Geneva transfused their spirit, by their
writings, into the spirit of other lovers of literature and
everything that treated of great authors. Jerome and Clotelle
lingered long in and about the haunts of Geneva and Lake Leman.

An autumn sun sent down her bright rays, and bathed every object in
her glorious light, as Clotelle, accompanied by her husband and
father set out one fine morning on her return home to France.
Throughout the whole route, Mr. Linwood saw by the deference paid
to Jerome, whose black complexion excited astonishment in those
who met him, that there was no hatred to the man in Europe, on
account of his color; that what is called prejudice against color
is the offspring of the institution of slavery; and he felt
ashamed of his own countrymen, when he thought of the complexion
as distinctions, made in the United States, and resolved to
dedicate the remainder of his life to the eradication of this
unrepublican and unchristian feeling from the land of his birth,
on his return home.

After a stay of four weeks at Dunkirk, the home of the Fletchers,
Mr. Linwood set out for America, with the full determination of
freeing his slaves, and settling them in one of the Northern
States, and then to return to France to end his days in the
society of his beloved daughter.


NOTE.--The author of the foregoing tale was formerly a Kentucky
slave. If it serves to relieve the monotony of camp-life to the
soldiers of the Union, and therefore of Liberty, and at the same
time kindles their zeal in the cause of universal emancipation,
the object both of its author and publisher will be gained. J. R.

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