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Clotel; or, The President's Daughter by William Wells Brown

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himself and others; labour respected, law-abiding men,
constitution-making and respecting men; men, whom no tyrant could
conquer, or hardship overcome, with the high commission sealed by
a Spirit divine, to establish religious and political liberty for
all. This ship had the embryo elements of all that is useful,
great, and grand in Northern institutions; it was the great type
of goodness and wisdom, illustrated in two and a quarter
centuries gone by; it was the good genius of America.

But look far in the South-east, and you behold on the same day, in
1620, a low rakish ship hastening from the tropics, solitary and
alone, to the New World. What is she? She is freighted with the
elements of unmixed evil. Hark! hear those rattling chains, hear
that cry of despair and wail of anguish, as they die away in the
unpitying distance. Listen to those shocking oaths, the crack of
that flesh-cutting whip. Ah! it is the first cargo of slaves on
their way to Jamestown, Virginia. Behold the May-flower anchored
at Plymouth Rock, the slave-ship in James River. Each a parent,
one of the prosperous, labour-honouring, law-sustaining
institutions of the North; the other the mother of slavery,
idleness, lynch-law, ignorance, unpaid labour, poverty, and
duelling, despotism, the ceaseless swing of the whip, and the
peculiar institutions of the South. These ships are the
representation of good and evil in the New World, even to our day.
When shall one of those parallel lines come to an end?

The origin of American slavery is not lost in the obscurity of
by-gone ages. It is a plain historical fact, that it owes its
birth to the African slave trade, now pronounced by every
civilised community the greatest crime ever perpetrated against
humanity. Of all causes intended to benefit mankind, the
abolition of chattel slavery must necessarily be placed amongst
the first, and the Negro hails with joy every new advocate that
appears in his cause. Commiseration for human suffering and human
sacrifices awakened the capacious mind, and brought into action
the enlarged benevolence, of Georgiana Carlton. With respect to
her philosophy--it was of a noble cast. It was, that all men are
by nature equal; that they are wisely and justly endowed by the
Creator with certain rights, which are irrefragable; and that,
however human pride and human avarice may depress and debase,
still God is the author of good to man--and of evil, man is the
artificer to himself and to his species. Unlike Plato and
Socrates, her mind was free from the gloom that surrounded
theirs; her philosophy was founded in the school of Christianity;
though a devoted member of her father's church, she was not a

We learn from Scripture, and it is a little remarkable that it is
the only exact definition of religion found in the sacred volume,
that "pure religion and undefiled before God, even the Father, is
this, to visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and
to keep oneself unspotted from the world." "Look not every man on
his own things, but every man also on the things of others."
"Remember them that are in bonds as bound with them." "Whatsoever
ye would that others should do to you, do ye even so to them."

This was her view of Christianity, and to this end she laboured
with all her energies to convince her slaveholding neighbours
that the Negro could not only take care of himself, but that he
also appreciated liberty, and was willing to work and redeem
himself. Her most sanguine wishes were being realized when she
suddenly fell into a decline. Her mother had died of consumption,
and her physician pronounced this to be her disease. She was
prepared for this sad intelligence, and received it with the
utmost composure. Although she had confidence in her husband that
he would carry out her wishes in freeing the Negroes after her
death, Mrs. Carlton resolved upon their immediate liberation.
Consequently the slaves were all summoned before the noble woman,
and informed that they were no longer bondsmen. "From this
hour," said she, "you are free, and all eyes will be fixed upon
you. I dare not predict how far your example may affect the
welfare of your brethren yet in bondage. If you are temperate,
industrious, peaceable, and pious, you will show to the world
that slaves can be emancipated without danger. Remember what a
singular relation you sustain to society. The necessities of the
case require not only that you should behave as well as the
whites, but better than the whites; and for this reason: if you
behave no better than they, your example will lose a great
portion of its influence. Make the Lord Jesus Christ your refuge
and exemplar. His is the only standard around which you can
successfully rally. If ever there was a people who needed the
consolations of religion to sustain them in their grievous
afflictions, you are that people. You had better trust in the
Lord than to put confidence in man. Happy is that people whose
God is the Lord. Get as much education as possible for
yourselves and your children. An ignorant people can never occupy
any other than a degraded station in society; they can never be
truly free until they are intelligent. In a few days you will
start for the state of Ohio, where land will be purchased for
some of you who have families, and where I hope you will all
prosper. We have been urged to send you to Liberia, but we think
it wrong to send you from your native land. We did not wish to
encourage the Colonization Society, for it originated in hatred
of the free coloured people. Its pretences are false, its
doctrines odious, its means contemptible. Now, whatever may be
your situation in life, 'Remember those in bonds as bound with
them.' You must get ready as soon as you can for your journey to
the North."

Seldom was there ever witnessed a more touching scene than this.
There sat the liberator, pale, feeble, emaciated, with death
stamped upon her countenance, surrounded by the sons and
daughters of Africa; some of whom had in former years been
separated from all that they had held near and dear, and the most
of whose backs had been torn and gashed by the Negro whip. Some
were upon their knees at the feet of their benefactress; others
were standing round her weeping. Many begged that they might be
permitted to remain on the farm and work for wages, for some had
wives and some husbands on other plantations in the neighbourhood,
and would rather remain with them.

But the laws of the state forbade any emancipated Negroes
remaining, under penalty of again being sold into slavery. Hence
the necessity of sending them out of the state. Mrs. Carlton was
urged by her friends to send the emancipated Negroes to Africa.
Extracts from the speeches of Henry Clay, and other distinguished
Colonization Society men, were read to her to induce her to adopt
this course. Some thought they should he sent away because the
blacks are vicious; others because they would be missionaries to
their brethren in Africa. "But," said she, "if we send away the
Negroes because they are profligate and vicious, what sort of
missionaries will they make? Why not send away the vicious among
the whites for the same reason, and the same purpose?"

Death is a leveller, and neither age, sex, wealth, nor usefulness
can avert when he is permitted to strike. The most beautiful
flowers soon fade, and droop, and die; this is also the case with
man; his days are uncertain as the passing breeze. This hour he
glows in the blush of health and vigour, but the next he may be
counted with the number no more known on earth.

Although in a low state of health, Mrs. Carlton had the pleasure
of seeing all her slaves, except Sam and three others, start for
a land of freedom. The morning they were to go on board the
steamer, bound for Louisville, they all assembled on the large
grass plot, in front of the drawing-room window, and wept while
they bid their mistress farewell. When they were on the boat,
about leaving the wharf, they were heard giving the charge to
those on shore--"Sam, take care of Misus, take care of Marser, as
you love us, and hope to meet us in de Hio (Ohio), and in heben;
be sure and take good care of Misus and Marser."

In less than a week after her emancipated people had started for
Ohio, Mrs. Carlton was cold in death. Mr. Carlton felt deeply, as
all husbands must who love their wives, the loss of her who had
been a lamp to his feet, and a light to his path. She had
converted him from infidelity to Christianity; from the mere
theory of liberty to practical freedom. He had looked upon the
Negro as an ill-treated distant link of the human family; he now
regarded them as a part of God's children. Oh, what a silence
pervaded the house when the Christian had been removed. His
indeed was a lonesome position.

"'Twas midnight, and he sat alone
The husband of the dead,
That day the dark dust had been thrown
Upon the buried head."

In the midst of the buoyancy of youth, this cherished one had
drooped and died. Deep were the sounds of grief and mourning
heard in that stately dwelling, when the stricken friends, whose
office it had been to nurse and soothe the weary sufferer, beheld
her pale and motionless in the sleep of death.

Oh what a chill creeps through the breaking heart when we look
upon the insensible form, and feel that it no longer contains the
spirit we so dearly loved! How difficult to realise that the eye
which always glowed with affection and intelligence; that the ear
which had so often listened to the sounds of sorrow and gladness;
that the voice whose accents had been to us like sweet music, and
the heart, the habitation of benevolence and truth, are now
powerless and insensate as the bier upon which the form rests.
Though faith be strong enough to penetrate the cloud of gloom
which hovers near, and to behold the freed spirit safe, for ever,
safe in its home in heaven, yet the thoughts will linger sadly
and cheerlessly upon the grave.

Peace to her ashes! she fought the fight, obtained the Christian's
victory, and wears the crown. But if it were that departed
spirits are permitted to note the occurrences of this world, with
what a frown of disapprobation would hers view the effort being
made in the United States to retard the work of emancipation for
which she laboured and so wished to see brought about.

In what light would she consider that hypocritical priesthood who
gave their aid and sanction to the infamous "Fugitive Slave Law."
If true greatness consists in doing good to mankind, then was
Georgiana Carlton an ornament to human nature. Who can think of
the broken hearts made whole, of sad and dejected countenances
now beaming with contentment and joy, of the mother offering her
free-born babe to heaven, and of the father whose cup of joy
seems overflowing in the presence of his family, where none can
molest or make him afraid. Oh, that God may give more such persons
to take the whip-scarred Negro by the hand, and raise
him to a level with our common humanity! May the professed lovers
of freedom in the new world see that true liberty is freedom for
all! and may every American continually hear it sounding in his

"Shall every flap of England's flag
Proclaim that all around are free,
From 'farthest Ind' to each blue crag
That beetles o'er the Western Sea?
And shall we scoff at Europe's kings,
When Freedom's fire is dim with us,
And round our country's altar clings
The damning shade of Slavery's curse?"



WE shall now return to Cincinnati, where we left Clotel preparing
to go to Richmond in search of her daughter. Tired of the
disguise in which she had escaped, she threw it off on her
arrival at Cincinnati. But being assured that not a shadow of
safety would attend her visit to a city in which she was well
known, unless in some disguise, she again resumed men's apparel
on leaving Cincinnati. This time she had more the appearance of an
Italian or Spanish gentleman. In addition to the fine suit of
black cloth, a splendid pair of dark false whiskers covered the
sides of her face, while the curling moustache found its place
upon the upper lip. From practice she had become accustomed to
high-heeled boots, and could walk without creating any suspicion
as regarded her sex. It was a cold evening that Clotel arrived at
Wheeling, and took a seat in the coach going to Richmond. She was
already in the state of Virginia, yet a long distance from the
place of her destination.

A ride in a stage-coach, over an American road, is unpleasant
under the most favourable circumstances. But now that it was
winter, and the roads unusually bad, the journey was still more
dreary. However, there were eight passengers in the coach, and I
need scarcely say that such a number of genuine Americans could
not be together without whiling away the time somewhat
pleasantly. Besides Clotel, there was an elderly gentleman with
his two daughters--one apparently under twenty years, the other a
shade above. The pale, spectacled face of another slim, tall man,
with a white neckerchief, pointed him out as a minister. The
rough featured, dark countenance of a stout looking man, with a
white hat on one side of his head, told that he was from the
sunny South. There was nothing remarkable about the other two,
who might pass for ordinary American gentlemen. It was on the eve
of a presidential election, when every man is thought to be a
politician. Clay, Van Buren, and Harrison were the men who
expected the indorsement of the Baltimore Convention. "Who does
this town go for?" asked the old gent with the ladies, as the
coach drove up to an inn, where groups of persons were waiting
for the latest papers. "We are divided," cried the rough voice of
one of the outsiders. "Well, who do you think will get the
majority here?" continued the old gent. "Can't tell very well; I
go for 'Old Tip,'" was the answer from without. This brought up
the subject fairly before the passengers, and when the coach
again started a general discussion commenced, in which all took a
part except Clotel and the young ladies. Some were for Clay, some
for Van Buren, and others for "Old Tip." The coach stopped to
take in a real farmer-looking man, who no sooner entered than he
was saluted with "Do you go for Clay?" "No," was the answer. "Do
you go for Van Buren?" "No." "Well, then, of course you will go
for Harrison." "No." "Why, don't you mean to work for any of them
at the election?" "No." "Well, who will you work for?" asked
one of the company. "I work for Betsy and the children, and I
have a hard job of it at that," replied the farmer, without a
smile. This answer, as a matter of course, set the new
corner down as one upon whom the rest of the passengers could
crack their jokes with the utmost impunity. "Are you an Odd
Fellow?" asked one. "No, sir, I've been married more than a
month." "I mean, do you belong to the order of Odd Fellows?"
"No, no; I belong to the order of married men." "Are you a mason?"
"No, I am a carpenter by trade." "Are you a Son of Temperance?"
"Bother you, no; I am a son of Mr. John Gosling." After a hearty
laugh in which all joined, the subject of Temperance became the
theme for discussion. In this the spectacled gent was at home.
He soon showed that he was a New Englander, and went the whole
length of the "Maine Law." The minister was about having it all
his own way, when the Southerner, in the white hat, took the
opposite side of the question. "I don't bet a red cent on these
teetotlars," said he, and at the same time looking round to see
if he had the approbation of the rest of the company. "Why?"
asked the minister. "Because they are a set who are afraid to
spend a cent. They are a bad lot, the whole on 'em." It was
evident that the white hat gent was an uneducated man. The
minister commenced in full earnest, and gave an interesting
account of the progress of temperance in Connecticut, the state
from which he came, proving, that a great portion of the
prosperity of the state was attributable to the disuse of
intoxicating drinks. Every one thought the white hat had got the
worst of the argument, and that he was settled for the remainder
of the night. But not he; he took fresh courage and began again.
"Now," said he, "I have just been on a visit to my uncle's in
Vermont, and I guess I knows a little about these here
teetotlars. You see, I went up there to make a little stay of a
fortnight. I got there at night, and they seemed glad to see
me, but they didn't give me a bit of anything to drink.
Well, thinks I to myself, the jig's up: I sha'n't get any more
liquor till I get out of the state." We all sat up till twelve
o'clock that night, and I heard nothing but talk about the
'Juvinal Temperence Army,' the 'Band of Hope,' the 'Rising
Generation,' the 'Female Dorcas Temperance Society,' 'The None
Such,' and I don't know how many other names they didn't have.
As I had taken several pretty large 'Cock Tails' before I entered
the state, I thought upon the whole that I would not spite for
the want of liquor. The next morning, I commenced writing back to
my friends, and telling them what's what. Aunt Polly said, 'Well,
Johnny, I s'pose you are given 'em a pretty account of us all
here.' 'Yes,' said I; I am tellin' 'em if they want anything to
drink when they come up here, they had better bring it with 'em.'
'Oh,' said aunty, 'they would search their boxes; can't bring any
spirits in the state.' Well, as I was saying, jist as I got my
letters finished, and was going to the post office (for uncle's
house was two miles from the town), aunty says, 'Johnny, I s'pose
you'll try to get a little somethin' to drink in town won't you?'
Says I, 'I s'pose it's no use. 'No,' said she, 'you can't; it
ain't to be had no how, for love nor money.' So jist as I was
puttin' on my hat, 'Johnny,' cries out aunty, 'What,' says I.
'Now I'll tell you, I don't want you to say nothin' about it, but
I keeps a little rum to rub my head with, for I am troubled with
the headache; now I don't want you to mention it for the world,
but I'll give you a little taste, the old man is such a
teetotaller, that I should never hear the last of it, and I would
not like for the boys to know it, they are members of the "Cold
Water Army."'

"Aunty now brought out a black bottle and gave me a cup, and told
me to help myself, which I assure you I did. I now felt ready to
face the cold. As I was passing the barn I heard uncle thrashing
oats, so I went to the door and spoke to him. 'Come in, John,'
says he. 'No,' said I; 'I am goin' to post some letters,' for I
was afraid that he would smell my breath if I went too near to
him. 'Yes, yes, come in.' So I went in, and says he, 'It's now
eleven o'clock; that's about the time you take your grog, I
s'pose, when you are at home.' 'Yes,' said I. 'I am sorry for
you, my lad; you can't get anything up here; you can't even get
it at the chemist's, except as medicine, and then you must let
them mix it and you take it in their presence.' 'This is indeed
hard,' replied I; 'Well, it can't be helped,' continued he: 'and
it ought not to be if it could. It's best for society; people's
better off without drink. I recollect when your father and I,
thirty years ago, used to go out on a spree and spend more than
half a dollar in a night. Then here's the rising generation;
there's nothing like settin' a good example. Look how healthy
your cousins are there's Benjamin, he never tasted spirits in his
life. Oh, John, I would you were a teetotaller.' 'I suppose,'
said I, 'I'll have to be one till I leave the state.' 'Now,' said
he, 'John, I don't want you to mention it, for your aunt would go
into hysterics if she thought there was a drop of intoxicating
liquor about the place, and I would not have the boys to know it
for anything, but I keep a little brandy to rub my joints for the
rheumatics, and being it's you, I'll give you a little dust.' So
the old man went to one corner of the barn, took out a brown jug
and handed it to me, and I must say it was a little the best
cognac that I had tasted for many a day. Says I, 'Uncle, you are
a good judge of brandy.' 'Yes,' said he, 'I learned when I was
young.' So off I started for the post office. In returnin' I
thought I'd jist go through the woods where the boys were chopping
wood, and wait and go to the house with them when they went to
dinner. I found them hard at work, but as merry as crickets.
'Well, cousin John, are you done writing?' 'Yes,' answered I.
'Have you posted them?' 'Yes.' 'Hope you didn't go to any place
inquiring for grog.' 'No, I knowed it was no good to do that.'
'I suppose a cock-tail would taste good now.' 'Well, I
guess it would,' says I. The three boys then joined in a hearty
laugh. 'I suppose you have told 'em that we are a dry set up
here?' 'Well, I ain't told em anything else.' 'Now, cousin John,'
said Edward, 'if you wont say anything, we will give you a small
taste. For mercy's sake don't let father or mother know it; they
are such rabid teetotallers, that they would not sleep a wink
to-night if they thought there was any spirits about the place.'
'I am mum,' says I. And the boys took a jug out of a hollow
stump, and gave me some first-rate peach brandy. And during the
fortnight that I was in Vermont, with my teetotal relations, I
was kept about as well corned as if I had been among my hot water
friends in Tennessee."

This narrative, given by the white hat man, was received with
unbounded applause by all except the pale gent in spectacles,
who showed, by the way in which he was running his fingers
between his cravat and throat, that he did not intend to "give it
up so." The white hat gent was now the lion of the company.

"Oh, you did not get hold of the right kind of teetotallers,"
said the minister. "I can give you a tale worth a dozen of yours,
continued he. "Look at society in the states where temperance
views prevail, and you will there see real happiness. The people
are taxed less, the poor houses are shut up for want of
occupants, and extreme destitution is unknown. Every one who
drinks at all is liable to become an habitual drunkard. Yes, I
say boldly, that no man living who uses intoxicating drinks, is
free from the danger of at least occasional, and if of
occasional, ultimately of habitual excess. There seems to be no
character, position, or circumstances that free men from the
danger. I have known many young men of the finest promise, led by
the drinking habit into vice, ruin, and early death. I have known
many tradesmen whom it has made bankrupt. I have known Sunday
scholars whom it has led to prison-teachers, and even
superintendents, whom it has dragged down to profligacy. I have
known ministers of high academic honours, of splendid eloquence,
nay, of vast usefulness, whom it has fascinated, and hurried over
the precipice of public infamy with their eyes open, and gazing
with horror on their fate. I have known men of the strongest and
clearest intellect and of vigorous resolution, whom it has made
weaker than children and fools--gentlemen of refinement and taste
whom it has debased into brutes--poets of high genius whom it has
bound in a bondage worse than the galleys, and ultimately cut
short their days. I have known statesmen, lawyers, and judges
whom it has killed--kind husbands and fathers whom it has turned
into monsters. I have known honest men whom it has made villains;
elegant and Christian ladies whom it has converted into bloated

"But you talk too fast," replied the white hat man. "You don't
give a feller a chance to say nothin'."

"I heard you," continued the minister, "and now you hear me out.
It is indeed wonderful how people become lovers of strong drink.
Some years since, before I became a teetotaller I kept spirits
about the house, and I had a servant who was much addicted to
strong drink. He used to say that he could not make my boots
shine, without mixing the blacking with whiskey. So to satisfy
myself that the whiskey was put in the blacking, one morning I
made him bring the dish in which he kept the blacking, and poured
in the whiskey myself. And now, sir, what do you think?" "Why, I
s'pose your boots shined better than before," replied the white
hat. "No," continued the minister. "He took the blacking out, and
I watched him, and he drank down the whiskey, blacking, and all."

This turned the joke upon the advocate of strong drink, and he
began to put his wits to work for arguments. "You are from
Connecticut, are you?" asked the Southerner. "Yes, and we are an
orderly, pious, peaceable people. Our holy religion is respected,
and we do more for the cause of Christ than the whole Southern
States put together." "I don't doubt it," said the white hat
gent. "You sell wooden nutmegs and other spurious articles enough
to do some good. You talk of your 'holy religion'; but your
robes' righteousness are woven at Lowell and Manchester; your
paradise is high per centum on factory stocks; your palms of
victory and crowns of rejoicing are triumphs over a rival party
in politics, on the questions of banks and tariffs. If you could,
you would turn heaven into Birmingham, make every angel a weaver,
and with the eternal din of looms and spindles drown all the
anthems of the morning stars. Ah! I know you Connecticut people
like a book. No, no, all hoss; you can't come it on me." This
last speech of the rough featured man again put him in the
ascendant, and the spectacled gent once more ran his fingers
between his cravat and throat. "You live in Tennessee, I think,"
said the minister. "Yes," replied the Southerner, "I used
to live in Orleans, but now I claim to be a Tennessean."
"Your people of New Orleans are the most ungodly set in the
United States," said the minister. Taking a New Orleans newspaper
from his pocket he continued, "Just look here, there are not less
than three advertisements of bull fights to take place on the
Sabbath. You people of the Slave States have no regard for the
Sabbath, religion, morality or anything else intended to, make
mankind better." Here Clotel could have borne ample testimony, had
she dared to have taken sides with the Connecticut man. Her
residence in Vicksburgh had given her an opportunity of knowing
something of the character of the inhabitants of the far South.
"Here is an account of a grand bull fight that took place in New
Orleans a week ago last Sunday. I will read it to you." And the
minister read aloud the following:

"Yesterday, pursuant to public notice, came off at Gretna,
opposite the Fourth District, the long heralded fight between the
famous grizzly bear, General Jackson (victor in fifty battles),
and the Attakapas bull, Santa Anna.

"The fame of the coming conflict had gone forth to the four winds,
and women and children, old men and boys, from all parts of the
city, and from the breezy banks of Lake Pontchartrain and Borgne,
brushed up their Sunday suit, and prepared to ace the fun. Long
before the published hour, the quiet streets of the rural Gretna
were filled with crowds of anxious denizens, flocking to the
arena, and before the fight commenced, such a crowd had collected
as Gretna had not seen, nor will be likely to see again.

"The arena for the sports was a cage, twenty feet square, built
upon the ground, and constructed of heavy timbers and iron bars.
Around it were seats, circularly placed, and intended to
accommodate many thousands. About four or five-thousand persons
assembled, covering the seats as with a Cloud, and crowding down
around the cage, were within reach of the bars.

"The bull selected to sustain the honour and verify the pluck of
Attakapas on this trying occasion was a black animal from the
Opelousas, lithe and sinewy as a four year old courser, and with
eyes like burning coals. His horns bore the appearance of
having been filed at the tips, and wanted that keen and slashing
appearance so common with others of his kith and kin; otherwise
it would have been 'all day' with Bruin--at the first pass, and
no mistake.

"The bear was an animal of note, and called General Jackson, from
the fact of his licking up everything that came in his way, and
taking 'the responsibility' on all occasions. He was a wicked
looking beast, very lean and unamiable in aspect, with hair all
standing the wrong way. He had fought some fifty bulls (so they
said), always coming out victorious, but that neither one of the
fifty had been an Attakapas bull, the bills of the performances
did not say. Had he tackled Attakapas first it is likely his
fifty battles would have remained unfought.

"About half past four o'clock the performances commenced.

"The bull was first seen, standing in the cage alone, with head
erect, and looking a very monarch in his capacity. At an
appointed signal, a cage containing the bear was placed
alongside the arena, and an opening being made, bruin stalked into
the battle ground--not, however, without sundry stirrings up with
a ten foot pole, he being experienced in such matters, and
backwards in raising a row.

"Once on the battle-field, both animals stood, like wary
champions, eyeing each other, the bear cowering low, with head
upturned and fangs exposed, while Attakapas stood wondering, with
his eye dilated, lashing his sides with his long and bushy tail,
and pawing up the earth in very wrath.

"The bear seemed little inclined to begin the attack, and the
bull, standing a moment, made steps first backward and then
forward, as if measuring his antagonist, and meditating where to
plant a blow. Bruin wouldn't come to the scratch no way, till one
of the keepers, with an iron rod, tickled his ribs and made him
move. Seeing this, Attakapas took it as a hostile demonstration,
and, gathering his strength, dashed savagely at the enemy,
catching him on the points of his horns, and doubling him up like
a sack of bran against the bars. Bruin 'sung out' at this, 'and
made a dash for his opponent's nose.'

"Missing this, the bull turned to the 'about face,' and the bear
caught him by the ham, inflicting a ghastly wound. But Attakapas
with a kick shook him off, and renewing the attack, went at him
again, head on and with a rush. This time he was not so fortunate,
for the bear caught him above the eye, burying his fangs in the
tough hide, and holding him as in a vice. It was now
the bull's turn to 'sing out,' and he did it, bellowing forth with
a voice more hideous than that of all the bulls of Bashan. Some
minutes stood matters thus, and the cries of the bull, mingled
with the hoarse growls of the bear, made hideous music, fit only
for a dance of devils. Then came a pause (the bear having
relinquished his hold), and for a few minutes it was doubtful
whether the fun was not up. But the magic wand of the keeper (the
ten foot pole) again stirred up bruin, and at it they went, and
with a rush.

"Bruin now tried to fasten on the bull's back, and drove his tusks
in him in several places, making the red blood flow like wine
from the vats of Luna. But Attakapas was pluck to the back bone,
and, catching bruin on the tips of his horns, shuffled him up
right merrily, making the fur fly like feathers in a gale of
wind. Bruin cried 'Nuff' (in bear language), but the bull
followed up his advantage, and, making one furious plunge full at
the figure head of the enemy, struck a horn into his eye, burying
it there, and dashing the tender organ into darkness and atoms.
Blood followed the blow, and poor bruin, blinded, bleeding, and
in mortal agony, turned with a howl to leave, but Attakapas
caught him in the retreat, and rolled him over like a ball. Over
and over again this rolling over was enacted, and finally, after
more than an hour, bruin curled himself up on his back, bruised,
bloody, and dead beat. The thing was up with California, and
Attakapas was declared the victor amidst the applause of the
multitude that made the heavens ring."

"There," said he, "can you find anything against Connecticut equal
to that?" The Southerner had to admit that he was beat by the
Yankee. During all this time, it must not be supposed that the
old gent with the two daughters, and even the young ladies
themselves, had been silent. Clotel and they had not only given
their opinions as regarded the merits of the discussion, but that
sly glance of the eye, which is ever given where the young of
both sexes meet, had been freely at work. The American ladies are
rather partial to foreigners, and Clotel had the appearance of a
fine Italian. The old gentleman was now near his home,
and a whisper from the eldest daughter, who was unmarried but
marriageable, induced him to extend to "Mr. Johnson" an invitation
to stop and spend a week with the young ladies at their family
residence. Clotel excused herself upon various grounds, and at
last, to cut short the matter, promised that she would pay them a
visit on her return. The arrival of the coach at Lynchburgh
separated the young ladies from the Italian gent, and the coach
again resumed its journey.



"Is the poor privilege to turn the key
Upon the captive, freedom? He's as far
From the enjoyment of the earth and air
Who watches o'er the chains, as they who wear."

DURING certain seasons of the year, all tropical climates are
subject to epidemics of a most destructive nature. The
inhabitants of New Orleans look with as much certainty for the
appearance of the yellow-fever, small-pox, or cholera, in the hot
season, as the Londoner does for fog in the month of November. In
the summer of 1831, the people of New Orleans were visited with
one of these epidemics. It appeared in a form unusually repulsive
and deadly. It seized persons who were in health, without any
premonition. Sometimes death was the immediate consequence. The
disorder began in the brain, by an oppressive pain accompanied or
followed by fever. The patient was devoured with burning thirst.
The stomach, distracted by pains, in vain sought relief in efforts
to disburden itself. Fiery veins streaked the eye; the face was
inflamed, and dyed of a dark dull red colour; the ears from time
to time rang painfully. Now mucous secretions surcharged the
tongue, and took away the power of speech; now the sick one
spoke, but in speaking had a foresight of death. When the violence
of the disease approached the heart, the gums were blackened. The
sleep, broken, troubled by convulsions, or by frightful visions,
was worse than the waking hours; and when the reason
sank under a delirium which had its seat in the brain, repose
utterly forsook the patient's couch. The progress of the heat
within was marked by yellowish spots, which spread over the
surface of the body. If, then, a happy crisis came not, all hope
was gone. Soon the breath infected the air with a fetid odour, the
lips were glazed, despair painted itself in the eyes, and sobs,
with long intervals of silence, formed the only language. From
each side of the mouth spread foam, tinged with black and burnt
blood. Blue streaks mingled with the yellow all over the frame.
All remedies were useless. This was the Yellow Fever. The
disorder spread alarm and confusion throughout the city. On an
average, more than 400 died daily. In the midst of disorder and
confusion, death heaped victims on victims. Friend followed
friend in quick succession. The sick were avoided from the fear
of contagion, and for the same reason the dead were left
unburied. Nearly 2000 dead bodies lay uncovered in the
burial-ground, with only here and there a little lime thrown
over them, to prevent the air becoming infected.

The Negro, whose home is in a hot climate, was not proof against
the disease. Many plantations had to suspend their work for want
of slaves to take the places of those carried off by the fever.
Henry Morton and wife were among the thirteen thousand swept away
by the raging disorder that year. Like too many, Morton had been
dealing extensively in lands and stocks; and though apparently in
good circumstances was, in reality, deeply involved in debt.
Althesa, although as white as most white women in a southern
clime, was, as we already know, born a slave. By the laws of all
the Southern States the children follow the condition of the
mother. If the mother is free the children are free; if a slave,
they are slaves. Morton was unacquainted with the laws
of the land; and although he had married Althesa, it was a
marriage which the law did not recognise; and therefore she whom
he thought to be his wife was, in fact, nothing more than his
slave. What would have been his feelings had he known this, and
also known that his two daughters, Ellen and Jane, were his
slaves? Yet such was the fact. After the disappearance of the
disease with which Henry Morton had so suddenly been removed, his
brother went to New Orleans to give what aid he could in settling
up the affairs. James Morton, on his arrival in New Orleans, felt
proud of his nieces, and promised them a home with his own family
in Vermont; little dreaming that his brother had married a slave
woman, and that his nieces were slaves. The girls themselves had
never heard that their mother had been a slave, and therefore knew
nothing of the danger hanging over their heads. An inventory of
the property was made out by James Morton, and placed in the
hands of the creditors; and the young ladies, with their uncle,
were about leaving the city to reside for a few days on the banks
of Lake Pontchartrain, where they could enjoy a fresh air that
the city could not afford. But just as they were about taking the
train, an officer arrested the whole party; the young ladies as
slaves, and the uncle upon the charge of attempting to conceal the
property of his deceased brother. Morton was overwhelmed with
horror at the idea of his nieces being claimed as slaves, and
asked for time, that he might save them from such a fate. He even
offered to mortgage his little farm in Vermont for the amount
which young slave women of their ages would fetch. But the
creditors pleaded that they were "an extra article," and would
sell for more than common slaves; and must, therefore, be sold at
auction. They were given up, but neither ate nor slept,
nor separated from each other, till they were taken into the New
Orleans slave market, where they were offered to the highest
bidder. There they stood, trembling, blushing, and weeping;
compelled to listen to the grossest language, and shrinking from
the rude hands that examined the graceful proportions of their
beautiful frames.

After a fierce contest between the bidders, the young ladies were
sold, one for 2,300 dollars, and the other for 3,000 dollars. We
need not add that had those young girls been sold for mere house
servants or field hands, they would not have brought one half the
sums they did. The fact that they were the grand-daughters of
Thomas Jefferson, no doubt, increased their value in the market.
Here were two of the softer sex, accustomed to the fondest
indulgence, surrounded by all the refinements of life, and with
all the timidity that such a life could produce, bartered away
like cattle in Smithfield market. Ellen, the eldest, was sold to
an old gentleman, who purchased her, as he said, for a
housekeeper. The girl was taken to his residence, nine miles from
the city. She soon, however, knew for what purpose she had been
bought; and an educated and cultivated mind and taste, which made
her see and understand how great was her degradation, now armed
her hand with the ready means of death. The morning after her
arrival, she was found in her chamber, a corpse. She had taken
poison. Jane was purchased by a dashing young man, who had just
come into the possession of a large fortune. The very appearance
of the young Southerner pointed him out as an unprincipled
profligate; and the young girl needed no one to tell her of her
impending doom. The young maid of fifteen was immediately removed
to his country seat, near the junction of the
Mississippi river with the sea. This was a most singular spot,
remote, in a dense forest spreading over the summit of a cliff
that rose abruptly to a great height above the sea; but so grand
in its situation, in the desolate sublimity which reigned around,
in the reverential murmur of the waves that washed its base, that,
though picturesque, it was a forest prison. Here the young lady
saw no one, except an old Negress who acted as her servant. The
smiles with which the young man met her were indignantly spurned.
But she was the property of another, and could hope for justice
and mercy only through him.

Jane, though only in her fifteenth year, had become strongly
attached to Volney Lapuc, a young Frenchman, a student in her
father's office. The poverty of the young man, and the youthful
age of the girl, had caused their feelings to be kept from the
young lady's parents. At the death of his master, Volney had
returned to his widowed mother at Mobile, and knew nothing of the
misfortune that had befallen his mistress, until he received a
letter from her. But how could he ever obtain a sight of her,
even if he wished, locked up as she was in her master's mansion?
After several days of what her master termed "obstinacy" on her
part, the young girl was placed in an upper chamber, and told
that that would be her home, until she should yield to her
master's wishes. There she remained more than a fortnight, and
with the exception of a daily visit from her master, she saw no
one but the old Negress who waited upon her. One bright moonlight
evening as she was seated at the window, she perceived the figure
of a man beneath her window. At first, she thought it was her
master; but the tall figure of the stranger soon convinced her
that it was another. Yes, it was Volney! He had no sooner
received her letter, than he set out for New Orleans;
and finding on his arrival there, that his mistress had been
taken away, resolved to follow her. There he was; but how could
she communicate with him? She dared not trust the old Negress with
her secret, for fear that it might reach her master. Jane wrote a
hasty note and threw it out of the window, which was eagerly
picked up by the young man, and he soon disappeared in the woods.
Night passed away in dreariness to her, and the next morning she
viewed the spot beneath her window with the hope of seeing the
footsteps of him who had stood there the previous night. Evening
returned, and with it the hope of again seeing the man she loved.
In this she was not disappointed; for daylight had scarcely
disappeared, and the moon once more rising through the tops of
the tall trees, when the young man was seen in the same place as
on the previous night. He had in his hand a rope ladder. As soon
as Jane saw this, she took the sheets from her bed, tore them
into strings, tied them together, and let one end down the side of
the house. A moment more, and one end of the rope ladder was in
her hand, and she fastened it inside the room. Soon the young
maiden was seen descending, and the enthusiastic lover, with his
arms extended, waiting to receive his mistress. The planter had
been out on an hunting excursion, and returning home, saw his
victim as her lover was receiving her in his arms. At this moment
the sharp sound of a rifle was heard, and the young man fell
weltering in his blood, at the feet of his mistress. Jane fell
senseless by his side. For many days she had a confused
consciousness of some great agony, but knew not where she was, or
by whom surrounded. The slow recovery of her reason settled into
the most intense melancholy, which gained at length the
compassion even of her cruel master. The beautiful
bright eyes, always pleading in expression, were now so
heart-piercing in their sadness, that he could not endure their
gaze. In a few days the poor girl died of a broken heart, and was
buried at night at the back of the garden by the Negroes; and no
one wept at the grave of her who had been so carefully cherished,
and so tenderly beloved.

This, reader, is an unvarnished narrative of one doomed by the
laws of the Southern States to be a slave. It tells not only its
own story of grief, but speaks of a thousand wrongs and woes
beside, which never see the light; all the more bitter and
dreadful, because no help can relieve, no sympathy can mitigate,
and no hope can cheer.



"The fearful storm--it threatens lowering,
Which God in mercy long delays;
Slaves yet may see their masters cowering,
While whole plantations smoke and blaze!"


IT was late in the evening when the coach arrived at Richmond, and
Clotel once more alighted in her native city. She had intended to
seek lodging somewhere in the outskirts of the town, but the
lateness of the hour compelled her to stop at one of the principal
hotels for the night. She had scarcely entered the inn, when she
recognised among the numerous black servants one to whom she was
well known; and her only hope was, that her disguise would keep
her from being discovered. The imperturbable calm and entire
forgetfulness of self which induced Clotel to visit a place from
which she could scarcely hope to escape, to attempt the rescue of
a beloved child, demonstrate that overwillingness of woman to
carry out the promptings of the finer feelings of her heart. True
to woman's nature, she had risked her own liberty for another.

She remained in the hotel during the night, and the next morning,
under the plea of illness, she took her breakfast alone. That day
the fugitive slave paid a visit to the suburbs of the town, and
once more beheld the cottage in which she had spent so many happy
hours. It was winter, and the clematis and passion flower were
not there; but there were the same walks she had so
often pressed with her feet, and the same trees which had so
often shaded her as she passed through the garden at the back of
the house. Old remembrances rushed upon her memory, and caused her
to shed tears freely. Clotel was now in her native town, and near
her daughter; but how could she communicate with her? How could
she see her? To have made herself known, would have been a
suicidal act; betrayal would have followed, and she arrested.
Three days had passed away, and Clotel still remained in the hotel
at which she had first put up; and yet she had got no tidings of
her child. Unfortunately for Clotel, a disturbance had just
broken out amongst the slave population in the state of Virginia,
and all strangers were eyed with suspicion.

The evils consequent on slavery are not lessened by the incoming
of one or two rays of light. If the slave only becomes aware of
his condition, and conscious of the injustice under which he
suffers, if he obtains but a faint idea of these things, he will
seize the first opportunity to possess himself of what he
conceives to belong to him. The infusion of Anglo-Saxon with
African blood has created an insurrectionary feeling among the
slaves of America hitherto unknown. Aware of their blood
connection with their owners, these mulattoes labour under the
sense of their personal and social injuries; and tolerate, if
they do not encourage in themselves, low and vindictive passions.
On the other hand, the slave owners are aware of their critical
position, and are ever watchful, always fearing an outbreak among
the slaves.

True, the Free States are equally bound with the Slave States to
suppress any insurrectionary movement that may take place among
the slaves. The Northern freemen are bound by their
constitutional obligations to aid the slaveholder in keeping his
slaves in their chains. Yet there are, at the time we
write, four millions of bond slaves in the United States. The
insurrection to which we now refer was headed by a full-blooded
Negro, who had been born and brought up a slave. He had heard the
twang of the driver's whip, and saw the warm blood streaming from
the Negro's body; he had witnessed the separation of parents and
children, and was made aware, by too many proofs, that the slave
could expect no justice at the hand of the slave owner. He went by
the name of "Nat Turner." He was a preacher amongst the Negroes,
and distinguished for his eloquence, respected by the whites, and
loved and venerated by the Negroes. On the discovery of the plan
for the outbreak, Turner fled to the swamps, followed by those
who had joined in the insurrection. Here the revolted Negroes
numbered some hundreds, and for a time bade defiance to their
oppressors. The Dismal Swamps cover many thousands of acres of
wild land, and a dense forest, with wild animals and insects, such
as are unknown in any other part of Virginia. Here runaway
Negroes usually seek a hiding place, and some have been known to
reside here for years. The revolters were joined by one of these.
He was a large, tall, full-blooded Negro, with a stern and savage
countenance; the marks on his face showed that he was from one of
the barbarous tribes in Africa, and claimed that country as his
native land; his only covering was a girdle around his loins,
made of skins of wild beasts which he had killed; his only token
of authority among those that he led, was a pair of epaulettes
made from the tail of a fox, and tied to his shoulder by a cord.
Brought from the coast of Africa when only fifteen years of age
to the island of Cuba, he was smuggled from thence into Virginia.
He had been two years in the swamps, and considered it
his future home. He had met a Negro woman who was also a runaway;
and, after the fashion of his native land, had gone through the
process of oiling her as the marriage ceremony. They had built a
cave on a rising mound in the swamp; this was their home. His
name was Picquilo. His only weapon was a sword, made from the
blade of a scythe, which he had stolen from a neighbouring
plantation. His dress, his character, his manners, his mode of
fighting, were all in keeping with the early training he had
received in the land of his birth. He moved about with the
activity of a cat, and neither the thickness of the trees, nor the
depth of the water could stop him. He was a bold, turbulent
spirit; and from revenge imbrued his hands in the blood of all
the whites he could meet. Hunger, thirst, fatigue, and loss of
sleep he seemed made to endure as if by peculiarity of
constitution. His air was fierce, his step oblique, his look
sanguinary. Such was the character of one of the leaders in the
Southampton insurrection. All Negroes were arrested who were
found beyond their master's threshhold, and all strange whites
watched with a great degree of alacrity.

Such was the position in which Clotel found affairs when she
returned to Virginia in search of her Mary. Had not the
slaveowners been watchful of strangers, owing to the outbreak,
the fugitive could not have escaped the vigilance of the police;
for advertisements, announcing her escape and offering a large
reward for her arrest, had been received in the city previous to
her arrival, and the officers were therefore on the look-out for
the runaway slave. It was on the third day, as the quadroon was
seated in her room at the inn, still in the disguise of a
gentleman, that two of the city officers entered the room, and
informed her that they were authorised to examine all
strangers, to assure the authorities that they were not in league
with the revolted Negroes. With trembling heart the fugitive
handed the key of her trunk to the officers. To their surprise,
they found nothing but woman's apparel in the box, which raised
their curiosity, and caused a further investigation that resulted
in the arrest of Clotel as a fugitive slave. She was immediately
conveyed to prison, there to await the orders of her master. For
many days, uncheered by the voice of kindness, alone, hopeless,
desolate, she waited for the time to arrive when the chains were
to be placed on her limbs, and she returned to her inhuman and
unfeeling owner.

The arrest of the fugitive was announced in all the newspapers,
but created little or no sensation. The inhabitants were too much
engaged in putting down the revolt among the slaves; and although
all the odds were against the insurgents, the whites found it no
easy matter, with all their caution. Every day brought news of
fresh outbreaks. Without scruple and without pity, the whites
massacred all blacks found beyond their owners' plantations: the
Negroes, in return, set fire to houses, and put those to death
who attempted to escape from the flames. Thus carnage was added to
carnage, and the blood of the whites flowed to avenge the blood
of the blacks. These were the ravages of slavery. No graves were
dug for the Negroes; their dead bodies became food for dogs and
vultures, and their bones, partly calcined by the sun, remained
scattered about, as if to mark the mournful fury of servitude and
lust of power. When the slaves were subdued, except a few in the
swamps, bloodhounds were put in this dismal place to hunt out the
remaining revolters. Among the captured Negroes was one of whom we
shall hereafter make mention.



"I asked but freedom, and ye gave
Chains, and the freedom of the grave."--Snelling.

THERE are, in the district of Columbia, several slave prisons, or
"Negro pens," as they are termed. These prisons are mostly
occupied by persons to keep their slaves in, when collecting
their gangs together for the New Orleans market. Some of them
belong to the government, and one, in particular, is noted for
having been the place where a number of free coloured persons
have been incarcerated from time to time. In this district is
situated the capital of the United States. Any free coloured
persons visiting Washington, if not provided with papers
asserting and proving their right to be free, may be arrested and
placed in one of these dens. If they succeed in showing that they
are free, they are set at liberty, provided they are able to pay
the expenses of their arrest and imprisonment; if they cannot pay
these expenses, they are sold out. Through this unjust and
oppressive law, many persons born in the Free States have been
consigned to a life of slavery on the cotton, sugar, or rice
plantations of the Southern States. By order of her master,
Clotel was removed from Richmond and placed in one of these
prisons, to await the sailing of a vessel for New Orleans. The
prison in which she was put stands midway between the capitol at
Washington and the President's house. Here the fugitive saw
nothing but slaves brought in and taken out, to be placed in
ships and sent away to the same part of the country to
which she herself would soon be compelled to go. She had seen or
heard nothing of her daughter while in Richmond, and all hope of
seeing her now had fled. If she was carried back to New Orleans,
she could expect no mercy from her master.

At the dusk of the evening previous to the day when she was to be
sent off, as the old prison was being closed for the night, she
suddenly darted past her keeper, and ran for her life. It is not
a great distance from the prison to the Long Bridge, which passes
from the lower part of the city across the Potomac, to the
extensive forests and woodlands of the celebrated Arlington
Place, occupied by that distinguished relative and descendant of
the immortal Washington, Mr. George W. Custis. Thither the poor
fugitive directed her flight. So unexpected was her escape, that
she had quite a number of rods the start before the keeper had
secured the other prisoners, and rallied his assistants in
pursuit. It was at an hour when, and in a part of the city where,
horses could not be readily obtained for the chase; no
bloodhounds were at hand to run down the flying woman; and for
once it seemed as though there was to be a fair trial of speed and
endurance between the slave and the slave-catchers. The keeper
and his forces raised the hue and cry on her pathway close
behind; but so rapid was the flight along the wide avenue, that
the astonished citizens, as they poured forth from their
dwellings to learn the cause of alarm, were only able to
comprehend the nature of the case in time to fall in with the
motley mass in pursuit (as many a one did that night), to raise
an anxious prayer to heaven, as they refused to join in the
pursuit, that the panting fugitive might escape, and the
merciless soul dealer for once be disappointed of his prey. And
now with the speed of an arrow--having passed the
avenue--with the distance between her and her pursuers constantly
increasing, this poor hunted female gained the "Long Bridge," as
it is called, where interruption seemed improbable, and already
did her heart begin to beat high with the hope of success. She
had only to pass three-fourths of a mile across the bridge, and
she could bury herself in a vast forest, just at the time when
the curtain of night would close around her, and protect her from
the pursuit of her enemies.

But God by his Providence had otherwise determined. He had
determined that an appalling tragedy should be enacted that
night, within plain sight of the President's house and the
capitol of the Union, which should be an evidence wherever it
should be known, of the unconquerable love of liberty the heart
may inherit; as well as a fresh admonition to the slave dealer,
of the cruelty and enormity of his crimes. Just as the pursuers
crossed the high draw for the passage of sloops, soon after
entering upon the bridge, they beheld three men slowly
approaching from the Virginia side. They immediately called to
them to arrest the fugitive, whom they proclaimed a runaway
slave. True to their Virginian instincts as she came near, they
formed in line across the narrow bridge, and prepared to seize
her. Seeing escape impossible in that quarter, she stopped
suddenly, and turned upon her pursuers. On came the profane and
ribald crew, faster than ever, already exulting in her capture,
and threatening punishment for her flight. For a moment she
looked wildly and anxiously around to see if there was no hope of
escape. On either hand, far down below, rolled the deep foamy
waters of the Potomac, and before and behind the rapidly
approaching step and noisy voices of pursuers, showing
how vain would be any further effort for freedom. Her resolution
was taken. She clasped her hands convulsively, and raised them, as
she at the same time raised her eyes towards heaven, and begged
for that mercy and compassion there, which had been denied her on
earth; and then, with a single bound, she vaulted over the
railings of the bridge, and sunk for ever beneath the waves of
the river!

Thus died Clotel, the daughter of Thomas Jefferson, a president of
the United States; a man distinguished as the author of the
Declaration of American Independence, and one of the first
statesmen of that country.

Had Clotel escaped from oppression in any other land, in the
disguise in which she fled from the Mississippi to Richmond, and
reached the United States, no honour within the gift of the
American people would have been too good to have been heaped upon
the heroic woman. But she was a slave, and therefore out of the
pale of their sympathy. They have tears to shed over Greece and
Poland; they have an abundance of sympathy for "poor Ireland";
they can furnish a ship of war to convey the Hungarian refugees
from a Turkish prison to the "land of the free and home of the
brave." They boast that America is the "cradle of liberty"; if it
is, I fear they have rocked the child to death. The body of
Clotel was picked up from the bank of the river, where it had been
washed by the strong current, a hole dug in the sand, and there
deposited, without either inquest being held over it, or
religious service being performed. Such was the life and such the
death of a woman whose virtues and goodness of heart would have
done honour to one in a higher station of life, and who, if she
had been born in any other land but that of slavery, would have
been honoured and loved. A few days after the death of Clotel,
the following poem appeared in one of the newspapers:

"Now, rest for the wretched! the long day is past,
And night on yon prison descendeth at last.
Now lock up and bolt! Ha, jailor, look there!
Who flies like a wild bird escaped from the snare?
A woman, a slave-up, out in pursuit.
While linger some gleams of day!
Let thy call ring out!--now a rabble rout
Is at thy heels--speed away!

"A bold race for freedom!--On, fugitive, on!
Heaven help but the right, and thy freedom is won.
How eager she drinks the free air of the plains;
Every limb, every nerve, every fibre she strains;
From Columbia's glorious capitol,
Columbia's daughter flees
To the sanctuary God has given--
The sheltering forest trees.

"Now she treads the Long Bridge--joy lighteth her eye--
Beyond her the dense wood and darkening sky--
Wild hopes thrill her heart as she neareth the shore:
O, despair! there are men fast advancing before!
Shame, shame on their manhood! they hear, they heed
The cry, her flight to stay,
And like demon forms with their outstretched arms,
They wait to seize their prey!

"She pauses, she turns! Ah, will she flee back?
Like wolves, her pursuers howl loud on their track;
She lifteth to Heaven one look of despair--
Her anguish breaks forth in one hurried prayer
Hark! her jailor's yell! like a bloodhound's bay
On the low night wind it sweeps!
Now, death or the chain! to the stream she turns,
And she leaps! O God, she leaps!

"The dark and the cold, yet merciful wave,
Receives to its bosom the form of the slave:
She rises--earth's scenes on her dim vision gleam,
Yet she struggleth not with the strong rushing stream:
And low are the death-cries her woman's heart gives,
As she floats adown the river,
Faint and more faint grows the drowning voice,
And her cries have ceased for ever!

"Now back, jailor, back to thy dungeons, again,
To swing the red lash and rivet the chain!
The form thou would'st fetter--returned to its God;
The universe holdeth no realm of night
More drear than her slavery--
More merciless fiends than here stayed her flight--
Joy! the hunted slave is free!

"That bond-woman's corpse--let Potomac's proud wave
Go bear it along by our Washington's grave,
And heave it high up on that hallowed strand,
To tell of the freedom he won for our land.
A weak woman's corpse, by freemen chased down;
Hurrah for our country! hurrah!
To freedom she leaped, through drowning and death--
Hurrah for our country! hurrah!"



"No refuge is found on our unhallowed ground,
For the wretched in Slavery's manacles bound;
While our star-spangled banner in vain boasts to wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!"

WE left Mary, the daughter of Clotel, in the capacity of a servant
in her own father's house, where she had been taken by her
mistress for the ostensible purpose of plunging her husband into
the depths of humiliation. At first the young girl was treated
with great severity; but after finding that Horatio Green had
lost all feeling for his child, Mrs. Green's own heart became
touched for the offspring of her husband, and she became its
friend. Mary had grown still more beautiful, and, like most of
her sex in that country, was fast coming to maturity.

The arrest of Clotel, while trying to rescue her daughter, did not
reach the ears of the latter till her mother had been removed
from Richmond to Washington. The mother had passed from time to
eternity before the daughter knew that she had been in the
neighbourhood. Horatio Green was not in Richmond at the time of
Clotel's arrest; had he been there, it is not probable but he
would have made an effort to save her. She was not his slave, and
therefore was beyond his power, even had he been there and
inclined to aid her. The revolt amongst the slaves had been
brought to an end, and most of the insurgents either put to death
or sent out of the state. One, however, remained in
prison. He was the slave of Horatio Green, and had been a servant
in his master's dwelling. He, too, could boast that his father
was an American statesman. His name was George. His mother had
been employed as a servant in one of the principal hotels in
Washington, where members of Congress usually put up. After
George's birth his mother was sold to a slave trader, and he to an
agent of Mr. Green, the father of Horatio. George was as white as
most white persons. No one would suppose that any African blood
coursed through his veins. His hair was straight, soft, fine, and
light; his eyes blue, nose prominent, lips thin, his head well
formed, forehead high and prominent; and he was often taken for a
free white person by those who did know him. This made his
condition still more intolerable; for one so white seldom ever
receives fair treatment at the hands of his fellow slaves; and the
whites usually regard such slaves as persons who, if not often
flogged, and otherwise ill treated, to remind them of their
condition, would soon "forget" that they were slaves, and "think
themselves as good as white folks." George's opportunities were
far greater than most slaves. Being in his master's house, and
waiting on educated white people, he had become very familiar
with the English language. He had heard his master and visitors
speak of the down-trodden and oppressed Poles; he heard them talk
of going to Greece to fight for Grecian liberty, and against the
oppressors of that ill-fated people. George, fired with the love
of freedom, and zeal for the cause of his enslaved countrymen,
joined the insurgents, and with them had been defeated and
captured. He was the only one remaining of these unfortunate
people, and he would have been put to death with them but for a
circumstance that occurred some weeks before the
outbreak. The court house had, by accident, taken fire, and was
fast consuming. The engines could not be made to work, and all
hope of saving the building seemed at an end. In one of the upper
chambers there was a small box containing some valuable deeds
belonging to the city; a ladder was placed against the house,
leading from the street to the window of the room in which the
box stood. The wind blew strong, and swept the flames in that
direction. Broad sheets of fire were blown again and again over
that part of the building, and then the wind would lift the pall
of smoke, which showed that the work of destruction was not yet
accomplished. While the doomed building was thus exposed, and
before the destroying element had made its final visit, as it did
soon after, George was standing by, and hearing that much
depended on the contents of the box, and seeing no one disposed
to venture through the fiery element to save the treasure,
mounted the ladder and made his way to the window, entered the
room, and was soon seen descending with the much valued box. Three
cheers rent the air as the young slave fell from the ladder when
near the ground; the white men took him up in their arms, to see
if he had sustained any injury. His hair was burnt, eyebrows
closely singed, and his clothes smelt strongly of smoke; but the
heroic young slave was unhurt. The city authorities, at their
next meeting, passed a vote of thanks to George's master for the
lasting benefit that the slave had rendered the public, and
commanded the poor boy to the special favour of his owner. When
George was on trial for participating in the revolt, this
"meritorious act," as they were pleased to term it, was brought
up in his favour. His trial was put off from session to session,
till he had been in prison more than a year. At last, however, he
was convicted of high treason, and sentenced to be
hanged within ten days of that time. The judge asked the slave if
he had anything to say why sentence of death should not be passed
on him. George stood for a moment in silence, and then said, "As
I cannot speak as I should wish, I will say nothing." "You may
say what you please," said the judge. "You had a good master,"
continued he, "and still you were dissatisfied; you left your
master and joined the Negroes who were burning our houses and
killing our wives." "As you have given me permission to speak,"
remarked George, "I will tell you why I joined the revolted
Negroes. I have heard my master read in the Declaration of
Independence 'that all men are created free and equal,' and this
caused me to inquire of myself why I was a slave. I also heard him
talking with some of his visitors about the war with England, and
he said, all wars and fightings for freedom were just and right.
If so, in what am I wrong? The grievances of which your fathers
complained, and which caused the Revolutionary War, were trifling
in comparison with the wrongs and sufferings of those who were
engaged in the late revolt. Your fathers were never slaves, ours
are; your fathers were never bought and sold like cattle, never
shut out from the light of knowledge and religion, never
subjected to the lash of brutal task-masters. For the crime of
having a dark skin, my people suffer the pangs of hunger, the
infliction of stripes, and the ignominy of brutal servitude. We
are kept in heathenish darkness by laws expressly enacted to make
our instruction a criminal offence. What right has one man to the
bones, sinews, blood, and nerves of another? Did not one God make
us all? You say your fathers fought for freedom; so did we. You
tell me that I am to be put to death for violating the
laws of the land. Did not the American revolutionists violate the
laws when they struck for liberty? They were revolters, but their
success made them patriots--We were revolters, and our failure
makes us rebels. Had we succeeded, we would have been patriots
too. Success makes all the difference. You make merry on the 4th
of July; the thunder of cannon and ringing of bells announce it
as the birthday of American independence. Yet while these cannons
are roaring and bells ringing, one-sixth of the people of this
land are in chains and slavery. You boast that this is the 'Land
of the Free'; but a traditionary freedom will not save you. It
will not do to praise your fathers and build their sepulchres.
Worse for you that you have such an inheritance, if you spend it
foolishly and are unable to appreciate its worth. Sad if the
genius of a true humanity, beholding you with tearful eyes from
the mount of vision, shall fold his wings in sorrowing pity, and
repeat the strain, 'O land of Washington, how often would I have
gathered thy children together, as a hen doth gather her brood
under her wings, and ye would not; behold your house is left unto
you desolate.' This is all I have to say; I have done." Nearly
every one present was melted to tears; even the judge seemed
taken by surprise at the intelligence of the young slave. But
George was a slave, and an example must be made of him, and
therefore he was sentenced. Being employed in the same house with
Mary, the daughter of Clotel, George had become attached to her,
and the young lovers fondly looked forward to the time when they
should be husband and wife.

After George had been sentenced to death, Mary was still more
attentive to him, and begged and obtained leave of her mistress
to visit him in his cell. The poor girl paid a daily
visit to him to whom she had pledged her heart and hand. At one of
these meetings, and only four days from the time fixed for the
execution, while Mary was seated in George's cell, it occurred to
her that she might yet save him from a felon's doom. She revealed
to him the secret that was then occupying her thoughts, viz.
that George should exchange clothes with her, and thus attempt his
escape in disguise. But he would not for a single moment listen
to the proposition. Not that he feared detection; but he would
not consent to place an innocent and affectionate girl in a
position where she might have to suffer for him. Mary pleaded,
but in vain. George was inflexible. The poor girl left her lover
with a heavy heart, regretting that her scheme had proved

Towards the close of the next day, Mary again appeared at the
prison door for admission, and was soon by the side of him whom
she so ardently loved. While there the clouds which had overhung
the city for some hours broke, and the rain fell in torrents amid
the most terrific thunder and lightning. In the most persuasive
manner possible, Mary again importuned George to avail himself of
her assistance to escape from an ignominious death. After assuring
him that she, not being the person condemned, would not receive
any injury, he at last consented, and they began to exchange
apparel. As George was of small stature, and both were white,
there was no difficulty in his passing out without detection; and
as she usually left the cell weeping, with handkerchief in hand,
and sometimes at her face, he had only to adopt this mode and his
escape was safe. They had kissed each other, and Mary had told
George where he would find a small parcel of provisions which she
had placed in a secluded spot, when the prison-keeper
opened the door and said, "Come, girl, it is time for you to go."
George again embraced Mary, and passed out of the jail. It was
already dark, and the street lamps were lighted, so that our hero
in his new dress had no dread of detection. The provisions were
sought out and found, and poor George was soon on the road
towards Canada. But neither of them had once thought of a change
of dress for George when he should have escaped, and he had
walked but a short distance before he felt that a change of his
apparel would facilitate his progress. But he dared not go amongst
even his coloured associates for fear of being betrayed. However,
he made the best of his way on towards Canada, hiding in the
woods during the day, and travelling by the guidance of the North
Star at night.

With the poet he could truly say,

"Star of the North! while blazing day
Pours round me its full tide of light,
And hides thy pale but faithful ray,
I, too, lie hid, and long for night."

One morning, George arrived on the banks of the Ohio river, and
found his journey had terminated, unless he could get some one to
take him across the river in a secret manner, for he would not be
permitted to cross in any of the ferry boats, it being a penalty
for crossing a slave, besides the value of the slave. He
concealed himself in the tall grass and weeds near the river, to
see if he could embrace an opportunity to cross. He had been in
his hiding place but a short time, when he observed a man in a
small boat, floating near the shore, evidently fishing. His first
impulse was to call out to the man and ask him to take him over
to the Ohio side, but the fear that the man was a slaveholder, or
one who might possibly arrest him, deterred him from it. The
man after rowing and floating about for some time
fastened the boat to the root of a tree, and started to a
neighbouring farmhouse.

This was George's moment, and he seized it. Running down the bank,
he unfastened the boat, jumped in, and with all the expertness of
one accustomed to a boat, rowed across the river and landed on
the Ohio side.

Being now in a Free State, he thought he might with perfect safety
travel on towards Canada. He had, however, gone but a very few
miles when he discovered two men on horseback coming behind him.
He felt sure that they could not be in pursuit of him, yet he did
not wish to be seen by them, so he turned into another road
leading to a house near by. The men followed, and were but a
short distance from George, when he ran up to a farmhouse, before
which was standing a farmer-looking man, in a broad-brimmed hat
and straight-collared coat, whom he implored to save him from the
"slave-catchers." The farmer told him to go into the barn near
by; he entered by the front door, the farmer following, and
closing the door behind George, but remaining outside, and gave
directions to his hired man as to what should be done with
George. The slaveholders by this time had dismounted, and were
in front of the barn demanding admittance, and charging the
farmer with secreting their slave woman, for George was still in
the dress of a woman. The Friend, for the farmer proved to be a
member of the Society of Friends, told the slave-owners that if
they wished to search his barn, they must first get an officer
and a search warrant. While the parties were disputing, the farmer
began nailing up the front door, and the hired man served the
back door in the same way. The slaveholders, finding that they
could not prevail on the Friend to allow them to get the slave,
determined to go in search of an officer. One was left
to see that the slave did not escape from the barn, while the
other went off at full speed to Mount Pleasant, the nearest town.
George was not the slave of either of these men, nor were they in
pursuit of him, but they had lost a woman who had been seen in
that vicinity, and when they saw poor George in the disguise of a
female, and attempting to elude pursuit, they felt sure they were
close upon their victim. However, if they had caught him,
although he was not their slave, they would have taken him back
and placed him in jail, and there he would have remained until his
owner arrived.

After an absence of nearly two hours, the slave-owner returned
with an officer and found the Friend still driving large nails
into the door. In a triumphant tone and with a corresponding
gesture, he handed the search-warrant to the Friend, and said,
"There, sir, now I will see if I can't get my nigger." "Well,"
said the Friend, "thou hast gone to work according to law, and
thou canst now go into my barn." "Lend me your hammer that I may
get the door open," said the slaveholder. "Let me see the warrant
again." And after reading it over once more, he said, "I see
nothing in this paper which says I must supply thee with tools to
open my door; if thou wishest to go in, thou must get a hammer
elsewhere." The sheriff said, "I will go to a neighbouring farm
and borrow something which will introduce us to Miss Dinah;" and
he immediately went in search of tools. In a short time the
officer returned, and they commenced an assault and battery upon
the barn door, which soon yielded; and in went the slaveholder
and officer, and began turning up the hay and using all other
means to find the lost property; but, to their astonishment, the
slave was not there. After all hope of getting Dinah was gone,
the slave-owner in a rage said to the Friend, "My nigger
is not here." "I did not tell thee there was any one here." "Yes,
but I saw her go in, and you shut the door behind her, and if she
was not in the barn, what did you nail the door for?" "Can't I do
what I please with my own barn door? Now I will tell thee; thou
need trouble thyself no more, for the person thou art after
entered the front door and went out at the back door, and is a
long way from here by this time. Thou and thy friend must be
somewhat fatigued by this time; won't thou go in and take a little
dinner with me?" We need not say that this cool invitation of the
good Quaker was not accepted by the slaveholders. George in the
meantime had been taken to a friend's dwelling some miles away,
where, after laying aside his female attire, and being snugly
dressed up in a straight collared coat, and pantaloons to match,
was again put on the right road towards Canada.

The fugitive now travelled by day, and laid by during night. After
a fatiguing and dreary journey of two weeks, the fugitive arrived
in Canada, and took up his abode in the little town of St.
Catherine's, and obtained work on the farm of Colonel Street. Here
he attended a night-school, and laboured for his employer during
the day. The climate was cold, and wages small, yet he was in a
land where he was free, and this the young slave prized more than
all the gold that could be given to him. Besides doing his best
to obtain education for himself, he imparted what he could to
those of his fellow-fugitives about him, of whom there were many.



GEORGE, however, did not forget his promise to use all the means
in his power to get Mary out of slavery. He, therefore, laboured
with all his might to obtain money with which to employ some one
to go back to Virginia for Mary. After nearly six months' labour
at St. Catherine's, he employed an English missionary to go and
see if the girl could be purchased, and at what price. The
missionary went accordingly, but returned with the sad
intelligence that, on account of Mary's aiding George to escape,
the court had compelled Mr. Green to sell her out of the state,
and she had been sold to a Negro trader, and taken to the New
Orleans market. As all hope of getting the girl was now gone,
George resolved to quit the American continent for ever. He
immediately took passage in a vessel laden with timber, bound for
Liverpool, and in five weeks from that time he was standing on
the quay of the great English seaport. With little or no
education, he found many difficulties in the way of getting a
respectable living. However he obtained a situation as porter in
a large house in Manchester, where he worked during the day, and
took private lessons at night. In this way he laboured for three
years, and was then raised to the situation of clerk. George was
so white as easily to pass for a white man, and being somewhat
ashamed of his African descent, he never once mentioned the fact
of his having been a slave. He soon became a partner in
the firm that employed him, and was now on the road to wealth.

In the year 1842, just ten years after George Green (for he
adopted his master's name) arrived in England, he visited France,
and spent some days at Dunkirk. It was towards sunset, on a warm
day in the month of October, that Mr. Green, after strolling some
distance from the Hotel de Leon, entered a burial ground, and
wandered along, alone among the silent dead, gazing upon the many
green graves and marble tombstones of those who once moved on the
theatre of busy life, and whose sounds of gaiety once fell upon
the ear of man. All nature around was hushed in silence, and
seemed to partake of the general melancholy which hung over the
quiet resting-place of departed mortals. After tracing the varied
inscriptions which told the characters or conditions of the
departed, and viewing the mounds beneath which the dust of
mortality slumbered, he had now reached a secluded spot, near to
where an aged weeping willow bowed its thick foliage to the
ground, as though anxious to hide from the scrutinising gaze of
curiosity the grave beneath it. Mr. Green seated himself upon a
marble tomb, and began to read Roscoe's Leo X., a copy of which
he had under his arm. It was then about twilight, and he had
scarcely gone through half a page, when he observed a lady in
black, leading a boy, some five years old, up one of the paths;
and as the lady's black veil was over her face, he felt somewhat
at liberty to eye her more closely. While looking at her, the
lady gave a scream, and appeared to be in a fainting position,
when Mr. Green sprang from his seat in time to save her from
falling to the ground. At this moment, an elderly gentleman was
seen approaching with a rapid step, who, from his appearance, was
evidently the lady's father, or one intimately connected with
her. He came up, and, in a confused manner, asked what
was the matter. Mr. Green explained as well as he could. After
taking up the smelling bottle which had fallen from her hand, and
holding it a short time to her face, she soon began to revive.
During all this time the lady's veil had so covered her face, that
Mr. Green had not seen it. When she had so far recovered as to be
able to raise her head, she again screamed, and fell back into
the arms of the old man. It now appeared quite certain, that
either the countenance of George Green, or some other object, was
the cause of these fits of fainting; and the old gentleman,
thinking it was the former, in rather a petulant tone said, "I
will thank you, sir, if you will leave us alone." The child whom
the lady was leading, had now set up a squall; and amid the
death-like appearance of the lady, the harsh look of the old man,
and the cries of the boy, Mr. Green left the grounds, and
returned to his hotel.

Whilst seated by the window, and looking out upon the crowded
street, with every now and then the strange scene in the
grave-yard vividly before him, Mr. Green thought of the book he
had been reading, and, remembering that he had left it on the
tomb, where he had suddenly dropped it when called to the
assistance of the lady, he immediately determined to return in
search of it. After a walk of some twenty minutes, he was again
over the spot where he had been an hour before, and from which he
had been so unceremoniously expelled by the old man. He looked in
vain for the book; it was nowhere to be found: nothing save the
bouquet which 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. Mr. Green took up the
bunch of flowers, and again returned to the hotel.

After passing a sleepless night, and hearing the clock strike six,
he dropped into a sweet sleep, from which he did not awaken until
roused by the rap of a servant, who, entering his room, handed
him a note which ran as follows:--"Sir,--I owe you an apology for
the inconvenience to which you were subjected last evening, and
if you will honour us with your presence to dinner to-day at four
o'clock, I shall be most happy to give you due satisfaction. My
servant will be in waiting for you at half-past three. I am,
sir, your obedient servant, J. Devenant. October 23. To George
Green, Esq."

The servant who handed this note to Mr. Green, informed him that
the bearer was waiting for a reply. He immediately resolved to
accept the invitation, and replied accordingly. Who this person
was, and how his name and the hotel where he was stopping had been
found out, was indeed a mystery. However, he waited impatiently
for the hour when he was to see this new acquaintance, and get
the mysterious meeting in the grave-yard solved.



"Man's love is of man's life, a thing apart;
'Tis woman's whole existence."--Byron.

THE clock on a neighbouring church had scarcely ceased striking
three, when the servant announced that a carriage had called for
Mr. Green. In less than half an hour he was seated in a most
sumptuous barouche, drawn by two beautiful iron greys, and
rolling along over a splendid gravel road completely shaded by
large trees, which appeared to have been the accumulating growth
of many centuries. The carriage soon stopped in front of a low
villa, and this too was embedded in magnificent trees covered
with moss. Mr. Green alighted and was shown into a superb drawing
room, the walls of which were hung with fine specimens from the
hands of the great Italian painters, and one by a German artist
representing a beautiful monkish legend connected with "The Holy
Catherine," an illustrious lady of Alexandria. The furniture had
an antique and dignified appearance. High backed chairs stood
around the room; a venerable mirror stood on the mantle shelf;
rich curtains of crimson damask hung in folds at either side of
the large windows; and a rich Turkey carpet covered the floor.
In the centre stood a table covered with books, in the midst of
which was an old-fashioned vase filled with fresh flowers, whose
fragrance was exceedingly pleasant. A faint light, together with
the quietness of the hour, gave beauty beyond description to the
whole scene.

Mr. Green had scarcely seated himself upon the sofa, when the
elderly gentleman whom he had met 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 curls of a chestnut colour
hanging down her cheeks, entered the room. Her eyes were of a
dark hazel, and her whole appearance indicated that she was a
native of a southern clime. The door at which she entered was
opposite to where the two gentlemen were seated. They immediately
rose; and Mr. Devenant was in the act of introducing her to Mr.
Green, when he observed that the latter had sunk back upon the
sofa, and the last word that he remembered to have heard was, "It
is her." After this, all was dark and dreamy: how long he
remained in this condition it was for another to tell. When he
awoke, he found himself stretched upon the sofa, with his boots
off, his neckerchief removed, shirt collar unbuttoned, and his
head resting upon a pillow. By his side sat the old man, with the
smelling bottle in the one hand, and a glass of water in the
other, and the little boy standing at the foot of the sofa. As
soon as Mr. Green had so far recovered as to be able to speak, he
said, "Where am I, and what does this mean?" "Wait a while,"
replied the old man, "and I will tell you all." After a lapse of
some ten minutes he rose 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. "Yes," he replied. "And
you were acquainted with a girl named Mary?" continued the old
man. "Yes, and I loved her as I can love none other." "The lady
whom you met so mysteriously last evening is Mary,"
replied Mr. Devenant. George Green was silent, but the fountains
of mingled grief and joy stole out from beneath his eyelashes,
and glistened like pearls upon his pale and marble-like cheeks. At
this juncture the lady again entered the room. Mr. Green sprang
from the sofa, and they fell into each other's arms, to the
surprise of the old man and little George, 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, they resumed their seats, and each in turn
related the adventures through which they had passed. "How did
you find out my name and address?" asked Mr. Green. "After you had
left us in the grave-yard, our little George said, 'O, mamma, if
there aint a book!' and picked it up and brought it to us. Papa
opened it, and said, 'The gentleman's name is written in it, and
here is a card of the Hotel de Leon, where I suppose he is
stopping.' Papa wished to leave the book, and said it was all a
fancy of mine that I had ever seen you before, but I was
perfectly convinced that you were my own George Green. Are you
married?" "No, I am not." "Then, thank God!" exclaimed Mrs.
Devenant. "And are you single now?" inquired Mr. Green. "Yes,"
she replied. "This is indeed the Lord's doings," said Mr. Green,
at the same time bursting into a flood of tears. Mr. Devenant was
past the age when men should think upon matrimonial subjects, yet
the scene brought vividly before his eyes the days when he was a
young man, and had a wife living. After a short interview, the
old man called their attention to the dinner, which was then
waiting. We need scarcely add, that Mr. Green and Mrs. Devenant
did very little towards diminishing the dinner that day.

After dinner the lovers (for such we have to call them) gave their
experience from the time that George left the jail dressed in
Mary's clothes. Up to that time Mr. Green's was substantially as
we have related it. Mrs. Devenant's was as follows:--"The night
after you left the prison," said she, "I did not shut my eyes in
sleep. The next morning, about eight o'clock, Peter the gardener
came to the jail to see if I had been there the night before, and
was informed that I had, and that I had left a little after dark.
About an hour after, Mr. Green came himself, and I need not say
that he was much surprised on finding me there, dressed in your
clothes. This was the first tidings they had of your escape."
"What did Mr. Green say when he found that I had fled?" "Oh!"
continued Mrs. Devenant, "he said to me when no one was near, I
hope George will get off, but I fear you will have to suffer in
his stead. I told him that if it must be so I was willing to die
if you could live." At this moment George Green burst into tears,
threw his arms around her neck, and exclaimed, "I am glad I have
waited so long, with the hope of meeting you again." Mrs.
Devenant again resumed her story:--"I was kept in jail three days,
during which time I was visited by the magistrates, and two of the
judges. On the third day I was taken out, and master told me that
I was liberated, upon condition that I should be immediately sent
out of the state. There happened to be just at the time in the
neighbourhood a Negro-trader, and he purchased me, and I was taken
to New Orleans. On the steamboat we were kept in a close room,
where slaves are usually confined, so that I saw nothing of the
passengers on board, or the towns we passed. We arrived at New
Orleans, and were all put into the slave-market for sale. I was
examined by many persons, but none seemed willing to
purchase me, as all thought me too white, and said I would run
away and pass as a free white woman. On the second day, while in
the slave-market, and while planters and others were examining
slaves and making their purchases, I observed a tall young man,
with long black hair, eyeing me very closely, and then talking to
the trader. I felt sure that my time had now come, but the day
closed without my being sold. I did not regret this, for I had
heard that foreigners made the worst of masters, and I felt
confident that the man who eyed me so closely was not an

"The next day was the Sabbath. The bells called the people to the
different places of worship. Methodists sang, and Baptists
immersed, and Presbyterians sprinkled, and Episcopalians read
their prayers, while the ministers of the various sects preached
that Christ died for all; yet there were some twenty-five or
thirty of us poor creatures confined in the 'Negro Pen,'
awaiting the close of the holy Sabbath, and the dawn of another
day, to be again taken into the market, there to be examined like
so many beasts of burden. I need not tell you with what anxiety
we waited for the advent of another day. On Monday we were again
brought out and placed in rows to be inspected; and, fortunately
for me, I was sold before we had been on the stand an hour. I was
purchased by a gentleman residing in the city, for a waiting-maid
for his wife, who was just on the eve of starting for Mobile, to
pay a visit to a near relation. I was then dressed to suit the
situation of a maid-servant; and upon the whole, I thought that,
in my new dress, I looked as much the lady as my mistress.

"On the passage to Mobile, who should I see among the passengers
but the tall, long-haired man that had eyed me so closely in the
slave-market a few days before. His eyes were again on
me, and he appeared anxious to speak to me, and I as reluctant to
be spoken to. The first evening after leaving New Orleans, soon
after twilight had let her curtain down, and pinned it with a
star, and while I was seated on the deck of the boat near the
ladies' cabin, looking upon the rippled waves, and the reflection
of the moon upon the sea, all at once I saw the tall young man
standing by my side. I immediately rose from my seat, and was in
the act of returning to the cabin, when he in a broken accent
said, 'Stop a moment; I wish to have a word with you. I am your
friend.' I stopped and looked him full in the face, and he said,
'I saw you some days since in the slavemarket, and I intended to
have purchased you to save you from the condition of a slave. I
called on Monday, but you had been sold and had left the market.
I inquired and learned who the purchaser was, and that you had to
go to Mobile, so I resolved to follow you. If you are willing I
will try and buy you from your present owner, and you shall be
free.' Although this was said in an honest and off-hand manner, I
could not believe the man to be sincere in what he said. 'Why
should you wish to set me free?' I asked. 'I had an only sister,'
he replied, 'who died three years ago in France, and you are so
much like her that had I not known of her death, I would most
certainly have taken you for her.' 'However much I may resemble
your sister, you are aware that I am not her, and why take so
much interest in one whom you never saw before?' 'The love,' said
he, 'which I had for my sister is transferred to you.' I had all
along suspected that the man was a knave, and this profession of
love confirmed me in my former belief, and I turned away and left

"The next day, while standing in the cabin and looking
through the window, the French gentleman (for such he was) came
to the window while walking on the guards, and again commenced as
on the previous evening. He took from his pocket a bit of paper
and put it into my hand, at the same time saying, 'Take this, it
may some day be of service to you; remember it is from a friend,'
and left me instantly. I unfolded the paper, and found it to be a
100 dollars bank note, on the United States Branch Bank, at
Philadelphia. My first impulse was to give it to my mistress, but,
upon a second thought, I resolved to seek an opportunity, and to
return the hundred dollars to the stranger.

"Therefore I looked for him, but in vain; and had almost given up
the idea of seeing him again, when he passed me on the guards of
the boat and walked towards the stem of the vessel. It being now
dark, I approached him and offered the money to him. He declined,
saying at the same time, 'I gave it to you keep it.' 'I do not
want it,' I said. 'Now,' said he, 'you had better give your
consent for me to purchase you, and you shall go with me to
France.' 'But you cannot buy me now,' I replied, 'for my master is
in New Orleans, and he purchased me not to sell, but to retain in
his own family.' 'Would you rather remain with your present
mistress than be free?' 'No,' said I. 'Then fly with me tonight;
we shall be in Mobile in two hours from this, and when the
passengers are going on shore, you can take my arm, and you can
escape unobserved. The trader who brought you to New Orleans
exhibited to me a certificate of your good character, and one from
the minister of the church to which you were attached in
Virginia; and upon the faith of these assurances, and the love I
bear you, I promise before high heaven that I will marry you as
soon as it can be done.' This solemn promise, coupled
with what had already transpired, gave me confidence in the man;
and rash as the act may seem, I determined in an instant to go
with him. My mistress had been put under the charge of the
captain; and as it would be past ten o'clock when the steamer
would land, she accepted an invitation of the captain to remain
on board with several other ladies till morning. I dressed myself
in my best clothes, and put a veil over my face, and was ready on
the landing of the boat. Surrounded by a number of passengers, we
descended the stage leading to the wharf, and were soon lost in
the crowd that thronged the quay. As we went on shore we
encountered several persons announcing the names of hotels, the
starting of boats for the interior, and vessels bound for Europe.
Among these was the ship Utica, Captain Pell, bound for Havre.
'Now,' said Mr. Devenant, 'this is our chance.' The ship was to
sail at twelve o'clock that night, at high tide; and following
the men who were seeking passengers, we went immediately on
board. Devenant told the captain of the ship that I was his
sister, and for such we passed during the voyage. At the hour of
twelve the Utica set sail, and we were soon out at sea.

"The morning after we left Mobile, Devenant met me as I came from
my state-room, and embraced me for the first time. I loved him,
but it was only that affection which we have for one who has done
us a lasting favour: it was the love of gratitude rather than that
of the heart. We were five weeks on the sea, and yet the passage
did not seem long, for Devenant was so kind. On our arrival at
Havre we were married and came to Dunkirk, and I have resided
here ever since."

At the close of this narrative, the clock struck ten, when the old
man, who was accustomed to retire at an early hour,
rose to take leave, saying at the same time, "I hope you will
remain with us to-night." Mr. Green would fain have excused
himself, on the ground that they would expect him and wait at the
hotel, but a look from the lady told him to accept the
invitation. The old man was the father of Mrs. Devenant's deceased
husband, as you will no doubt long since have supposed. A
fortnight from the day on which they met in the grave-yard, Mr.
Green and Mrs. Devenant were joined in holy wedlock; so that
George and Mary, who had loved each other so ardently in their
younger days, were now husband and wife.

A celebrated writer has justly said of woman, "A woman's whole
life is a history of the affections. The heart is her world; it
is there her ambition strives for empire; it is there her avarice
seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on
adventure; she embarks her whole soul in the traffic of
affection; and, if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless, for it is a
bankruptcy of the heart."

Mary had every reason to believe that she would never see George
again; and although she confesses that the love she bore him was
never transferred to her first husband, we can scarcely find
fault with her for marrying Mr. Devenant. But the adherence of
George Green to the resolution never to marry, unless to his
Mary, is, indeed, a rare instance of the fidelity of man in the
matter of love. We can but blush for our country's shame when we
recall to mind the fact, that while George and Mary Green, and
numbers of other fugitives from American slavery, can receive
protection from any of the governments of Europe, they cannot
return to their native land without becoming slaves.



MY narrative has now come to a close. I may be asked, and no doubt
shall, Are the various incidents and scenes related founded in
truth? I answer, Yes. I have personally participated in many of
those scenes. Some of the narratives I have derived from other
sources; many from the lips of those who, like myself, have run
away from the land of bondage. Having been for nearly nine years
employed on Lake Erie, I had many opportunities for helping the
escape of fugitives, who, in return for the assistance they
received, made me the depositary of their sufferings and wrongs.
Of their relations I have made free use. To Mrs. Child, of New
York, I am indebted for part of a short story. American
Abolitionist journals are another source from whence some of the
characters appearing in my narrative are taken. All these
combined have made up my story. Having thus acknowledged my
resources, I invite the attention of my readers to the following
statement, from which I leave them to draw their own
conclusions:--"It is estimated that in the United States, members
of the Methodist church own 219,363 slaves; members of the
Baptist church own 226,000 slaves; members of the Episcopalian
church own 88,000 slaves; members of the Presbyterian church own
77,000 slaves; members of all other churches own 50,000 slaves;
in all, 660,563 slaves owned by members of the Christian church
in this pious democratic republic!"

May these facts be pondered over by British Christians, and at the
next anniversaries of the various religious denominations in
London may their influence be seen and felt! The religious
bodies of American Christians will send their delegates to these
meetings. Let British feeling be publicly manifested. Let British
sympathy express itself in tender sorrow for the condition of my
unhappy race. Let it be understood, unequivocally understood, that
no fellowship can be held with slaveholders professing the same
common Christianity as yourselves. And until this stain from
America's otherwise fair escutcheon be wiped away, let no
Christian association be maintained with those who traffic in the
blood and bones of those whom God has made of one flesh as
yourselves. Finally, let the voice of the whole British nation be
heard across the Atlantic, and throughout the length and breadth
of the land of the Pilgrim Fathers, beseeching their descendants,
as they value the common salvation, which knows no distinction
between the bond and the free, to proclaim the Year of Jubilee.
Then shall the "earth indeed yield her increase, and God, even
our own God, shall bless us; and all the ends of the earth shall
fear Him."

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