Our World; Or, the Slaveholder's Daughter

by F. Colburn Adams

A slave is but a slave—an article subject to all the fluctuations of trade—a mere item in the scale of traffic, and reduced to serving the ends of avarice or licentiousness. This is a consequence inseparable from his sale. It matters not whether the blood of the noblest patriot course in his veins, his hair be of flaxen brightness, his eyes of azure blue, his skin of Norman whiteness, and his features classic,—he can be no more than a slave, and as such must yield to the debasing influences of an institution that crushes and curses wherever it exists. In proof of this, we find the bright eyes of our little Annette, glowing with kindliest love, failing to thaw the frozen souls of man-dealers. Nay, bright eyes only lend their aid to the law that debases her life. She has become valuable only as a finely and delicately developed woman, whose appearance in the market will produce sharp bidding, and a deal of dollars and cents. Graspum never lost an opportunity of trimming up these nice pieces of female property, making the money invested in them turn the largest premium, and satisfying his customers that, so far as dealing in the brightest kind of fancy stock was concerned, he is not a jot behind the most careful selecter in the Charleston market. Major John Bowling—who is very distinguished, having descended from the very ancient family of that name, and is highly thought of by the aristocracy—has made the selection of such merchandise his particular branch of study for more than fourteen years. In consequence of the major's supposed taste, his pen was hitherto most frequented by gentlemen and connoisseur; but now Graspum assures all respectable people, gentlemen of acknowledged taste, and young men who are cultivating their way up in the world, that his selections are second to none; of this he will produce sufficient proof, provided customers will make him a call and look into the area of his fold. The fold itself is most uninviting (it is, he assures us, owing to his determination to carry out the faith of his plain democracy); nevertheless, it contains the white, beautiful, and voluptuous,—all for sale. In fact—the truth must be told—Mr. Graspum assures the world that he firmly believes there is a sort of human nature extant—he is troubled sometimes to know just where the line breaks off—which never by any possibility could have been intended for any thing but the other to traffic in-to turn into the most dollars and cents. In proof of this principle he kept Annette until she had well nigh merged into womanhood, or until such time as she became a choice marketable article, with eyes worth so much; nose, mouth, so much; pretty auburn hair, worth so much; and fine rounded figure—with all its fascinating appurtenances—worth so much;—the whole amounting to so much; to be sold for so much, the nice little profit being chalked down on the credit side of his formidable ledger, in which stands recorded against his little soul (he knows will get to heaven) the sale of ten thousand black souls, which will shine in brightness when his is refused admittance to the portal above.

Having arrived at the point most marketable, he sells her to Mr. Gurdoin Choicewest, who pays no less a sum than sixteen hundred dollars in hard cash for the unyielding beauty-money advanced to him by his dear papa, who had no objection to his having a pretty coloured girl, provided Madam Choicewest-most indulgent mother she was, too-gave her consent; and she said she was willing, provided-; and now, notwithstanding she was his own, insisted on the preservation of her virtue, or death. Awful dilemma, this! To lash her will be useless; and the few kicks she has already received have not yet begun to thaw her frozen determination. Such an unyielding thing is quite useless for the purpose for which young Choicewest purchased her. What must be done with her? The older Choicewest is consulted, and gives it as his decided opinion that there is one of two things the younger Choicewest must do with this dear piece of property he has so unfortunately got on his hands,—he must sell her, or tie her up every day and pump her with cold water, say fifteen minutes at a time. Pumping niggers, the elder Mr. Choicewest remarks, with the coolness of an Austrian diplomatist, has a wondrous effect upon them; "it makes 'em give in when nothing else will." He once had four prime fellows, who, in stubbornness, seemed a match for Mr. Beelzebub himself. He lashed them, and he burned them, and he clipped their ears; and then he stretched them on planks, thinking they would cry "give in" afore the sockets of their joints were drawn out; but it was all to no purpose, they were as unyielding as granite.

About that time there was a celebrated manager of negroes keeping the prison. This clever functionary had a peculiar way of bringing the stubbornness out of them; so he consigned the four unbending rascals to his skill. And this very valuable and very skilful gaol-keeper had a large window in his establishment, with iron bars running perpendicular; to the inside of which he would strap the four stubborn rascals, with their faces scientifically arranged between the bars, to prevent the moving of a muscle. Thus caged, their black heads bound to the grating, the scientific gaoler, who was something of a humourist withal, would enjoy a nice bit of fun at seeing the more favoured prisoners (with his kind permission) exercise their dexterity in throwing peas at the faces of the bounden. How he would laugh-how the pea-punishing prisoners would enjoy it-how the fast bound niggers, foaming with rage and maddened to desperation, would bellow, as their very eyeballs darted fire and blood! What grand fun it was! bull-baiting sank into a mere shadow beside it. The former was measuredly passive, because the bull only roared, and pitched, and tossed; whereas here the sport was made more exhilarating by expressions of vengeance or implorings. And then, as a change of pastime, the skilful gaoler would demand a cessation of the pea hostilities, and enjoin the commencement of the water war; which said war was carried out by supplying about a dozen prisoners with as many buckets, which they would fill with great alacrity, and, in succession, throw the contents with great force over the unyielding, from the outside. The effect of this on naked men, bound with chains to iron bars, may be imagined; but the older Choicewest declares it was a cure. It brought steel out of the "rascals," and made them as submissive as shoe-strings. Sometimes the jolly prisoners would make the bath so strong, that the niggers would seem completely drowned when released; but then they'd soon come to with a jolly good rolling, a little hartshorn applied to their nostrils, and the like of that. About a dozen times putting through the pea and water process cured them.

So says the very respectable Mr. Choicewest, with great dignity of manners, as he seriously advises the younger Choicewest to try a little quantity of the same sort on his now useless female purchase. Lady Choicewest must, however, be consulted on this point, as she is very particular about the mode in which all females about her establishment are chastised. Indeed, Lady Choicewest is much concerned about the only male, heir of the family, to whom she looks forward for very distinguished results to the family name. The family (Lady Choicewest always assures those whom she graciously condescends to admit into the fashionable precincts of her small but very select circle), descended from the very ancient and chivalric house of that name, whose celebrated estate was in Warwickshire, England; and, in proof of this, my Lady Choicewest invariably points to a sad daub, illustrative of some incomprehensible object, suspended over the antique mantelpiece. With methodical grace, and dignity which frowns with superlative contempt upon every thing very vulgar—for she says "she sublimely detests them very low creatures what are never brought up to manners at the north, and are worse than haystacks to larn civility"—my lady solicits a near inspection of this wonderful hieroglyphic, which she tells us is the family arms,—an ancient and choice bit of art she would not part with for the world. If her friends evince any want of perception in tracing the many deeds of valour it heralds, on behalf of the noble family of which she is an undisputed descendant, my lady will at once enter upon the task of instruction; and with the beautiful fore-finger of her right hand, always jewelled with great brilliancy, will she satisfactorily enlighten the stupid on the fame of the ancient Choicewest family, thereon inscribed. With no ordinary design on the credulity of her friends, Lady Choicewest has several times strongly intimated that she was not quite sure that one or two of her ancestors in the male line of the family were not reigning dukes as far down as the noble reign of the ignoble Oliver Cromwell! The question, nevertheless, is whether the honour of the ancient Choicewest family descended from Mr. or Mrs. Choicewest. The vulgar mass have been known to say (smilingly) that Lady Choicewest's name was Brown, the father of which very ancient family sold herrings and small pigs at a little stand in the market: this, however, was a very long time ago, and, as my lady is known to be troubled with an exceedingly crooked memory, persons better acquainted with her are more ready to accept the oblivious excuse.

Taking all these things into consideration, my Lady Choicewest is exceedingly cautious lest young Gourdoin Choicewest should do aught to dishonour the family name; and on this strange perplexity in which her much indulged son is placed being referred to her, she gives it as her most decided opinion that the wench, if as obstinate as described, had better be sold to the highest bidder-the sooner the better. My lady lays great emphasis on "the sooner the better." That something will be lost she has not the slightest doubt; but then it were better to lose a little in the price of the stubborn wretch, than to have her always creating disturbance about the genteel premises. In furtherance of this-my lady's mandate-Annette is sold to Mr. Blackmore Blackett for the nice round sum of fifteen hundred dollars. Gourdoin Choicewest hates to part with the beauty, grieves and regrets,—she is so charmingly fascinating. "Must let her slide, though; critter won't do at all as I wants her to," he lisps, regretting the serious loss of the dollars. His friend Blackmore Blackett, however, is a gentleman, and therefore he would not deceive him in the wench: hence he makes the reduction, because he finds her decidedly faulty. Had Blackmore Blackett been a regular flesh trader, he would not have scrupled to take him in. As it is, gentlemen must always be gentlemen among themselves. Blackett, a gentleman of fortune, who lives at his ease in the city, and has the very finest taste for female beauty, was left, most unfortunately, a widower with four lovely daughters, any one of which may be considered a belle not to be rung by gentlemen of ordinary rank or vulgar pretension. In fact, the Blackett girls are considered very fine specimens of beauty, are much admired in society, and expect ere long, on the clear merit of polish, to rank equal with the first aristocracy of the place.

Mr. Blackmore Blackett esteems himself an extremely lucky fellow in having so advantageously procured such a nice piece of property,—so suited to his taste. Her price, when compared with her singularly valuable charms, is a mere nothing; and, too, all his fashionable friends will congratulate him upon his good fortune. But as disappointments will come, so Mr. Blackmore Blackett finds he has got something not quite so valuable as anticipated; however, being something of a philosopher, he will improve upon the course pursued by the younger Choicewest: he makes his first advances with great caution; whispers words of tenderness in her ear; tells her his happy jewel for life she must be. Remembering her mother, she turns a deaf ear to Mr. Blackett's pleadings. The very cabin which he has provided for her in the yard reminds her of that familiar domicile on Marston's plantation. Neither by soft pleadings, nor threatenings of sale to plantation life, nor terrors of the lash, can he soften the creature's sympathies, so that the flesh may succumb. When he whispered soft words and made fascinating promises, she would shake her head and move from him; when he threatened, she would plead her abject position; when he resorted to force, she would struggle with him, making the issue her virtue or death. Once she paid the penalty of her struggles with a broken wrist, which she shows us more in sorrow than anger. Annette is beautiful but delicate; has soft eyes beaming with the fulness of a great soul; but they were sold, once,—now, sympathy for her is dead. The law gives her no protection for her virtue; the ruffian may violate it, and Heaven only can shelter it with forgiveness. As for Blackett, he has no forgiveness in his temperament,—passion soars highest with him; he would slay with violent hands the minion who dared oppose its triumph.

About this time, Mr. Blackett, much to his surprise, finds a storm of mischief brewing about his domestic domain. The Miss Blacketts, dashing beauties, have had it come to their ears over and over again that all the young men about the city say Annette Mazatlin (as she is now called) is far more beautiful than any one of the Blacketts. This is quite enough to kindle the elements of a female war. In the south nothing can spread the war of jealousy and vanity with such undying rage as comparing slave beauty with that of the more favoured of the sexes. A firman of the strongest kind is now issued from the portfolio of the Miss Blacketts, forbidding the wretched girl entering the house; and storms of abuse are plentifully and very cheaply lavished on her head, ere she puts it outside the cabin. She was a nasty, impudent hussy; the very worst of all kind of creatures to have about a respectable mansion,—enough to shock respectable people! The worst of it was, that the miserable white nigger thought she was handsome, and a lot of young, silly-headed men flattered her vanity by telling the fool she was prettier than the Blacketts themselves,—so said the very accomplished Miss Blacketts. And if ever domicile was becoming too warm for man to live in, in consequence of female indignation, that one was Mr. Blackmore Blackett's. It was not so much that the father had purchased this beautiful creature to serve fiendish purposes. Oh no!-that was a thing of every-day occurrence,—something excusable in any respectable man's family. It was beauty rivalling, fierce and jealous of its compliments. Again, the wretch-found incorrigible, and useless for the purpose purchased-is sold. Poor, luckless maiden! she might add, as she passed through the hands of so many purchasers. This time, however, she is less valuable from having fractured her left wrist, deformity being always taken into account when such property is up at the flesh shambles. But Mr. Blackmore Blackett has a delicacy about putting her up under the hammer just now, inasmuch as he could not say she was sold for no fault; while the disfigured wrist might lead to suspicious remarks concerning his treatment of her. Another extremely unfortunate circumstance was its getting all about the city that she was a cold, soulless thing, who declared that sooner than yield to be the abject wretch men sought to make her, she would die that only death. She had but one life, and it were better to yield that up virtuously than die degraded. Graspum, then, is the only safe channel in which to dispose of the like. That functionary assures Mr. Blackmore Blackett that the girl is beautiful, delicate, and an exceedingly sweet creature yet! but that during the four months she has depreciated more than fifty per cent in value. His remarks may be considered out of place, but they are none the less true, for it is ascertained, on private examination, that sundry stripes have been laid about her bare loins. Gurdoin Choicewest declared to his mother that he never for once had laid violent hands on the obstinate wench; Mr. Blackmore Blackett stood ready to lay his hand on the Bible, and lift his eyes to heaven for proof of his innocence; but a record of the infliction, indelible of blood, remained there to tell its sad tale,—to shame, if shame had aught in slavery whereon to make itself known. Notwithstanding this bold denial, it is found that Mr. Blackmore Blackett did on two occasions strip her and secure her hands and feet to the bed-post, where he put on "about six at a time," remarkably "gently." He admired her symmetrical form, her fine, white, soft, smooth skin-her voluptuous limbs, so beautifully and delicately developed; and then there was so much gushing sweetness, mingled with grief, in her face, as she cast her soft glances upon him, and implored him to end her existence, or save her such shame! Such, he says, laconically, completely disarmed him, and he only switched her a few times.

"She's not worth a dot more than a thousand dollars. I couldn't give it for her, because I couldn't make it out on her. The fact is, she'll get a bad name by passing through so many hands-a deuced bad name!" says Graspum, whose commercial language is politically cold. "And then there's her broken wrist-doubtful! doubtful! doubtful! what I can do with her. For a plantation she isn't worth seven coppers, and sempstresses and housemaids of her kind are looked on suspiciously. It's only with great nicety of skill ye can work such property to advantage," he continues, viewing her in one of Mr. Blackmore Blackett's ante-rooms.

The upshot of the matter is, that Mr. Blackmore Blackett accepts the offer, and Graspum, having again taken the damaged property under his charge, sends it back to his pen. As an offset for the broken wrist, she has three new dresses, two of which were presented by the younger Choicewest, and one by the generous Blackmore Blackett.

Poor Annette! she leaves for her home in the slave-pen, sad at heart, and in tears. "My mother! Oh, that I had a mother to love me, to say Annette so kindly,—to share with me my heart's bitter anguish. How I could love Nicholas, now that there is no mother to love me!" she mutters as she sobs, wending her way to that place of earthly torment. How different are the feelings of the oppressor. He drinks a social glass of wine with his friend Blackett, lights his cigar most fashionably, bids him a polite good morning, and intimates that a cheque for the amount of the purchase will be ready any time he may be pleased to call. And now he wends his way homeward, little imagining what good fortune awaits him at the pen to which he has despatched his purchase.