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TITLE: OUR WORLD, OR, THE SLAVEHOLDERS DAUGHTER
AUTHOR: F. COLBURN ADAMS
EBOOK: E03613 (O'Briens Book Cellar)

OUR WORLD:

OR, The Slaveholder's Daughter.

"An honest tale speeds best being plainly told."

NEW YORK AND AUBURN:

1855.

PREFACE.

IN presenting this work to the public, we are fully conscious of the
grave charges of misrepresenting society, and misconstruing facts,
which will be made by our friends of the South, and its very
peculiar institution; but earnestly do we enjoin all such champions
of "things as they are," to read and well digest what is here set
before them, believing that they will find the TRUTH even "stranger
than fiction." And, as an incentive to the noble exertions of those,
either North or South, who would rid our country of its "darkest,
foulest blot," we would say, that our attempt has been to give a
true picture of Southern society in its various aspects, and that,
in our judgment, the institution of Slavery is directly chargeable
with the various moral, social and political evils detailed in OUR
WORLD.

THE AUTHOR.

CONTENTS.

I. Marston's Plantation,
II. How a Night was spent on Marston's Plantation
III. Things not so bright as they seem
IV. An Unexpected Confession
V. The Marooning Party
VI. Another Scene in Southern Life
VII. "Buckra-Man very Uncertain,"
VIII. A Cloud of Misfortune hangs over the Plantation
IX. Who is Safe against the Power?
X. Another Shade of the Picture,
XI. Mrs. Rosebrook's Project,
XII. Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy Changes his Business,
XIII. A Father tries to be a Father,
XIV. In which Extremes are Presented,
XV. A Scene of Many Lights,
XVI. Another Phase of the Picture,
XVII. Pleasant Dealings with Human Property,
XVIII. A not uncommon Scene slightly changed,
XIX. They are going to be Sold,
XX. Let us follow poor Human Nature to the Man Shambles,
XXI. A Father's Trials,
XXII. We Change with Fortune,
XXIII. The Vicissitudes of a Preacher,
XXIV. How we Manufacture Political Faith,
XXV. Mr. M'Fadden sees Shadows of the Future,
XXVI. How they stole the Preacher,
XXVII. Competition in Human Things,
XXVIII. The Pretty Children are to be Sold,
XXIX. Nature Shames Itself,
XXX. The Vision of Death is Past,
XXXI. A Friend is Woman,
XXXII. Marston in Prison,
XXXIII. Venders of Human Property are not Responsible for its
    Mental Caprices,
XXXIV. A Common Incident shortly told,
XXXV. The Children are Improving,
XXXVI. Workings of the Slave System,
XXXVII. An Item in the Common Calendar,
XXXVIII. In which Regrets are shown of little Worth,
XXXIX. How we should all be Forgiving,
XL. Containing Various Matters,
XLI. Nicholas's Simple Story,
XLII. He would Deliver her from Bondage,
XLIII. Other Phases of the Subject,
XLIV. How Daddy Bob Departed,
XLV. How Slaveholders Fear each other,
XLVI. Southern Administration of Justice,
XLVII. Prosperity the Result of Justice,
XLVIII. In which the Fate of Franconia is seen,
XLIX. In which is a Sad Recognition,
L. In which a Dangerous Principle is Illustrated,
LI. A Continuation of the Last Chapter,
LII. In which are Pleasures and Disappointments,
LIII. A Familiar Scene, in which Pringle Blowers has Business,
LIV. In which are Discoveries and Pleasant Scenes,
LV. In which is a Happy Meeting, some Curious Facts Developed,
    and Clotild History Disclosed,
LVI. In which a Plot is Disclosed, and the Man-Seller made to
    Pay the Penalty of his Crimes,

OUR WORLD.

CHAPTER I

MARSTON'S PLANTATION.

ON the left bank of the Ashly River, in the State of South Carolina,
and a few miles from its principal city, is a plantation once the
property of Hugh Marston. It was near this spot, the brave
Huguenots, fleeing religious and political persecution, founded
their first American colony-invoked Heaven to guard their
liberties-sought a refuge in a new world! And it was here the pious
Huguenot forgot his appeals to high heaven-forgot what had driven
him from his fatherland, and-unlike the pilgrim fathers who planted
their standard on "New England's happy shore,"-became the first to
oppress. It was here, against a fierce tyranny, the gallant
Yamassee,

A tribe of faithful and heroic Indians. loyal to his professed
friend, struggled and died for his liberty. It was here the last
remnant of his tribe fought the fierce battle of right over might!
It was here, in this domain, destined to be the great and powerful
of nations-the asylum of an old world's shelter seeking poor, and
the proud embodiment of a people's sovereignty,-liberty was first
betrayed! It was here men deceived themselves, and freedom
proclaimers became freedom destroyers. And, too, it was here Spanish
cupidity, murderous in its search for gold, turned a deaf ear to
humanity's cries, slaughtered the friendly Indian, and drenched the
soil with his innocent blood. And it is here, at this moment,
slavery-fierce monster, threatening the peace of a happy people-runs
riot in all its savage vicissitudes, denying man his commonest
birthright.

If history did but record the barbarous scenes yet enacted on the
banks of this lovely stream, the contrast with its calm surface
sweeping gently onward to mingle its waters with the great deep,
would be strange indeed. How mellowed by the calm beauty of a summer
evening, the one!-how stained with scenes of misery, torment, and
death, the other!

Let us beg the reader to follow us back to the time when Marston is
found in possession of the plantation, and view it as it is when his
friends gather round him to enjoy his bounteous hospitality.

We have ascended the Ashly on a bright spring morning, and are at a
jut covered with dark jungle, where the river, about twenty rods
wide, sweeps slowly round ;-flowering brakes, waving their tops to
and fro in the breeze, bedeck the river banks, and far in the
distance, on the left, opens the broad area of the plantation. As we
near it, a beautifully undulating slope presents itself, bounded on
its upper edge by a long line of sombre-looking pines. Again we
emerge beneath clustering foliage overhanging the river; and from
out this-sovereign of a southern clime-the wild azalia and fair
magnolia diffuse their fragrance to perfume the air. From the pine
ridge the slope recedes till it reaches a line of jungle, or hedge,
that separates it from the marshy bottom, extending to the river,
against which it is protected by a dyke. Most of the slope is under
a high state of cultivation, and on its upper edge is a newly
cleared patch of ground, which negroes are preparing for the
cotton-seed.

Smoking piles burn here and there, burned stumps and trees point
their black peaks upward in the murky atmosphere, half-clad negroes
in coarse osnaburgs are busy among the smoke and fire: the scene
presents a smouldering volcano inhabited by semi-devils. Among the
sombre denizens are women, their only clothing being osnaburg
frocks, made loose at the neck and tied about the waist with a
string: with hoes they work upon the "top surface," gather charred
wood into piles, and waddle along as if time were a drug upon life.

Far away to the right the young corn shoots its green sprouts in a
square plat, where a few negroes are quietly engaged at the first
hoeing. Being tasked, they work with system, and expect, if they
never receive, a share of the fruits. All love and respect Marston,
for he is generous and kind to them; but system in business is at
variance with his nature. His overseer, however, is just the
reverse: he is a sharp fellow, has an unbending will, is proud of
his office, and has long been reckoned among the very best in the
county. Full well he knows what sort of negro makes the best driver;
and where nature is ignorant of itself, the accomplishment is
valuable. That he watches Marston's welfare, no one doubts; that he
never forgets his own, is equally certain. From near mid-distance of
the slope we see him approaching on a bay-coloured horse. The sun's
rays are fiercely hot, and, though his features are browned and
haggard, he holds a huge umbrella in one hand and the inseparable
whip in the other. The former is his protector; the latter, his
sceptre. John Ryan, for such is his name, is a tall, athletic man,
whose very look excites terror. Some say he was born in Limerick, on
the Emerald Isle, and only left it because his proud spirit would
not succumb to the unbending rod England held over his poor bleeding
country.

Running along the centre of the slope is a line of cotton-fields, in
which the young plants, sickly in spots, have reached a stage when
they require much nursing. Among them are men, women, and children,
crouched on the ground like so many sable spectres, picking and
pulling at the roots to give them strength. John Ryan has been
keeping a sharp eye on them. He will salute you with an air of
independence, tell you how he hated oppression and loved freedom,
and how, at the present day, he is a great democrat. Now, whether
John left his country for his country's good, is a question; but
certain it is he dearly delights to ply the lash,-to whip mankind
merely for amusement's sake. In a word, John has a good Irish heart
within him, and he always lays particular emphasis on the good, when
he tells us of its qualities; but let us rather charge to the State
that spare use he makes of its gentler parts.


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