THE QUADROON.
Oh! yet we hope that, somehow, good
Will be the final goal of ill,
To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt and taints of blood.—Tennyson.
There was an account of an execution item that met my eyes in glancing over the columns of a newspaper. It made no more impression upon me at the time than such paragraphs make upon you or any of us. My glance slided over that to the next items, chronicling in order the success of a benevolent ball, the arrival of a popular singer, etc.; and I should have forgotten all about it had not the execution occurred near the plantation of a dear friend, with whom I was accustomed to pass a part of every year. From that friend I heard the story—a domestic tragedy, which, for its inspirations of pity and terror equaled any old Greek drama that I ever read. I know not if I can do anything like justice to the subject by giving the story in my own words.
Near the city of M——, on the A—— river, stood the plantation of Red Hill. It was one of the largest cotton plantations in the South, covering several square miles, but it was ill-cultivated and unprofitable.
The plantation house was situated a mile back from the river, in a grove of trees on the brow of the hill quite out of the reach of fog and miasma.
At the time I speak of, it was owned by Colonel Waring, a widower, with one son, to whom he had given his mother's family name of Oswald. The ostensible female head of this house was the major's own mother, Madam Waring, an old lady of French extraction, and now fallen deeply into the vale of years and infirmities. The real head was Phædra, a female slave, and a Mestizza[1] by birth. Phædra had one child, a boy, some two years younger than the heir of the family. Notwithstanding the want of a lady hostess at the head of the table, there was not a pleasanter or a more popular mansion in the State than Colonel Waring's. Indeed, he might be said to have kept open house, for the dwelling was half the time filled with company, comprising old and young gentlemen, ladies and children.
Without any one habit of dissipation, Colonel Waring was a bon-vivant of the gayest order, who loved to play the host, forget care, and enjoy himself with his friends and neighbors. He was benevolent, also; no appeal to his heart was ever slighted. He was frequently in want of ready money, yet, when he had cash, it was as likely to be lavished in injudicious alms-giving, as expended upon his own debts or necessities. I have heard of his giving a thousand dollars to set up a poor widow in business, and at the same time put off his creditors, and go deeper into debt for his negroes' winter clothing. In the times when the yellow fever desolated the South, his mansion year after year became the house of refuge to those who fled from the cities, yet were unable to bear the expense of a watering place. His house was a place where the trammels of conventionalism could, without offense, be cast off for a while. Children might do as they liked; young people as they pleased; and old folks might—dance, if they felt lively. "It was at Colonel Waring's," was sufficient explanation of any sort of eccentricity.
Madam Waring, in her distant chamber, was not much more than a "myth," or, at best, a family tradition; yet her name undoubtedly gave a sanction to the presence of ladies in a house, which, without her, they would probably never have entered.
The Mestizza was scarcely less of a myth. Everybody knew of her existence, and there were few who did not understand her position as well as that of the beautiful boy Valentine, who was the constant companion of Oswald; but Phædra was never seen, nor was her presence to be guessed, except in the well-ordered house, and the delicious breakfasts, dinners and suppers, prepared under her supervision, and sent up to the guests.
Colonel Waring had his enemies. What man has not? And even among those who at times sat at his board, and slept under his roof, it was said that "justice should go before generosity;" and that Colonel Waring, by his reckless charities and lavish hospitality, wronged both his creditors and his heir. Others whispered that he plunged into the excitements of company for the purpose of drowning thought or conscience; and if a stranger came into the neighborhood, and found himself, as he would be not unlikely to do, the guest of Colonel Waring, he would be told by some fellow-visitor that the late Mrs. Waring, the wife of the colonel, had died, raving mad, in a Northern lunatic asylum.
And, among the women, it was whispered that in dying she had deeply cursed the Mestizza and her boy.
However that might be, it is certain that Phædra had always manifested the most sincere attachment to the lady's son; and from the time that Oswald was left an orphan, at the age of six months, to the time of her death, no one could be a more devoted nurse or a greater child-spoiler than she was to him. Phædra's nature was despotic, and every one on the plantation had to yield to Master Oswald, or they would find rations shortened, holidays refused, work increased, clothing neglected, and be punished in numerous indirect ways, not by their most indulgent of masters, but by the influence of the Mestizza. Even her own son was scarcely an exception to the universal homage she exacted for Oswald. He had two claims upon her—in the first place, in her eyes he was the young master, the heir-apparent, the Crown Prince—and then he had "no mother."
And the boy on his side repaid his nurse's devotion by the most sincere affection, both for her and for his foster brother, Valentine.
Oswald "took after" his father, both in the Saxon fairness of his fresh complexion, flaxen hair, and lively blue eyes, and in the hearty benevolence and careless gayety of his disposition. Like his father, also, he lacked self-esteem, and the dignity of character that it gives. Nay, he had not half so much of that quality as had the son of the Mestizza, whose overweening pride won for him the name of "Little Prince."
Valentine was an exquisitely beautiful boy; he was like his Mestizza mother, in the clear, dark-brown skin, and regular aquiline features; but, instead of her straight black locks, he had soft, shining, bluish-black hair, that fell in numerous spiral ringlets all around his neck, and when he stooped veiled his cheeks. In startling, yes, in absolutely frightful contrast to that dark skin and raven black hair and eyebrows, were his clear, light-blue, Saxon eyes! One who understands scientifically, or feels intuitively, the nature of such a fearful combination of antagonistic and never-to-be-harmonized elements of character, fated without the saving grace of God, to become the elements of insanity and crime, cannot look upon its external outward signs without shuddering.
Think of it; and wonder, if you can, at anything in his after life! Think of a boy combining in his own nature the ardent passions and impulsive temperament of the African negro, the tameless love of freedom of the North American Indian, and the intellectual power and domineering pride of the Anglo-Saxon. Place him in the condition of a pet slave; leave him without moral and Christian instruction; alternately praise and pamper or condemn him—not as his merit, but as your caprice decides; let him grow up in that manner, and, as it seems to me, the result is so sure that it might be demonstrated in advance.
Both the boys were great favorites with the visitors who frequented the house. Oswald, as the son of the host, and also for his bright, joyous, frolicsome nature; and Valentine, for his beauty, wit, and piquant sauciness. Willingly would Phædra have kept the lad away from the "white folks," but Oswald would not suffer his playmate to be separated from himself. Nor when the visitors had once discovered Valentine's value as an entertainer, would they have spared him.
The lads did not seem in the least to understand their relations as young master and servant, but behaved in all respects toward each other as peers—the quicker and more impulsive nature taking the lead as a matter of course. And that nature happened to belong to the Mestizza's son.
Valentine had the keenest appreciation of pleasure, and the quickest intelligence in discovering the way to it. In all their boyish amusements, Valentine was the purveyor; in all their adventures, he was the leader—Oswald entering into all his plans, and following all his suggestions, with the heartiest good-will. And, in all their childish misdemeanors, he was the tempter, and always, also, the willing scapegoat—that is to say, when in a fit of generosity to shield Oswald, he voluntarily assumed all the blame, he was perfectly willing to take all the punishment; but, on the contrary, if both were discovered in flagrante delicto, and he only punished, then at such injustice, he would fly into the most ungovernable fury, that would sometimes end in frenzy and congestion of the brain. It was these maniacal fits of passion that procured for him the sobriquet of Little Demon, conferred upon him by the negroes of the plantation, in opposition to that of Little Prince, given him by the visitors at the house.
Often, too, the boy gave evidence of reflection and of feeling, beyond his years; as, for instance, once, when he was but nine years old, a lady, who delighted in his childish beauty, grace, and wit, allowed him frequently to ride in the carriage with her, and accompany her, when making visits, or on going to places of amusement. One day, when she was gently stroking his silky curls, he suddenly dropped his head into his hands, and burst into tears.
"Why, Valley! what is the matter?" she asked, again caressing his beautiful head. But, at the gentle caress and the gentle tone, he wept more passionately than ever. "Why, Valley! what is the matter? Have I hurt your feelings? Have any of us hurt your feelings?" she asked, knowing his sensitive nature, and imagining that some thoughtlessness on her part, or on some one else's, might have wounded it. "Have any of us hurt your feelings, Valley?"
"Yes, you have! all of you have! and you do all the time!"
The lady laughed, for it struck her as very droll to hear such a charge from the spoiled and petted boy. But the boy went on to speak with warmth and vehemence:
"You all treat me like a little poodle dog, or like a monkey; for you feed me, and you dress me up, and pet me, and laugh at me, and by and by you will drive me out."
Another time, he was sitting in the parlor with a lady, who had diverted herself a good deal with his precocious wit and intelligence, and had allowed him to play with the rings on her fingers, the bracelets on her wrists, and the pearls that bound her dark tresses, and then to follow her to the piano, and stand close by her side while she played and sang, until suddenly down dropped his head upon his hands, and he burst into a passion of tears. The lady broke off in astonishment, turned around, drew him up to her, took his hands from his face, and looked kindly at him, without saying a word. But the boy dropped upon the floor, and crouching, wept more vehemently than before. The lady stooped and raised his head, and laid it on her lap, and laid her hand soothingly upon his silken curls, but spoke no word. When his passion of tears had passed, and he had sobbed himself into something like composure, he looked up into her face, and said:
"You did not laugh at me, Mrs. Hewitt, and you didn't ask me what I was crying for; but I couldn't help it, because—because I know this good time will go away; and I shall get taller, and then you won't let me stay and hear you talk, and hear you sing, and—and—and—I wish I never could grow any taller. I wish I may die before I grow older."
Ah! poor, fated boy! would indeed, that he had died before he grew taller! before those evil days his childhood's prophet heart foretold!
But they came on apace.
The first trial that he suffered might seem light enough to an outside looker-on, but it was heavy enough to Valentine. When he was eleven years of age, and Oswald nine, Oswald was sent to school, and he remained at home.
Up to this time they had been playmates and companions, faring alike in all respects, and sharing equally all pleasures, even the favors of the visitors.
Now, therefore, Valentine keenly felt the new state of things, which in more than one way deeply grieved his heart; first, in the separation from his friend and playmate whom he dearly loved; and then in the denial of knowledge to his thirsting intellect, for there existed a statute law against educating a slave—a law, too, that was of late very strictly enforced, except in the case of children, who frequently transgressed it, and always with impunity; for slaves are often taught to read and write by their nurslings, the master's children.
Valentine was thus far kin to us all, that he was a lineal descendant of Eve, and inherited all her longing desire for forbidden knowledge. And, in like manner, Oswald had received a goodly portion of that Adamic propensity to do just precisely what he was commanded not to do.
No grief of Valentine could long be hid from Oswald, and it followed, of course, that when he discovered the great trouble of his playmate to be his desire for education, all that Oswald learned at school by day was taught to Valentine at home by night. And peace and good-will was once more restored to the boys.
Thus the time went on till the lads were fourteen and sixteen respectively.
Then Oswald was placed as a boarder at an academy in a neighboring city. Before leaving home, Oswald had begged, prayed, and insisted upon Valentine being permitted to accompany him, and had finally gained his object—an almost unheard-of indulgence—but one, nevertheless, that could not be refused by the father of his cherished son. So Valentine, ostensibly as a servant, but really as friend and companion, accompanied Oswald to his school.
Here also Oswald took every opportunity to impart his acquired knowledge to his companion.
And now Valentine's taste in literature and art began to develop itself. His mind was by no means an "omnium-gatherem." Belle-lettres, rather than classic lore or mathematical science, was his attraction. Astronomy, botany, poetry, rhetoric, oratory, elocution, music, painting, and the drama—these, and other studies only in proportion as they related to these, were his delights. An æsthetic rather than a strong intellect distinguished him. A love of beauty, elegance, and refinement, in all things—in art, science, and the drama, as well as in his own person, dress, and surroundings—began to reveal itself. And those who did not understand or like Valentine, began to sneer at him for a petit-maitre and a dandy.
A change began to creep over the relations between the youths. Oswald was no longer a boy, but a young man. He could no longer instruct his companion, because he would thereby render himself obnoxious to public opinion, as well as to the laws of the State, to which his age now made him responsible. Neither could he bear the good-humored jests and the ridicule of his school-fellows, who bantered him unmercifully upon his friendship for his "man," calling them the foster-brothers, the Siamese twins, Valentine and Orson, etc.; and Valentine was beginning to suffer from the occasional slights, neglect, contempt, and inequality in temper of his young master, when fortunately the scene changed. Oswald was withdrawn from the Academy of M——, and sent to the University of Virginia, whither Valentine, as his valet, attended him.