Society in America, Volume 1 (of 2)

by Harriet Martineau

When we were going to church, at Augusta, Georgia, one Sunday afternoon, there was smoke in the street, and a cry of fire. When we came out of church, we were told that it had been very trifling, and easily extinguished. The next day, I heard the whole. A negro girl of sixteen, the property of a lady from New England, had set her mistress's house on fire in two places, by very in-artificially lighting heaps of combustible stuff piled against the partitions. There were no witnesses, and all that was known came from her own lips. She was desperately ignorant; laws having been fully enforced to prevent the negroes of Georgia being instructed in any way whatever. The girl's account was, that she was "tired of living there," and had therefore intended to burn the house in the morning, but was prevented by her mistress having locked her up for some offence: so she did it in the afternoon. She was totally ignorant of the gravity of the deed, and was in a state of great horror when told that she was to be hanged for it. I asked whether it was possible that, after her being prevented by law from being taught, she was to be hanged for her ignorance, and merely on her own confession? The clergyman with whom I was conversing sighed, and said it was a hard case; but what else could be done, considering that Augusta was built of wood? He told me that there was great excitement among the negroes in Augusta; and that many had been saying that "a mean white person" (a white labourer) would not have been hanged; and that the girl could not help it, as it must have been severity which drove her to it. In both these sayings, the slaves were partly wrong. A white would have been hanged; but a white would have known that she was committing crime. It did not appear that the girl's mistress was harsh. But what does not the observation convey? I have never learned, nor ever shall, whether the hanging took place or not. The newspapers do not insert such things.

This burning would be a fearful art for the blacks to learn. There were four tremendous fires in Charleston, during the summer of 1835; and divers residents reported to the north that these were supposed to be the work of slaves.

Wherever I went, in the south, in whatever town or other settlement I made any stay, some startling circumstance connected with slavery occurred, which I was assured was unprecedented. No such thing had ever occurred before, or was likely to happen again. The repetition of this assurance became, at last, quite ludicrous.

The fear of which I have spoken as prevalent, does not extend to the discussion of the question of slavery with strangers. My opinions of slavery were known, through the press, before I went abroad: the hospitality which was freely extended to me was offered under a full knowledge of my detestation of the system. This was a great advantage, in as much as it divested me entirely of the character of a spy, and promoted the freest discussion, wherever I went. There was a warm sympathy between myself and very many, whose sufferings under the system caused me continual and deep sorrow, though no surprise. Neither was I surprised at their differing from me as widely as they do about the necessity of immediate action, either by resistance or flight, while often agreeing, nearly to the full, in my estimate of the evils of the present state of things. They have been brought up in the system. To them, the moral deformity of the whole is much obscured by its nearness; while the small advantages, and slight prettinesses which it is very easy to attach to it, are prominent, and always in view. These circumstances prevented my being surprised at the candour with which they not only discussed the question, but showed me all that was to be seen of the economical management of plantations; the worst as well as the best. Whatever I learned of the system, by express showing, it must be remembered, was from the hands of the slave-holders themselves. Whatever I learned, that lies deepest down in my heart, of the moral evils, the unspeakable vices and woes of slavery, was from the lips of those who are suffering under them on the spot.

It was there that I heard of the massacre in Southampton county, which has been little spoken of abroad. It happened a few years ago; before the abolition movement began; for it is remarkable that no insurrections have taken place since the friends of the slave have been busy afar off. This is one of the most eloquent signs of the times,—that, whereas rebellions broke out as often as once a month before, there have been none since. Of this hereafter. In the Southampton massacre, upwards of seventy whites, chiefly women and children, were butchered by slaves who fancied themselves called, like the Jews of old, to "slay and spare not."

While they were in full career, a Virginian gentleman, who had a friend from the north staying with him, observed upon its being a mistaken opinion that planters were afraid of their slaves; and offered the example of his own household as a refutation. He summoned his confidential negro, the head of the house establishment of slaves, and bade him shut the door.

"You hear," said he, "that the negroes have risen in Southampton."

"Yes, massa."

"You hear that they have killed several families, and that they are coming this way."

"Yes, massa."