# The Homes of the New World/Letter XIII.

LETTER XIII.
Charleston, April 12th, 1850.
I see a feeble Southern beauty reposing upon a luxurious bed of flowers in a nectarine grove, surrounded by willing slaves, who at her nod bring to her the most precious fruits and ornaments in the world. But all her beauty, the splendour of her eye, the delicate crimson of her cheek, the pomp which surrounds her couch, cannot conceal the want of health and vigour, the worm which ​devours her vitals. This weak, luxurious beauty is—South Carolina.
And after all, my Agatha, she is beautiful. I have inexpressibly enjoyed her peculiar charm, so delightful, so rich, and to me so novel.
I have been fourteen days here, and although the weather for the most part has been rainy, and is so still, yet there have been days when I have wished that all feeble, ailing humanity, (and you my Agatha above all,) could remove hither, breathe this air, see this exquisite pomp of heaven and earth, which must invigorate them like a balsam of life, and enjoy life anew. I can under stand how the mariners who first approached these shores, and felt these gentle breezes, this atmosphere, believed that they were drinking an elixir of life, and hoped to find here the fountain of perpetual youth.
During these delicious days I have made some excursions into the country, round the city, with Mrs. H., and some kind acquaintance. In all directions, after we had ploughed through an extent of deep sand—but they are now beginning everywhere to form wooden roads, which are very excellent to drive upon—we arrived at forest. And the forest here is a sort of paradisaical wilderness, or abounding with many kinds of trees and plants which I never before heard of or saw. Nothing is studied or trimmed, but everything grows in wild luxuriant disorder: myrtles and fir-trees, magnolias and cypresses, elms and oaks, and a great many foreign trees, the names of which I do not know. The most magnificent and the most abundant of all trees here is the live-oak, an evergreen, an immense tree, from the branches of which depending masses of moss, often three or four yards in length, (the Tillandsia Umvides) hung down in heavy draperies. These pendant grey masses upon the heavy branches produce the most unimaginably picturesque effect, and when these trees have been planted with any ​regularity they form the most magnificent natural Gothic churches with arcades and lofty vaulted aisles. Beneath these long-branched patriarchs of the forest flourish a number of lesser trees, shrubs, plants, and climbing vegetation, especially the wild vine, which fill the wood with perfume, and make a beautiful show in the hedges, and up aloft in the trees, whence they fling down their wild blossoming branches. Thus, with the wild yellow jasmine, which was here and there yet in flower; thus with the white Cherokee rose, which also grows wild, and in the greatest abundance; thus, with many other showy creeping plants, which on all sides twine around the boles of the trees, and many of which are said to be poisonous. (And many poisonous things, both of vegetable and animal life, are said to be in these wildernesses.) The magnolia is one of the most glorious of their trees, a tall green-leaved laurel, the white blossoms which are said to be the most beautiful flowers of the South; but it does however not begin to flower till the end of May.
The city itself is now in full bloom, for the city is like a great assemblage of villas standing in their gardens, which are now brilliant with roses of every kind. The fragrance of the orange blossom fills the air, and the mocking-bird, the nightingale of North America (called by the Indians, cenconttatolly, or the hundred-tongued, from its ability to imitate every kind of sound), sings in cages in the open windows, or outside them. I have not yet heard it sing when free in the woods. The nectarine and the fig-tree have already set their fruit. I observed this in Mrs. W. H.'s garden, where also I saw the Carolina humming-bird flutter, like a little spirit, among the scarlet honeysuckle flowers, sipping their honey as it flew. That is something particular, and very beautiful, my little Agatha, and I am fortunate in being here.
I have received many kind visits and invitations, and first among the former let me mention that which is ​most to my taste, and to which I owe some of my most beautiful hours in the New World. You know my faculty of receiving decided impressions as regards persons, and of my coming into rapport with them almost at the first moment. This faculty or power, which has never yet deceived me, has become more keen since I went abroad on my Viking expedition, quite alone, and have thereby been brought into immediate connection with a great number of persons. I have, of late in particular, acquired a sort of mercurial sensitiveness to the various temperaments and natures which approach me, and the barometer of my feelings rises or falls accordingly. Thus as I liked Mrs. W. H. from the first moment, did I like—but in another way—Mrs. Holbrook, the wife of the Professor of Natural History, from the first moment when I saw and heard her. I became animated, and as it were awakened, by the fresh intelligent life which spoke in that lovely, animated woman. There is nothing commonplace, nothing conventional in her. Everything is clear, peculiar, living, and above all, good. I felt it like a draught of the very elixir of life—the very fountain of youth. The next day I dined with Mrs. W. H., at her beautiful, elegant residence, the sea-breezes coming in refreshingly through the curtains of the windows. Her mother, Mrs. R., a beautiful old lady, with splendid eyes; her sister, Miss Lucas R.; three ideally lovely and charming young girls, her nieces; and three very agreeable gentlemen, composed the party. Mr. Holbrook is, together with Aggassiz, the Swiss, now on a natural history expedition to the great fens of Florida, called the Ever Glades.
After an excellent dinner we drove to the battery, the fashionable promenade of the city, and which consists of a bald inclosure along the beach, where people walk round and round in a circle, so that they see again and again all those they know, and all those they do not know, who are promenading there, a thing that I should have ​nothing to do with beyond at most once a-year, not even to breathe the very best sea-air. Neither did this sort of promenade seem particularly to Mrs. Holbrook's taste; but the people of the New World, in general, are fond of being in company, are fond of a crowd.
After an excellent tea, Mrs. Holbrook drove me home. And that was one day of fashionable life at Charleston; and it was very good. But better still, was another day spent in the country, alone with her at her country-seat, Belmont, some miles out of town.
She came about noon and fetched me in a little carriage. We were alone, we two, the whole day; we wandered in myrtle-groves—we botanised—we read; Mrs. H. made me acquainted with the English poet, Keats; and above all, we talked; and the day passed like a golden dream, or like the most beautiful reality. You know how easily I get wearied with talk, how painful to me is the effort which it requires. But now I talked for a whole day with the same person, and I was not conscious either of effort or of fatigue. It was delicious and amusing, amusing, amusing! The air itself was a delicious enjoyment. Mrs. Holbrook was like a perpetually fresh-welling fountain, and every subject which she touched upon became interesting, either from her remarks upon it, or from the views which her conversation unfolded. Thus we flew together over the whole world, not always agreeing, but always maintaining the best understanding: and that day, in the fragrant myrtle-groves of Belmont, on the banks of the Ashley river, is one of my most beautiful days in the New World, and one which I shall never forget. Now I became acquainted, for the first time, with the amber-tree, and several other trees and plants, whose names and properties Mrs. H. mentioned to me. Natural science has extended her glance over the life of the world, without diverting it from the religious and heavenly life. For her the earth is a poem, which in its various forms ​testifies of its Poet and its Creator; but the highest evidence of Him she derives, not from the natural life, but from a still, lofty figure, which once advanced from the shadows of life before her glance, and made life for her light and great, connecting time and eternity. Mrs. H. is a platonic thinker, who can see (which is rare in this world) system in all things, and dissimilar radii having all relationship to one common centre. I spoke freely to her of what I considered the great want in the female education of this country,—and of all countries. Women acquire many kinds of knowledge, but there is no systematising of it. A deal of latin, a deal of mathematics, much knowledge of the physical sciences, &c., but there is no philosophical centralisation of this, no application of the life in this to life itself, and no opportunity afforded after leaving school of applying all this scientific knowledge to a living purpose. Hence it falls away out of the soul, like flowers that have no root, or as leaves plucked from the branches of the tree of knowledge when the young disciple goes from school into life. Or if they do remember what they have learned, it is but merely remembered work, and does not enter as sap and vegetative power into the life itself. That which is wanting in school-learning, in the great as in the small, is a little Platonic philosophy.
On other subjects we did not fully agree; my imagination could not always accompany the flights of my friend. But the charm in Mrs. H. is that she has genius, and she says new and startling things, in particular as regard the life and correspondence of nature and of the spirit.
When the sun sank in the waters of the river this beautiful day came to an end, and we returned to the city. But I must go again to Belmont, and spend a few days there with its good genius; so it is said—but I know not whether I shall have the time.
Mrs. H. belongs to the aristocratic world of Charleston, ​and to one of its noblest families, the Rutleges, but is universally acknowledged as one of “the most intellectual and charming women,” and is spoken of as “above fashion;” and how could such a spirit be trammeled by fashion?
She has, however, one twist, but that is universal here, and it belongs to the slave states.
South Carolina is generally called the Palmetto State. I expected to have seen everywhere this half-tropical species of tree. I was quite annoyed not to see, either in or out of Charleston, any palmettos. They have been, in a Vandal-like manner, cut down for piles, and for ship-building, because this timber is impenetrable to water. At length, however, a few days ago, I saw this States-tree of Carolina (for the State bears a palmetto-tree on its banner) on Sullivan's Island, a large sand-bank in the sea, outside Charleston, where the citizens have country-houses for the enjoyment of sea-air and sea-bathing; and there in various gardens we may yet see clumps of palmettos. Imagine to yourself a straight round stem, slightly knotted at the joints, from the top of which large, green, waving fans, with finger-like divisions, branch forth on all sides upon long stalks, and you have an image of the palmetto, the representative of the palm. I was invited by Mr. and Mrs. Gilman. to a pic-nic on Sullivan's Island. Pic-nics are here the current name for excursions into the country, where they go to eat, and to enjoy themselves in a merry company. These parties are very much liked, especially by the young people; and many a tender, serious union, looks back for its commencement to a merry pic-nic. That at which I was now present was a large party, nor was there any lack of young people, nor yet of young enamoured pairs; but the day was cool, and I felt it to be rather laborious than agreeable, which is often the case with me on so-called parties of pleasure. But I really did enjoy a drive with Mrs. Gilman on the beach, ​along the firm fine sands, whilst the waves came rolling in, thundering and foaming even to the horses' feet. There was a wild freshness in this scene, whilst the air was of the mildest and most delicious character. How romantic is “nature,” and how rich in picturesque contrasts! Both Mr. and Mrs. Gilman are of the poetical temperament; she has sung the beauty of quiet and pious life; he the subjects connected with his native land. His splendid song,—
“Fathers, have ye bled in vain!”
written from fervent inspiration at a time when the dissolution of the Union was threatened by the bitterness of party strife, has been sung with rapture throughout the United States, and perhaps may have contributed more to arouse the public spirit of fellow-citizenship than any governmental measure which is said to have saved “the Union.” Mr. Gilman is a highly esteemed and beloved minister of Charleston, a handsome elderly man, whose inward earnestness and nobility are faithfully reflected in his exterior.
Last evening I was at a wedding, that is to say, I was invited to witness the marriage ceremony in the church. It was between a Catholic and a member of the English Episcopalian church; and they had agreed to select the minister of the Unitarian congregation of Charleston, Mr. Gilman, to unite them. Only the relatives and friends of the bridal pair were to be present at the ceremony, which took place in the evening by lamp-light. The bride was lovely as a new-blown white rose, small and delicate, dressed in white, and with a very pretty garland and veil. The bridegroom was a tall and thin gentleman; not handsome, but had the look of a good, respectable man, is very rich, and desperately in love with his white rose-bud. Their bridal tour is to be a pleasure trip to Europe. After the marriage ceremony, which was ​worthily and beautifully performed by Mr. Gilman, the company rose from their seats and congratulated the bridal pair. A fat old negro-woman sate, like a horrid spectre, black and silent by the altar. This was the nurse and foster-mother of the bride, and who could not bear the thought of parting with her. This parting, however, is only for the time of their journey, as these black nurses are cared for with great tenderness as long as they live in the white families, and generally speaking they deserve it from their affection and fidelity.
You may believe that there has not failed to be here conversations about slavery. I do not originate them, but when they occur, which they frequently do, I express my sentiments candidly but as inoffensively as may be. One thing, however, which astonishes and annoys me here, and which I did not expect to find, is that I scarcely ever meet with a man, or woman either, who can openly and honestly look the thing in the face. They wind and turn about in all sorts of ways, and make use of every argument—sometimes the most opposite, to convince me that the slaves are the happiest people in the world, and do not wish to be placed in any other condition, or in any other relationship to their masters than that in which they now find themselves. This in many cases, and under certain circumstances, is true; and it occurs more frequently than the people of the Northern States have any idea of. But there is such an abundance of unfortunate cases, and always must be in this system, as to render it detestable.
I have had a few conversations on the subject, some thing in the following style:—
Southerner.—“Report says, Miss Bremer, that you belong to the abolitionist party?”
Myself.—“Yes, certainly, I do; but so, doubtlessly, do we both; you as well as I.”
Southerner is silent.
​Myself.—“I am certain that you, as well as I, wish freedom and happiness to the human race.”
Southerner.—“Y—y—ye—e—e—e—s! but—but—”
And now come many buts, which are to prove the difficulty and the impossibility of the liberation of the negro race. That there is difficulty I am willing to concede, but not impossibility. This, however, is clear, that there requires a preparation for freedom, and that this has been long neglected. There is here, in Charleston, a noble man who thinks as I do on the matter, and who labours in this the only true direction and preparation for this freedom, namely, the negroes initiation into Christianity. Formerly their instruction was shamefully neglected, or rather opposed: the laws of the State forbidding that slaves should be taught to read and write, and long opposing their instruction, even in Christianity. But better times have come, and seem to be coming. People frequently, in their own houses, teach their slaves to read; and missionaries, generally methodists, go about the plantations preaching the Gospel.
But the onesidedness and the obstinate blindness of the educated class in this city, really astonish and vex me. And women, women, in whose moral sense of right, and in whose inborn feeling for the true and the good, I have so much faith and hope—women grieve me by being so shortsighted on this subject, and by being still more irritable and violent than the men. And yet it is women, who ought to be most deeply wounded by the immorality and the impurity of the institution! Does it not make a family a non-entity? Does it not separate husband and wife, mother and child? It strikes me daily with a sort of amazement when I see the little negro children, and think—“These children do not belong to their parents; their mother, who brought them into the world with suffering, who nourished them at her breast, who watched over them, she whose flesh and blood they ​are, has no right over them. They are not hers; they are the property of her possessor, of the person who bought her, and with her all the children she may have, with his money; and who can sell them away whenever he pleases.” Wonderful!
The moral feeling, it is said, is becoming more and more opposed to the separation of families and of little children from their mothers by sale; and that it now no longer takes place at the public slave-auctions. But one hears in the Northern, as well as in the Southern States, of circumstances which prove what heart-breaking occurrences take place in consequence of their separation, which the effects of the system render unavoidable, and which the best slaveholders cannot always prevent.
The house-slaves here seem, in general, to be very well treated; and I have been in houses where their rooms, and all that appertains to them (for every servant, male or female, has their own excellent room), are much better than those which are provided for the free servants of our country. The relationship between the servant and the employer seems also, for the most part, to be good and heartfelt; the older servants especially seem to stand in that affectionate relationship to the family which characterises a patriarchal condition, and which it is so beautiful to witness in our good families between servant and employer; at the same time with this great difference, that with us the relationship is the free-will attachment of one rational being to another. Here also may often occur this free-will attachment, but it is then a conquest over slavery, and that slavish relationship, and I fancy that here nobody knows exactly how it is. True it is, in the meantime, that the negro race has a strong instinct of devotion and veneration, and this may be seen by the people's eyes, which have a peculiar, kind, faithful, and affectionate expression, which I like, and which reminds me of that beautiful expression in the eye ​of the dog: true is it also, that they have a natural tendency to subordination to the white race, and to obey their higher intelligence; and white mothers and black nurses prove continually the exclusive love of the latter for the child of the white. No better foster-mothers, no better nurses, can any one have for their children, than the black woman; and in general no better sick nurses than the blacks, either male or female. They are naturally good-tempered and attached; and if the white “Massa” and “Missis,” as the negroes call their owners, are kind on their part, the relationship between them and “Daddy” and “Mammy,” as the black servants are called, especially if they are somewhat in years, is really good and tender. But neither are circumstances of quite the opposite kind wanting. The tribunals of Carolina, and the better class of the community of Carolina, have yet fresh in their memory, deeds of cruelty done to house-slaves which rival the worst abominations of the old heathen times. Some of the very blackest of these deeds have been done by —— women; by women in the higher class of society in Charleston! Just lately, also, has a rich planter been condemned to two years imprisonment in the house of correction, for his barbarous treatment of a slave. And then it must be borne in mind that the public tribunal does not take cognisance of any other cruelties to slaves, than those which are too horrible and too public to be passed over! When I bring forward these universally-known circumstances in my arguments with the patrons and patronesses of slavery, they reply, “Even in your country, and in all countries, are masters and mistresses sometimes austere to their servants.” To which I reply, “But then they can leave them!” And to this they have nothing to say, but look displeased.
Ah! the curse of slavery, as the common phrase is, has not merely fallen upon the black, but, perhaps, at this moment, still more upon the white, because it has ​warped his sense of truth, and has degraded his moral nature.
The position and the treatment of the blacks, however, really improve from year to year. The whites, nevertheless, do not seem to advance in enlightenment. But—I will see and hear more before I condemn them. Perhaps the lover of darkness has established himself principally in Charleston. “Charleston is an owl's nest!” said a witty Carolina lady to me one day.
I must now tell you something about the home in which I am, and in which I find myself so well off, and so happy, that I would not wish for a better. The house with its noble garden stands alone in one of the most rural streets of the city, Lynch-street, and has on one side a free view of the country and the river, so that it enjoys the most delicious air—the freshest breezes. Lovely sprays of white roses, and of the scarlet honeysuckle, fling themselves over the piazza, and form the most exquisite verandah. Here I often walk, especially in the early morning and in the evening, inhaling the delicious air, and looking abroad over the country. My room, my pretty airy room, is in the upper story. The principal apartments which are on the first story open upon the piazza, where people assemble or walk about in the evening, when there is generally company.
You are a little acquainted with Mrs. W. H. already, but no one can rightly know her, or value her, until they have seen her in daily life, within her own home. She is there more like a Swedish lady than any woman I have met with in this country, for she has that quiet, attentive, affectionate, motherly demeanour; always finding something to do, and not being above doing it with her own hands. (In the slave states people commonly consider coarse work as somewhat derogatory, and leave it to be done by slaves.) Thus I see her quietly busied from morning till evening; now with the children, now with ​meals, when she assists her servants to arrange the table; or when meals are over and removed, and all is in order which needs looking after, (for the negroes are naturally careless,) she will be busy cutting out and making clothes for them, or in dressing and smartening up the little negroes of the house; then she is in the garden, planting flowers or tying up one that has fallen down, training and bringing into order the wild shoots of trailing plants; or she is receiving guests, sending off messengers, &c., and all this with that calm comprehension, with that dignity, which at the same time is so full of kindness, and which is so beautiful in the mistress of a family, which makes her bear the whole house, and be its stay as well as its ornament. In the evening, in particular —— but I will give you a circumstantial history of my day.
Early in the morning comes Lettis, the black-brown servant, and brings me a cup of coffee. An hour afterwards little Willie knocks at my door, and takes me down to breakfast, leaning on my little cavalier's shoulder,—sometimes I am conducted both by him and Laura,—to the lowest story, where is the eating-room. There when the family is assembled, good Mrs. Howland dispenses tea and coffee and many good things, for here, as in the North, the breakfasts are only too abundant. One of the principal dishes here is rice (the principal product of Carolina) boiled in water in such a manner as to swell the grains considerably, yet still are they soft, and eat very pulpy. I always eat from this dish of rice at breakfast, because I know it to be very wholesome. People generally eat it with fresh butter, and many mix with it also a soft-boiled egg. For the rest they have boiled meat and fish: sweet potatoes, hommony, maize-bread, eggs, milk cooled with ice; all which are really a superabundance of good things. During the whole meal-time one of the black boys or girls stands with a besom of peacocks' feathers to drive away the flies.
​After breakfast all go out on the piazza for a little while, the children leap about and chase one another through the garden, and it is a delight to see the graceful Sarah, now thirteen, leap about, brilliant with the freshness of youth and joy, and light as a young roe, with her plaits of hair and her ribbons flying in the wind. She is a most charming creature. The elder sister, Illione, is also a pretty girl, with something excellent, grave and demure in her demeanour and manner. Willie has beautiful eyes and brown curls, and Laura is a little rosebud. Two little black negro-girls, Georgia and Attila, the children of Lettis, jump and leap about in the house, and on the steps, as quick and dexterous as one might fancy black elves.
After breakfast I go into my own room and remain there quite undisturbed the whole forenoon. At twelve o'clock Mrs. W. H. sends me up a second breakfast, bread and butter, a glass of iced milk, oranges and bananas. You see my dear heart, I am not likely to suffer from hunger. At three o'clock they dine, and there may be a guest or two to dinner. In the afternoon my good hostess takes me out somewhere, which is in every way agreeable to me.
The evening is nevertheless the flower of the day in this family, (ah, in how many families is the evening the heaviest part of the day!) Then the lamps are lighted in the beautiful drawing-rooms; and all are summoned to tea. Then is Mrs. W. H., kind, and fat, and good, seated on the sofa with the great tea-table before her, loaded with good things; then small tea-tables are placed about, (I always have my own little table to myself near the sofa,) and the lively little negro-boy, Sam, (Mrs. W. H.'s great favourite) carries round the refreshments. Then come in, almost always, three or four young lads, sons of neighbouring friends of the family, and a couple of young girls also, and the young people ​dance gaily and gracefully to the piano, in all simplicity and good faith. The children of the house are amiable with one another, they are very fond of one another, and dance together as we used to do in the evenings at home. But they are happier than we were. I generally play an hour for them, either waltzes or quadrilles. Strangers, in the mean time, call and take their leave.
Later, people go out on the piazza, where they walk about, or sit and talk, but I prefer rather quietly to enjoy the fragrant night-air, and to glance through the open doors into the room where the handsome children are skipping about in the joy of youth, Sarah always ideally lovely and graceful, and—without knowing it.
Mr. M., the brother of Mrs. W. H., and the gentleman who came to fetch me the first morning, is a guest here every evening; he is a man of great conversational powers, and tells a story remarkably well.
But with none of them am I so much at home as with my good sensible hostess. And I cannot describe how excellently kind she is to me.
April 13th.—We had last evening a great storm of thunder and lightning, such as I have never seen in Europe, although I remember one June night last year, in Denmark, at Sorö, when the whole atmosphere was as it were in bright flame. But here the flashes of lightning were like glowing streams of lava, and the thunder-claps instantly succeeded them. For the first time in my life I felt a little frightened at a thunder-storm. And yet I enjoyed the wild scene.
In a couple of days I shall go hence on a visit to Mr. Poinsett, the late Minister of War for the United States, as well as their Ambassador to Mexico, and who now lives as a private man on his own plantation. He must be an unusually interesting and amiable man, has seen a great deal of life and of the world, and I am therefore glad to receive an invitation to his house near George ​Town, a day's journey from this place. I have to thank Mr. Downing for this. I shall spend there a few days, and return hither, whence I shall go to Georgia. I must make good use of the time, because early in May the heat becomes great in the South, and then all the planters remove from their plantations to avoid the dangerous fevers which then prevail. During the summer months it is said that a night spent on one of the rice-plantations would be certain death to a white man. The negroes on the contrary suffer little or nothing from the climate.
I am now making a sketch, from an oil painting, of the portrait of a great Indian chief, by name Osconehola, who, at the head of the Seminole tribe, fought bravely against the Americans in Florida, who wished to drive the Indians thence and send them westward to Arkansas. The country in the southern parts, which was possessed by the tribes of the Seminole and Creek Indians, and where they were continually an annoyance to white settlers, produces as its more general wood a tree which is called light-wood, from the gumminess of its timber, which quickly kindles and burns with a bright flame. It is not of a large size, and is easy to fell. The Arkansas, on the Western side of the Mississippi, produces for the most part oak forests, bounded by the wild steppland (Nebraska, the principal resort of the Indians at this time in North America), and has a severe climate.
Osconehola therefore replied to the message and the threat which was sent by the government of the United States, in these words:—
“My people are accustomed to the warm air of Florida, to the rivers and the lakes which abound in fish; to the light-wood, which is easy to fell, and which burns easily. They cannot live in that cold country where only the oak tree grows. The people cannot fell the large trees; they will perish there for want of the light-wood!”
And when at last the choice was given him, either open ​war with the United States, or that he should sign the contract which banished himself and his people from Florida, he struck his spear through it, and said,—
“I defy them to conquer us within five years!”
And the war between the Florida Indians and the army of the United States continued five years; much blood was shed on both sides, and still were the Indians in possession of the country, and would perhaps have been so still had not Osconehola been taken captive through perfidy and deceit. When under the protection of the white flag he came to have a talk with the Spanish General Hernandez. The treachery was indeed the Spaniards', but still it appears that the American officers were neither ignorant of it nor yet averse to it.
Osconehola was taken as prisoner, first to St. Augustin, then to Charleston, and to Fort Moultrie, on Sullivan's Island. From this moment it appeared as if his spirit was broken. Persons who visited him in his prison—Mr. M. was among these—says that he never saw a glance so melancholy and gloomy. He, however, never uttered any lamentation, but often spoke with bitterness of the manner in which he had been taken prisoner, and of the injustice which had been done to his people in forcing them from their native soil to remove to a northern land where no light-wood was to be found!
His handsome person, his melodious voice, his large dark eyes, full of gloomy fire, his bravery and his fate, awoke a universal interest for him, and the ladies in particular felt an enthusiasm for the handsome Seminole chief, visited him and made him presents. But he seemed indifferent to all; grew more and more silent, and from the moment when he was put in prison, his health declined, although he did not appear to be ill. He ate but very little, and would take no medicine. It was evident that he wished to die. The captive eagle could not live deprived of the free life and air of his forest.
​Two of his wives, one young and handsome, the other old and ugly, accompanied him into captivity. The old one waited on and tended him, and he seemed to love her most. He was always occupied by but one thought—the certain ruin of his people in that cold land where there was no light-wood. Embittered and silent, he wasted away by degrees, and died one month after his arrival at Fort Moultrie, died because he could not live. The light-wood in his life was consumed. A weeping willow droops over the white marble stone which covers his grave outside the wall of the fortress by the sea-shore.
It is a few years since he died, and his life, combat and death, are an abbreviated history of the fate of his nation in this part of the world. For this reason, and also for the sake of the expression of his handsome countenance, have I wished to make a sketch of his portrait, so that you may see it. I have heard him spoken of here by many persons. Otherwise, I have not just now a weakness for the Indians, notwithstanding their stern virtues, and beautiful characters, and the splendour with which novelists have loved to surround them. They are extremely cruel in their wars between the different tribes, and they are usually severe to the women, whom they treat as beasts of burden, and not as equals.
Casa Bianca, April 16th.—I now write to you, my sweet child, from a hermitage on the banks of the little river Pee Dee. It is a solitary, quiet abode, so solitary and quiet, that it almost astonishes me to find such a one in this lively active part of the world, and among these company-loving people.
A fine old couple, Mr. Poinsett and his lady, who remind me of Philemon and Baucis, live here quite alone, in the midst of negro slaves, rice-plantations, and wild, sandy, forest land. There is not a single white servant in the house. The overseer of the slaves, who always lives near the slave-hamlet, is the only white person ​I have seen out of the house. Nevertheless the old couple seem to me to live as safely as we do at our Årsta, and to be about as little careful of fastening the house-door at night. The house is an old one (N.B., for this young country), with antique furniture, and rooms testifying of good old-fashioned aristocratic taste and comfort.
Round the house is a park, or garden, rich in the most beautiful trees, shrubs, and plants of the country, planted by Mr. Poinsett himself, according to Mr.Downing's advice, and, as under the snow-covered roof at Concord, had I the pleasure of hearing the words, “Mr. Downing has done much for this country,” so universal is the influence of Mr. Downing here in the improvement of taste, and the awakening a sense of the beautiful, as regards buildings, the cultivation of gardens, and the laying out of public grounds.
North America has also this peculiarity, that all kinds of trees and shrubs from other parts of the world may be removed here, become naturalised and flourish; in the grounds around Casa Bianca are a great number from foreign countries. Of all the trees here I like best the native large live-oak, with its long, pendant growth of moss, (two magnificent specimens of this tree stand opposite the house on the banks of Pee Dee, and form by their branches an immense portico, through which one sees the river and the landscape beyond) and the sober, lofty, dark green magnolias. Outside my window, which is in the upper story, stands a cornus Floridæ, a tree whose crown now seems to be a mass of snow-white blossom, and early in the morning I hear and see the thrushes singing their rich morning song on its topmost branches; farther off is the deliciously odoriferous Olea fragrans from Peru, and many beautiful rare trees and shrubs. Among these sing the thrushes and the mockingbirds, and swarms of blackbirds twitter and chatter, and build in the great live-oaks. Mrs. Poinsett will not allow ​them to be disturbed, and every morning, after breakfast, come little grey sparrows and the brilliant cardinal-birds (so called from the splendour of their plumage) quite familiarly, and pick up the rice-grains which she scatters for them in the piazza before the door. On the quiet little river Pee Dee, glides first one and then another canoe paddled by negroes, and it is only by the steamboats which now and then swing their tails of smoke over the river Wackamow, beyond Pee Dee, and by the sailing vessels which one sees on their way down to Cuba or China, that one observes that here also one lives in this trading and trafficking world.
Mr. Poinsett is a French gentilhomme in his whole exterior and demeanour (he is of a Erench family), and unites the refinement and natural courtesy of the Frenchman with the truthful simplicity and straightforwardness which I so much like in the true American, the man of the New World. That fine figure is still slender and agile, although he suffers from asthma. He has seen much, and been among much, and is an extremely agreeable person to converse with, in particular as relates to the internal political relationship of the United States, which he has assisted in forming, and the spirit and intention of which he thoroughly understands, whilst he has a warm compatriot heart. I have, in a couple of conversations with him in the evening after tea, learned more of these relationships, and those of the individual states to their common government, than I could have learned from books, because I acquire this knowledge in a living manner from the sagacious old statesman; I can ask questions, make objections, and have them at once replied to. He is the first man that I have met with in the South, with one exception, who speaks of slavery in a really candid and impartial spirit. He earnestly desires that his native land should free itself from this moral obliquity, and he has faith in its doing so; but he sees the whole ​thing at present involved in so many ways, and the difficulties attending any change so great, that he leaves the question to be solved by the future. He firmly believes in the onward progress of America, but he is far from satisfied with many things in the country, and especially in this very State. He is one of the New World's wise men, who more and more withdraw themselves from the world, looking calmly on from his Hermitage, and apparently happy there with his excellent wife and his rural occupation.
In the morning, after I have eaten, with a good relish, my breakfast of rice and egg and cocoa, I help Mrs. Poinsett to feed the birds, and am delighted that the beautiful showy cardinal-birds will condescend to pick up my rice-grains. And then, if I rush out into the garden ready to embrace the air, and the shrubs, and all nature, the good old lady laughs at me right heartily. Then out comes Mr. Poinsett, begs me to notice the beautiful la marque rose, which Mr. Downing gave him, and which now is full of large clusters of yellowish-white flowers on the trellised walls of the house; and thence he takes me round the garden, and tells me the names of the plants which I do not know, and their peculiarities, for the old gentleman is a skilful botanist. He has also taken me round his rice-grounds, which are now being sown, after which they will lie under water. And it is this irrigation, and the exhalation therefrom, which makes the rice-plantations so unwholesome for the white population during the hot season. Mr. Poinsett's plantations are not large, and seem not to have more than sixty negroes upon them. Several other plantations adjoin these, but neither are they large, as it appeared, and my entertainers seemed not to be intimate with their proprietors.
I range about in the neighbourhood, through the rice-fields and negro-villages, which amuses me greatly. The slave-villages consist of small, white-washed, wooden ​houses, for the most part built in two rows, forming a street, each house standing detached in its little yard or garden, and generally with two or three trees about it. The houses are neat and clean, and such a village, with its peach-trees in blossom, as they are just now, presents a pleasant appearance. The weather is heavenly; “true Carolina air,” say the Carolina people, and it is delicious.
Yesterday—Sunday—there was in the forenoon, divine service for the negroes in a wagon-shed, which had been emptied for that purpose. It was clean and airy, and the slaves assembled there, well-dressed and well behaved. The sermon and the preacher (a white missionary) were unusually wooden. But I was astonished at the people's quick and glad reception of every single expression of beauty or of feeling. Thus when the preacher introduced the words from Job,—“The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord!” there was a general movement among the people; the words were repeated; many exclaimed Amen! amen! and I saw many eyes full of tears.
In the evening I wandered out to enjoy the beautiful evening and to look about me. I have often heard it said by the friends of slavery, even in the Northern States, as a proof of the happiness of the slaves, that they dance and sing in the evening on the plantations. And now I thought perhaps I may chance to see a dance. I reached the slave village. The little white houses, overshadowed by the pink blossoming trees, with their little plot of garden-ground, looked charmingly; the little fat, black children leapt about eating a large yellow root, the sweet potatoe, laughing if one only looked at them, and especially inclined to shake hands. But in the village itself everything was very still and quiet. A few negro men and women were standing about, and they looked kind and well to do. I heard in one house a sound as of ​prayer and zealous exhortation. I entered and saw an assemblage of negroes, principally women, who were much edified and affected in listening to a negro who was preaching to them with great fervour and great gesticulation, thumping on the table with his clenched fists. The sum and substance of his sermon was this—“Let us do as Christ has commanded us; let us do as he wishes, let us love one another. Then he will come to us on our sick beds, on our death beds, and he will make us free, and we shall come to him and sit with him in glory!”
The discourse, spite of its exaggerated pathos and its circumlocution, could not have been better in its aim and in its application. And it delighted me to hear the doctrine of spiritual freedom promulgated by a slave among slaves. I have since heard that the Methodist missionaries, who are the most influential and effective teachers and preachers among the negroes, are very angry with them for their love of dancing and music, and declare them to be sinful. And whenever the negroes become Christian they give up dancing, have preaching meetings instead, and employ their musical talents merely on psalms and hymns. This seems to me a very unwise proceeding on the part of the preachers. Are not all God's gifts good, and may they not be made use of in His honour? And why should not this people, by nature joyous and childlike, worship God in gladness? I would, instead, let them have sacred dances, and let them sing to them joyful songs of praise in the beautiful air, beneath the blossoming trees. Did not King David dance and sing in pious rapture before the ark of God?
I went on still farther through wood and meadow, into the wild, silent country. When it began to grow dusk I turned back. I repassed the same slave village. Fires blazed in the little houses, but everything was more silent and stiller than before. I saw a young negro with a good and handsome countenance, standing thoughtfully under ​a peach-tree, leaning against its bole. I accosted him, and asked him of one thing and another. Another slave came up, and then still another, and the conversation with them was as follows:—
“At what time do you get up in the morning?”
“Before sunrise.”
“When do you leave off in the evening?”
“When the sun sets—when it is dark.”
“But when do you get time to look after your gardens?”
“We must do that on Sundays, or at night, for when we come home we are so tired that we could drop down.”
“How do you get your dinners ?”
“We have no dinner! It is all we can do if, while we are working, we can throw a bit of bread, or some corn into us.”
“But my friend,” said I, now a little mistrustful, “your appearance contradicts what you say; for you look in very good condition, and quite brisk.”
“We endeavour to keep ourselves up as well as we can,” replied the man by the tree; “what can we do unless we keep up a good heart. If we were to let it droop we should die!”
The others responded to the song of lamentation.
I bade them good night and went my way, suspecting that all was not true in the slaves' representation. But still—it might be true; it was true if not here, yet in other places and under wicked masters; it might always be true in an institution which gives such irresponsible power at will—and all its actual and possible misery presented itself to me, and made me melancholy. The evening was so beautiful, the air so fragrant, the roses were all in blossom; nature seemed to be arrayed as a bride; the heaven was bright; the new moon, with the old moon in her arms, was bright in the firmament, and ​the stars came out, clear and brilliant. The glory of the scene, and that poor, black, enslaved, degraded people—they did not at all agree! All my enjoyment was over.
I was glad however to have a man like Mr. Poinsett to talk with. And to him I confided, in the evening, my conversation and my thoughts. Mr. Poinsett maintains that the slaves have told me falsehoods. “One can never believe what they say,” said he, adding, “that also is one of the evils of slavery. The people are made liars by it. Children learn from their parents to regard the white people with fear, and to deceive them. They are always suspicious, and endeavour by their complainings to get some advantage. But you may be sure that they have been imposing upon you. The slaves round here have a certain quantity of work set them for the day, and at this time of the year they have for the most part finished it by four or five o'clock in the afternoon. There is commonly kept on every plantation a male or female cook who prepares the daily dinner at one o'clock. I have one for my people, and I have no doubt but that Mr. —— also has one for his people. It cannot be otherwise. And I am certain that you would find it to be so if you would examine into the affair.”
Mr. Poinsett does not deny but that abuse and maltreatment of slaves has often occurred and still occurs, but public opinion becomes more and more sternly opposed to it. Some years ago extreme cruelty was practised against the slaves on a plantation in the neighbourhood, by an overseer, during the prolonged absence in England of the owner of the plantations. The planters in the neighbourhood united, wrote to him, told him that they could not bear it, and requested that the overseer should be removed. And this was done. Mr. P. considers that the system of slavery operates in many cases much more unfavourably on women than on men, and makes them, not unfrequently, the hardest masters.
​18th.—I am just returned from a solitary ramble into the plantations, which has done me good, for it has shown me that the slaves under the peach-tree really did impose upon me. During my ramble I saw at one place in the rice-field a number of small copper vessels standing, each covered with a lid, from twenty-five to thirty in number, just as with us, one sees the labourers noggins and baskets standing together in the grass. I went up, lifted the lid of one, and saw that the vessel contained warm, steaming food, which smelt very good. Some of them were filled with brown beans, others with maize-pancakes. I now saw the slaves coming up from a distance, walking along the headland of the field. I waited till they came up, and then asked permission to taste their food, and I must confess that I have seldom tasted better, or more savoury viands. The brown beans were like our “princess beans,” boiled soft with meat and seasoned, somewhat too highly for me. But it ate with a relish, and so did the maize-cakes and the other viands also. The people seated themselves upon the grass-sward and ate, some with spoons, others with splinters of wood, each one out of his own piggin, as these vessels are called, and which contained an abundant portion. They seemed contented, but were very silent. I told them that the poor working people in the country from which I came seldom had such good food as they had here. I was not come there to preach rebellion among the slaves, and the malady which I could not cure, I would alleviate if it was in my power. Besides which, what I said was quite true. But I did not tell them that which was also true, that I would rather live on bread and water than live as a slave.
On my homeward way I saw an old negro, very well dressed, who was standing fishing in a little stream. He belonged to Mr. Poinsett, but had been by him liberated from all kind of work in consequence of his age. From this sensible old man I heard various things which also ​pleased me. I saw in two other places likewise the people at their meals, breakfast and dinner, and saw that here too the food was good and abundant.
I passed by my negroes of the peach-tree yesterday afternoon, and saw them coming home with a crowd of others at about six o'clock. One of them sprang over a hedge when he saw me, and grinning with his white teeth, asked from me a half dollar.
April 20th.—Good day, my sweet child! I have just had my second breakfast, at twelve o'clock, of bananas. I am beginning to like this fruit. It is gentle and agreeable, and has a wholesome effect, as well as the mild air here, that is to say, when it is mild. But even here the climate is very changeable. Yesterday the thermometer fell in one day twenty-four degrees, and it was so cold that my fingers were stiff as icicles. To-day again one is covered with perspiration, even when one sits quietly in the shade. We have been twice at great dinners with planters some miles from here, but I am so annoyed by great dinners, and made so ill by the things I eat, that I hope, with all my heart, not to go to any more. But my good hostess, who has a youthful soul, in a heavy and somewhat lame body, heartily enjoys being invited out.
Yesterday, as we were taking a drive, the carriage, which has generally to go through heavy sand, made a stand in a wood for the horses to rest. Deeper down in the wood I saw a slave village, or houses resembling one, but which had an unusually irregular and tumble-down appearance. At my wish Mr. Poinsett went with me to it. I found the houses actually in the most decayed and deplorable condition, and in one house old and sickly negroes, men and women. In one room I saw a young lad very much swollen, as if with dropsy; the rain and wind could enter by the roof; everything was naked in the room; neither fire-wood nor fire was there, although the day was chilly. In another wretched house we saw an old woman lying ​among rags as in a dog-kennel. This was the provision which one of the planters made for the old and sick among his servants! What a fate is theirs who have fallen into such circumstances! And what pitying eye beholds them excepting—God's?
In one slave village near a great house, I saw remarkably handsome people, and living in good houses. But I observed that the glances of the young men were gloomy and defiant, with no expression of kindness towards their owners. That did not look well. On our homeward way we drove through many slave villages. It was a pleasant sight to see the fire-light flickering in the small houses—for each family has its own house—and to see the negroes come so early from their day-labour. This district consists of a sandy, wood-covered soil. The wood is principally a kind of yellowish pine—the yellow-pine, or light-wood, with great tufts of six-inch long leaves, which sometimes assume the likeness of the palmetto. It is horribly monotonous; but splendid, lofty flowers, lupines, and rose-red azaleas, grow among the trees, and light up the woods. It was late and dark before we reached home, and I sate and looked at the lights which I saw flash here and there near the road or in the wood, but which vanished as we approached. I called Mr. Poinsett's attention to them, and he said that they must be fire-flies. They make their appearance about this time. I hope to make a nearer acquaintance with the shining creatures.
21st.—I have to-day wandered about deliciously in wood and field, and in so doing, came to a river called the Black River. I saw slaves at work not far off, under a white overseer, from whom I requested and obtained an old negro to take me across the river. The good-humoured old man was more free-spoken and clear-headed in his conversation than I have commonly found the slaves ​to be. And whilst he rowed me in a little canoe, made of a hollowed tree stem, he talked freely about the owners of the plantations that lay by the river. Of one it was—“Good master! blessed master, ma'am!” of another—“bad master, ma'am! beats his servants. Cuts them to pieces, ma'am!” and so on.
On the other side of the river I came to a plantation where I met with the owner himself, who was a clergyman. He conducted me through the slave-village, and talked to me about the happiness of the negro slaves, which convinced me that he himself was a slave of mammon. Certain it is that under a good master they are far from unhappy, and much better provided for than the poor working people in many parts of Europe. But under a wicked master they have fallen into direful and hopeless misery. Sophists, who are determined to see only the sunny side of the picture, deny absolutely that such are ever to be found. But I have already both heard and seen enough of them. That which the North testifies against the South I will not believe; but that which the South testifies against itself, I am compelled to believe. Besides the best master is no justification of slavery, for the best master dies sooner or later, and his slaves are then sold to the highest bidder, like cattle. The slaves out in the fields present a joyless appearance; their dark colour and their grey dress, without a single white or coloured garment to enliven it, give them a gloomy and dull appearance. I must however mention, as an exception, the knitted cotton caps of the men, which have generally a couple of red or blue stripes, knitted into the grey ground-colour. At work in the field they look like figures of earth. Quite different is the appearance of our peasants in their white linen, their showy, ornamental attire. The slave villages, on the other hand, as I have already remarked, have rather a comfortable appearance, excepting that one very rarely sees glass in the windows ​of their houses. The window generally consists of a square opening, which is closed with a shutter. But so also are those in the houses of the poor white people, and in Carolina there are many such to he met with. In the room one sees, nearly always, a couple of logs burning on the hearth, and the household furniture and little provision stores resemble those which are to be found in the homes of our poorest people in town and country. Here and there, however, one sees more attention paid to the house; a little ornament about it, together with well-supplied beds. Every house has a pigstye, in which there is generally a very fat pig; and many hens and chickens swarm about the garden-plot, in which they grow Indian corn, beans, and different kinds of roots. These little plots, however, do not look very well attended to. The slaves sell eggs and chickens, and every Christmas their pig also, and thus obtain a little money to buy treacle or molasses (of which they are very fond), biscuits, and other eatables. They often lay up money; and I have heard speak of slaves who possess several hundred dollars. This money they generally place out to interest in the hands of their masters, whom, when they are good, they regard as their best friends, and who really are so. All the slave-villages which I saw perfectly resemble each other, only that some of the houses are better, and others worse kept. The slaves are under the management of one or two overseers, appointed by the master, and under these there is, for each village, a driver, who wakes the slaves in the morning, or drives them to work when they are late. The driver is always a negro, and is often the most cruel and the most severe man in the whole plantation. For when the negro is unmerciful he is so in a high degree, and he is the worst torment of the negroes. Free negroes, who are possessed of slaves—and there are such—are commonly the worst ​of masters. So, at least, I have been told by trustworthy persons.
22nd.—I dreamed last night so livingly of you, my darling Agatha, and was delighted to see how brisk and well you looked; we talked, in my dream, about Marstand, and you told me that mamma thought of accompanying you thither. Now that I am awake I wonder whether the dream was a soothsaying. Mamma is always accustomed to approve of your bathing and water-cure.
My life passes quietly, as quietly as the little river before my window; but it is well for me. I have not passed a calmer time since I have been in this country; for, with the exception of a few occasional visits in the forenoon from neighbours, I live quite alone with my good, old married pair. Every morning there is laid on the breakfast-table, beside my plate, a bouquet of deliciously fragrant flowers, generally of the Peruvian Olea fragrans, (and anything more delicious I do not know,) gathered by Mr. Poinsett. Every evening I sit with him and Mrs. Poinsett alone, read and talk with him, or tell stories for the good old lady, or give her riddles to guess, which very much amuses her. She sits by the fire and takes a nap, or listens to what Mr. Poinsett and I read by lamplight at the table. I wished to make him a little acquainted with my friends the transcendentalists and idealists of the north, and I have read to him portions of Emerson's Essays. But they shoot over the head of the old statesman; he says it is all “unpractical,” and he often criticises it unjustly, and we quarrel. Then the good old lady laughs by the fire, and nods to us, and is amazingly entertained. Mr. Poinsett is nevertheless struck with Emerson's brilliant aphorisms, and says that he will buy his works. It is remarkable how very little, or not at all, the authors of the Northern States, even the best of them, are known in the south. They are ​afraid of admitting their liberal opinions into the slave states.
Mr. Poinsett has travelled much, as well in Europe as in America, and he maintains that no scenery, not even the sublimest scenery of South America, its Andes and its river Amazon, equals Switzerland in picturesque beauty. Switzerland is the only country on the face of the earth which he desires to see again, and there he would like to spend his last days. He seems weary of statesmanship and of the life of a statesman. Even Calhoun, the great and almost idolised statesman of Carolina, is not great in Mr. Poinsett's opinion, excepting in ambition. His whole life seems to have been a warfare in the service of ambition, and his death (for he is just dead, during the sitting of Congress at Washington) the result of this warfare in his breast, owing to the political feuds in which he perpetually lived.
It is very charming to see my two old friends together in everyday life. They are heartily attached to each other. One standing quarrel they have about a horrible old straw bonnet of Mrs. Poinsett's, which looks like an ancient up-turned boat, and which Mr. Poinsett cannot bear the sight of, and which he threatens to make an end of, to burn, every time he sets eyes on it, but which she obstinately will keep, and which she defends with terror whenever he makes any hostile demonstration against it. But it is altogether a love-squabble, and as it has now lasted for ten years I suppose, it will last on to the days of their death. They have both of them a cough which they call “constitutional,” and I also cough a little now and then, as I have always done; we have now three constitutional coughs. I contemplate this good feeling between my old couple with delight, and see how true love can bloom in and beautify old age. There are attentions, pleasing little acts of forethought or compliance, which are worth many kisses, and ​have certainly a greater charm than these as proofs of love.
I spend the greater part of the forenoon in the garden among the flowers, birds, and butterflies, all splendid and strangers to me, and which salute me here as anonymous beauty. During these hours spent amid this new and beautiful nature, thoughts visit me which give me great joy and which in every way are a great comfort to me. I will explain: I have for sometime felt as if I could scarcely bear to read, nor yet to write anything which required the least exertion of mind, as it produces in me a degree of nervous suffering which is indescribable, and the effect of which remained long afterwards. I have therefore almost given up the hope of studying, and of making myself much acquainted with books during my residence in this country; this has been painful to me and I have long striven against it, because study has always been my greatest pleasure, and now more than ever was it necessary for me to be able to devour books, so that I might be somewhat at home in the life and literature of this country. Here, however, during these beautiful early mornings, in this beautiful, fragrant, silent world of trees and flowers, there has arisen within me a clearness, a certainty, something like the inner light of the Quakers, which tells me that it is best for me now to lay aside books, and altogether to yield myself up to live in that living life, to live free from care for the moment and to take and accept that which the hour and the occasion present, without troubling myself with many plans or much thought. I must let things come to me as they may come, and determine for me as they will determine. A conviction has come to my mind that a higher guidance attends me and that it will direct everything for the best; that I have nothing to do but to yield myself up to its inspiration so long as I keep my eye firmly directed to the Star of Bethlehem which led me hither—and I cannot ​turn my eye from that—the desire to find the truth. Thus shall I find the child of God!
Therefore, in God's name, farewell to books, to the old friends and pasture-grounds. I press forwards towards that which is before me, and confide in the fatherly guidance of God. A something infinitely delightful and elevating has taken possession of my soul with these thoughts, and filled my heart with joy. Weak, I yet know myself to be strong, bound down to the earth, I yet know that I have wings; I am merely a child and yet I can over come the world.
And thus I go forth and converse with the flowers, and listen to the birds and to the whispering of the great live-oaks. Oaks like these, with their long, depending trails of moss must have inspired the oracle of Dodona.
The blackbirds which build in them in great numbers, are about the size of our jackdaw, and have on each side their necks, below the head, a fine yellow ruff, like a half-round frill. The mockingbirds are grey, about as large as our Swedish nightingale, and their song is very intricate and often really charming; but it wants the strong inspiration of the European nightingale and lark. It is as if the bird sang from memory; sang reminiscences, and imitated a number of sounds of other birds and even animals. There are, however, in its song, beautiful, peculiar tones resembling those both of the thrush and the nightingale. People say that these birds dance minuets with each other. I too have seen them here figuring towards one another, tripping quite in a minuet-fashion. I suppose this is their way of wooing. It is remarkable that people never succeed in rearing in cages the young of these birds which have been taken from the nest; they always die shortly after their captivity. It is asserted that the mothers come to them and give them poison. The full-grown birds in the country thrive very well and sing in cages.
I am sometimes interrupted in my forenoon musings ​by a merry negro-girl, servant in the house, who says “Missis has sent me to hunt you,” and it is for me to come in to my luncheon. If I am writing I remain in my own room and then, generally at twelve o'clock, the good old lady herself comes up to me with bananas and a glass of milk. In the afternoon I generally go on some expedition of discovery. When I am returning home in the twilight I often see my old folks coming to meet me, she walking with a crutch and supported by his arm.
24th.—Last evening I had an old negro to row me in a little canoe down the Wachamon river, spite of Mr. Poinsett's remonstrances, who fancied that no good would come of it. The moon rose and shone brightly on the river and its banks, over which hung various trees and plants in flower with which I was unacquainted. The negro, a kind old man, paddled the boat onward, and wherever I saw an enticing flower, thither we paddled and gathered it. Thus went we on for about two hours in that clear moonlight, and everything was as solitary and silent on the river, and on its banks, as in a desert.
There had, however, been this day a great wedding on the banks of the Wachamon, and all the neighbours had been invited; but either my host and hostess did not belong to their circle of acquaintance or the fame of my abolitionist views had prevented us being invited. Very good! for though I love to see brides and weddings, yet I love quietness now better than all.
My good host and hostess were glad to see me return from my river-excursion, and Mr. Poinsett told me the names of the flowers which I had gathered; one of these was the Magnolia glauca, a white flower something like our white water-lily; this grows on a smaller tree, with grey-green leaves; the celebrated, splendid flower of the South, the Magnolia grandiflora, does not blossom till the end of May.
I shall in a few days leave this place and return to ​Charleston. My kind entertainers wish me to remain yet longer, but I greatly desire to reach Savannah before the heat becomes too great, and I must therefore hasten. I have received much kindness here and much benefit from Mr. Poinsett's conversation. The evenings spent alone with my good old friends are somewhat tedious. One cannot be always talking American politics, and the old statesman takes an interest in nothing else, nor can one always have stories and riddles at hand to amuse the old lady, who sits dozing by the fire, and sometimes persuades her husband to do the same, sitting opposite, whilst I amuse myself as well as I can, which is not very well as I am not able to read, and as there is no piano, and it is then too late to go out. It is time therefore to be going. I now know how life looks in the plantations, know how the negro slaves live, and how rice and Indian corn are planted.
Charleston, April 26th.—Again, my sweet child, am I in my good, excellent home with Mrs. W. H.
The sea voyage between Georgetown and Charleston was cheerless and cold, but now we have the full heat of the dog-days. I spent the last evening with my good old couple in mending their old gloves—of course by my own wish—whilst Philemon and Baucis sate, each in their arm-chair, by the fire and slept. They are aged and infirm, and have arrived at that period of life when the rest and life of the child are their highest happiness. The next morning I set off, accompanied by the courteous old statesman as far as Georgetown, and spite of good Mrs. Poinsett's troubled looks, who saw threatening clouds which would drown us. We however arrived quite safely, while the morning freshness, and the drive through that wild district, and through forests brilliant with the beautiful flowery azaleas was delightful and refreshing. At Georgetown, a little town where the number of geese seemed to me the most remarkable feature, I parted ​from my kind companion with the promise of a second visit.
On my arrival at Charleston in the evening I was met by Mr. M. with the carriage. When we reached Mrs. W. H.'s house the young people were dancing to the piano in the brilliant drawing-room; Mr. M. and I danced in, arm in arm, among them amid great jubilation. And I found myself here almost as if in my own home. Certain it is that this home has more the impression of our Scandinavian homes, (N.B.—when they are good and happy) than any home I have yet seen or heard of in this country. The domestic life, the dancing, the music, and the evening games, are altogether in the Swedish style.
I was yesterday present at the funeral-procession of the statesman and senator of Carolina, Calhoun, whose body passed through Charleston. The procession was said to consist of above three thousand persons; and it seemed indeed to be interminable. The hearse was magnificent, and so lofty from a large catafalk that it seemed to threaten all gates made by human hands.
Many regiments paraded in splendid uniforms, and a great number of banners with symbolic figures and inscriptions were borne aloft; it was very splendid, and all went on well. All parties seems to have united with real devotion and admiration to celebrate the memory of the deceased, and his death is deplored in the Southern States as the greatest misfortune. He has sate many years in Congress as the most powerful advocate of slavery, not merely as a necessary evil, but as a good, both for the slave and the slave owner; and has been a great champion for the rights of the Southern States. Calhoun, Clay, and Webster, have long been celebrated as a triumvirate of great statesmen, the greatest in all the land. Calhoun was the great man of the Southern States, Clay of the Western and Middle States, Webster of the States ​of New England, although there is great opposition in the New England States against Webster, particularly among the Anti-slavery party. Each of these, although old, has been a mighty champion; at the same time admired and feared, loved and hated. There yet remain two; the third fell on the scene of combat, fighting in death, and as it seemed, even against it.
His portrait and bust, of which I have seen many, give me the impression of a burning volcano. The hair stands on end, the deep-set eyes flash, deep furrows plough that keen, thin countenance. It is impossible from this exterior, which seems to have been ravaged by sickness and passion, to form any idea of the fascinating man in society, the excellent head of a family, with manners as pure as those of a woman, affectionate to all his relatives, a good master, almost adored by his servants and slaves—in a word, the amiable human being, which even his enemies acknowledge him to have been.
Political ambition and party-spirit seem to have been his demons, and to have hastened his death. Clay in his speech on Calhoun in the Senate, makes some gently warning allusions to this. His fight for slavery was “a political bravado,” said a clever lady, who was not one of the anti-slavery party. Pity that so good a man should live—and died for so wretched a thing!
In South Carolina, the idolatry with which he was regarded was carried to the extreme, and it has been said, in joke, that “when Calhoun took snuff the whole of Carolina sneezed.” Even now people talk and write about him as if he had been a divine person.
During the procession a whole crowd of negroes leapt about the streets, looking quite entertained, as they are by any pomp. Some one told me that he heard the negroes say, “Calhoun was indeed a wicked man, for he wished that we might remain slaves.”
On the evening of this day we had strangers at home, ​and games, dancing and music, all merry and gay. After this we walked in the piazza in the warm moonlight-air till midnight. On the country side was heard the song of the negroes as they rowed their boats up the river on their return from the city, whither they had taken their small wares—eggs, fowls, and vegetables, for sale, as they do two or three times a week.
When this letter reaches you, you also will have summer and flowers, my sweet Agatha, and God be praised for it.
To-morrow I set off for Savannah, and thence to Maçon, the capital of Georgia, then to Montpellier, where I am invited by Elliott, the distinguished bishop of the Episcopal church in the Southern States, to be present at the annual examination of a ladies seminary which is under his care.
From that place I shall write more.