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1Author:  Hale Sarah Josepha Buell 1788-1879Requires cookie*
 Title:  Northwood; or, Life north and south  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: Sidney Romilly, the eldest of a numerous family, was a native of New Hampshire. The local situation of the little village in which he was born, offered few temptations to the speculator, and the soil promised no indulgence to the idle; but it abundantly repaid the industrious cultivator. It was therefore inhabited, almost exclusively, by husbandmen, who tilled their own farms with their own hands, laboring actively six days in the week, and on the seventh, offering, to that Being who alone could crown their labors with success, the unfeigned homage of contented minds and grateful hearts. My Dearest Mother,—I now take my pen to inform you I am well, and hope this letter will find you enjoying the same blessing. We had a very uncomfortable journey, jolting along over the rough roads, up hill and down; but we reached the end of it in safety, which I take to be a special interposition of Providence, considering the great length of the way, and my being totally unused to traveling. Mr. Brainard has a fine house, the prettiest I have seen in Charleston; and I like the house well, and I should like the place very well if it were not for the black people—niggers they call 'em here. Oh! dear mother, you know how frightened I always was at a negro—how I used to run behind your chair when old Sampson came to the door, and always screamed when he offered to step in. But, mercy! here the negroes are as thick as bees; the streets are full of 'em. I am sure I did not imagine there were so many in the universe. When our carriage drove up to the gate, out bolted a great black fellow, and Mr. Brainard shook hands with him, and was as glad to see him as could be; but I trembled all over, for I began to remember the stories I had read of slaves murdering their masters and mistresses, and many such bloody things. I guess Mr. Brainard saw I was pale, for he told me not to be frightened at Tom, who was one of the best creatures living. But when we entered the hall, there stood a row of blacks, laughing till their mouths were stretched from ear to ear, to welcome us. They all crowded round my husband, and I was so frightened, thinking some of them might have knives in their hands to kill us, that I could not help shrieking as loud as I could; and the slaves ran away, and Mr. Brainard looked angry, and I hardly know what happened next, for I believe I fainted. I am sure if I had only known this was a negro country, I never would have come here. They have a great many parties and balls here. I don't go to the balls, for I never learned to dance, and I think they are sinful; but I go to all the parties, and dress just as rich and fine as I please. I have a new head-dress, the prettiest thing my eyes ever beheld; I wish you could see it. My husband buys me every thing I ask for, and if I did not eternally see them black people about me, I should be quite happy. Every single day I am urging Mr. Brainard to send them off. 2 He always tells me it is impossible, and would be cruelty to them, as they are contented and happy, and have no other home or country where they could be received. But I intend to tease him till he does. I don't care where the creatures go to, nor much what becomes of them, if they can only be out of my sight. Pray give my love to Betty Baily, and tell her I wish she would come and live with me, and then I should want no other help. I often tell my husband I could do my work alone, but he laughs, and says, “What a ridiculous thing it would be to see you in the kitchen.” And besides, he says, no white person will live long if they attempt to labor in this warm climate. What to do, I know not, but I am determined to get the black creatures away. My Dearest Mother—I received your kind letter of February first, and I should have answered it immediately, but I have had a world of trouble of late. I do not know how to tell you what I have discovered; but yet I must, that you may pray for me, that my faith may be strengthened, and that I may be kept from temptation. I have often heard you say, the children of professors were especially protected by divine grace; and I am sure I need such protection—for, don't you think Mr. Brainard is a pope, or a papist, I forget which they call 'em, and he goes to a chapel and calls it a meeting, when it is no more like our meetings than it is like a ball. I have been twice, but I am determined to go no more, and I say everything I can against it, for it is so different from our christian worship I am sure it must be wrong. I am sure you will be very much shocked to hear of this, and I was when I discovered it; and I have a thousand times wished myself in New England. But don't say a word about it—you know who I would not have hear of it for all the world. Your letter was the first consolation I have received since we parted. You have not then forgotten me; you will not then forget me, though my father has treated you so angrily. But he is my father, and has always been so kind, I must bear with his severity now without murmuring. He says I am too young and inexperienced to know what will most conduce to my own happiness; but I know my own heart, and feel that my affections can never be altered or divided. By your letter I perceive you judge it best to accept the proposal of Mr. Lee, and perhaps it is so. O! these cruel prejudices of my father, that make such a sacrifice necessary. Why should riches be thought so indispensable to happiness? I would rather live in poverty all my life, than have you exposed to the dangers of the seas to acquire wealth. Yet, if you think it best to accept your friend's offer, I will not urge your stay; only do not let time or distance blot Zemira from your memory or your heart. You need not bid me be faithful: I cannot be otherwise, for the idea of you is blended with every thought, every sentiment, and lesson you have taught me. And when I read over those passages in my books your pencil marked, I almost fancy I can hear your voice. I shall read them constantly during your absence; but what will remind you of My Dear Romilly,—When I tell you we reached home in safety, and are now enjoying excellent health, you will know that I, at least, am happy. But it is that kind of happiness which makes no figure in description. It is the quiet consciousness of peace, the calm security of reciprocated affection, in short, the `sober certainty of waking bliss.' And for much of this felicity we must thank you; certainly for the final reconciliation, without which Zemira's mind never would have been at rest. And how shall we requite your disinterestedness?—your heroism? We pray daily that God would bless you, and assuredly He will, if to obey His command and do as you would be done by is holy in His sight. Property you do not want; yet, I will acknowledge my selfishness, I have sometimes wished you did, that we might show how highly we rate the favors you have conferred. But gold cannot gain friendship, nor can it requite the sacrifices you made for me. I will tell you how I propose to reward you—even by furnishing you with wise precepts for the better guidance of your sublunary course. You, I presume, will allow that those who have done us the most essential and generous services, are always most willing to pardon our officiousness. The inference is obvious. I feel secure of your favor although I should harass you with my old saws by way of advice. My Dear Stuart—I have made a new acquaintance, and one from which I promise myself much pleasure; yet for fear you should call me romantic, I will describe the man and relate the accident which introduced him, and then I think you will allow there is a necessity—I hope not a fatal one—for the present intercourse. “Friend Stuart,—Frankford certainly has, as you intimated, his prejudices against America; still he is a reasonable man, and although admitting conviction slowly and only on the most irrefragable proofs, yet I think he is becoming not only tolerant but liberal in his estimation of our character and customs. Neither is it strange that the aristocratical spirit of the old world should be alarmed and revolt at the democratical influence which the new is so rapidly obtaining. We cannot expect those who pride themselves on an ancestry, whose pure blood has flowed through proud veins for many hundred years, will forget at once this fancied superiority, and look on what they call our plebeian origin, without feelings of contempt. “My ever Dear Nephew:—The sickness that oppresses me, and which is hurrying me to the grave, is on my heart. I am sick of the follies and vices of the world; I am miserable when reflecting on my own. I have longed and pined to write and confide to you all my troubles and griefs; but I could not persuade myself to damp the pleasures I hoped you were enjoying with your friends. My Dear Mr. Romilly:—Your uncle is no more; and his earnest request, must be my apology for addressing you, and detailing some of the unfortunate circumstances which have occurred to him since you left the city. It is an unpleasant office, and one I would gladly have been excused from performing; but I could not refuse Mr. Brainard, and I trust your good sense will not confound the narrator of evil tidings with the unpleasant intelligence he must communicate. My ever Dear Friend,—It is but a short time since I despatched you a packet so voluminous that it might undoubtedly claim the respectable name of folio, and I then promised I would not again intrude under, at least, a quarter; but I must write, for there are feelings impossible to be restrained when we are blessed with a friend to whom they may be communicated. “My dear Miss Redington,—I hardly dare write what necessity compels me; and yet I know, in my situation, sincerity is the most atoning virtue I can practice. Let me then spare all circumlocution, and briefly state that our connexion must, from this time be at an end. Circumstances which I cannot explain make it impossible I should ever visit New England again, or not till a distant period. I lament I ever saw you; I lament our engagement. But these reflections are now too late. Write not—forget me—or think me unworthy your affection. May heaven bless you. Farewell! My Dear Romilly,—This is the third letter I have written you since the misfortunes and decease of Mr. Brainard, your excellent uncle. To the two others I have received no answer: had they reached your hand you could not have neglected me, so I flatter myself; and I must believe they miscarried. To obviate all possibility of a like fate befalling this, I have engaged Mr. Tracy, who is on a tour to Boston, a friend of mine, and one well entitled to your confidence, to take a trip to New Hampshire and deliver it into your hands. Mr. Romilly,—Sir, we have traced Cox to New Orleans, and recovered the money. It is all safe in my hands, waiting the disposal you shall order. I hope it will be convenient for you to come here immediately; indeed, it is absolutely necessary if you intend to redeem the estate of your late uncle. Dunbar was a good man, but he has transferred the property to another; subject, however, to the articles of redemption he entered into with your uncle. “Sir—I have received your letter, and am glad of your good fortune; but I think it my duty to inform you our correspondence must be at an end. I know you will want me to reside at the South; but to go there and be a partaker in the sin of slavery is what I will not do. You can doubtless find, in Charleston, some fair lady more worthy your love, and more congenial to your manner of life than my education and principles would permit me to be. You need not write, for my resolution is taken.
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