Chapter XXXVII: Comparing Notes

“But thou art fled,...
Like some frail exhalation which the dawn
Robes in its golden beams,—ah! thou hast fled;
The brave, the gentle, and the beautiful,
The child of grace and genius!”
_Shelley._

Not many weeks after the conversation (not altogether imaginary) at the White House, a young man in the uniform of a captain lay on the sofa in a room at Willard’s Hotel in Washington. He lay reading a newspaper, but the paleness of his face showed that he had been suffering either from illness or a serious wound. This young man was Onslow. In a cavalry skirmish at Winchester, in which the Rebels had been handsomely routed, he had been shot through the lungs, the ball coming out at his back. There was one chance in a thousand that the direction taken by the ball would be such that the wound should not prove fatal; and this thousandth chance happened in his favor. Thanks to a naturally vigorous constitution, he was rapidly convalescing. He began to be impatient once more for action.

There was a knock at the door, and Vance entered.

“How is our cavalry captain to-day?” he asked cheerily.

“Better and better, my dear Mr. Vance.”

“Let me feel of his pulse. Excellent! Firm, regular! Appetite?”

“Improving daily. He ate two boiled eggs and a lamb chop for breakfast, not to speak of a slice of aerated bread.”

“Come now,—that will do. He will be ready soon for a bullet through his other lung. But he must not get restless. There’s plenty of fighting in store for him.”

“Mr. Vance, I’ve been pondering the strange story of your life; your interview with my father on board the Pontiac; the loss of the Berwicks; the supposed loss of their child; the developments by which you were led to suspect that the child was kidnapped; Peek’s unavailing search for the rascal Hyde; the interview with Quattles, confirming your suspicion of foul play; and finally your interview last week in New York with the mulatto woman, Hattie Davy. Let me ask if Hattie thinks she could still identify the lost child.”

“Yes, by certain marks on her person. She at once recognized the little sleeve-button I got from Quattles.”

“Please let me look at it.”

Vance took from his pocket a small circular box which he unscrewed, and there, in the centre of a circle of hair, lay the button. He handed the box to the wounded soldier. At this moment Kenrick entered the room.

“Ha, Lieutenant! What’s the news?” exclaimed Vance.

“Ask any one but me,” returned Kenrick. “Have I not been all the morning trying guns at the navy-yard? What have you there, Robert! A lock of hair? Ah! I have seen that hair before.”

“Impossible!” said Vance.

“Not at all!” replied Kenrick. “The color is too peculiar to be confounded. Miss Perdita Brown wore a bracelet of that hair the last evening we met her at the St. Charles.”

“Again I say, impossible,” quoth Vance. “Something like it perhaps, but not this. How could she have come by it?”

“Cousin,” replied Kenrick, “I’m quick to detect slight differences of color, and in this case I’m sure.”

Suddenly the Lieutenant noticed the little sleeve-button in Onslow’s hand, and, while the blood mounted to his forehead, turning to him said, “How did you come by _this_, Robert?”

“Why do you ask with so much interest?” inquired Vance.

“Because that same button I’ve seen worn by Perdita.”

“Now I know you’re raving,” said Vance; “for, till now, it hasn’t been out of my pocket since Quattles gave it me.”

“Do you mean to say,” exclaimed Kenrick, “that this is the jewel of which you told me; that which belonged to the lost infant of the Pontiac?”

“Yes; her nurse identifies it. Undoubtedly it is one of a pair worn by poor little Clara.”

“Then,” said Kenrick, with the emphasis of sudden conviction, “Clara and Perdita are one and the same!”

Startling as a severe blow was this declaration to Vance. It forced upon his consideration a possibility so new, so strange, so distressing, that he felt crushed by the thought that there was even a chance of its truth. Such an opportunity, thrust, as it were, by Fate under his eyes, had it been allowed to escape him? His emotions were those of a blind man, who being suddenly restored to sight, learns that he has passed by a treasure which another has picked up. He paced the room. He struck his arms out wildly. He pushed up the sleeves of his coat with an objectless energy, and then pulled them down.

“O blind mole!” he groaned, “too intent on thy own little burrow to see the stars out-shining! O beast with blinders! looking neither on the right nor on the left, but only straight before thy nose!”

And then, as if ashamed of his ranting, he sat down and said: “How strange that this possibility should never have occurred to me! I saw there was a mystery in the poor girl’s fate, and I tried to make her disclose it. Had I only seen her that last day I called, I should have extorted her confidence. Once or twice during our interviews she seemed on the point of telling me something. Then she would check herself, as if from some prompting of delicacy or of caution. To think that I should have been so inconsiderate! To think, too, that I should have been duped by that heartless lay-figure for dressmakers and milliners, Miss Tremaine! Yes! I almost dread to look further lest I should be convinced that Charles is right, and that Clara Berwick and Perdita Brown are one and the same person. If so, the poor girl we all so admired is a slave!”

“A slave!” gasped Kenrick, struck to the heart by the cruel word, and turning pale.

“I’d like to see the man who’d venture to style himself her master in my presence!” cried Onslow, forgetting his wound, and half rising from the sofa.

“Soft!” said Vance. “We may be too hasty in our conclusion. There may be sleeve-buttons by the gross, precisely of this pattern, in the shops.”

“No!” replied Kenrick. “Coral of that color is what you do not often meet with. Such a delicate flesh tint is unusual. You cannot convince me that the mate of this button is not the one worn by the young lady we knew as Perdita. Perhaps, too, it is marked like the other pair. If so, it ought to have on it the letters—”

“What letters?” exclaimed Vance, fiercely, arresting Kenrick’s hand so he could not examine the button.

“The letters C. A. B.,” replied Kenrick.

“Good heavens, yes!” ejaculated Vance, releasing him, and sinking into an arm-chair. And then, after several seconds of profound sighing, he drew forth from his pocket-book an envelope, and said: “This contains the testimony of Hattie Davy in regard to certain personal marks that would go far to prove identity. One of these marks I distinctly remember as striking my attention in Clara, the child, and yet I never noticed it in the person we knew as Perdita. Could I have failed to remark it, had it existed?”

“Why not?” answered Kenrick. “Your thoughts are too intent on public business for you to apply them very closely to an examination of the personal graces or defects of any young woman, however charming.”

“Tell me, Captain,” said Vance to Onslow, “did you ever notice in Perdita any physical peculiarity, in which she differed from most other persons?”

“I merely noticed she was peculiarly beautiful,” replied Onslow; “that she wore her own fine, rich, profuse hair exclusively, instead of borrowing tresses from the wig-maker, as nine tenths of our young ladies do now-a-days; that her features were not only handsome in themselves by those laws which a sculptor would acknowledge, but lovely from the expression that made them luminous; that her form was the most symmetrical; her—”

“Enough, Captain!” interrupted Vance. “I see you did not detect the peculiarity to which I allude. Now tell me, cousin, how was it with _you_? Were you more penetrating?”

“I think I know to what you refer,” replied Kenrick. “Her eyes were of different colors; one a rich dark blue, the other gray.”

“Fate! yes!” exclaimed Vance, dashing one hand against the other. “Can you tell me which was blue?”

“Yes, the left was blue.”

Vance took from the envelope a paper, and unfolding it pointed to these lines which Onslow and Kenrick perused together:—

_Vance._ “You tell me one of her eyes was dark blue, the other dark
gray. Can you tell me which was blue?”

_Hattie._ “Yes; for I remember a talk about it between the father and
the mother. The father had blue eyes, the mother gray. The mother
playfully boasted that the eye of _her_ color was the child’s _right_
eye; to which the father replied, ‘But the _left_ is nearest the
heart.’ And so, sir, remembering that conversation, I can swear
positively that the child’s left eye was the blue one.”

“Rather a striking concurrence of testimony!” said Onslow. “I wonder I should never have detected the oddity.”

“Let me remark,” replied Kenrick, “that it required a near observation to note the difference in the hue of the eyes. Three feet off you would hardly discriminate. The depth of shade is nearly equal in both. You might be acquainted with Perdita a twelvemonth and never heed the peculiarity. So do not, cousin, take blame to yourself for inattention.”

“Do you remember, Charles,” said Vance, “our visit to the hospital the day after our landing in New York?”

“Yes, I shall never forget the scene,” replied Kenrick.

“Do you remember,” continued Vance, “among the nurses quite a young girl, who, while carrying a salver of food to a wounded soldier, was asked by you if you should not relieve her of the burden?”

“Yes; and her reply was, ‘Where are your shoulder-straps?’ And she eyed me from head to foot with provoking coolness. ‘I’m on my way to Washington for them,’ answered I. ‘Then you may take the salver,’ said the little woman, graciously thrusting it into my hands.”

“Well, Charles, when I was in New York last week, I saw that same little woman again, and found out who she is. How strangely, in this kaleidoscope of events which we call the world, we are brought in conjunction with those persons between whose fate and our own Chance or Providence seems to tender a significance which it would have us heed and solve! This girl was a Miss Charlton, the daughter of that same Ralph Charlton who holds the immense estate that rightfully belongs to our lost Clara.”

“Would he be disposed to surrender it?” asked Onslow.

“Probably not. I took pains while in New York to make inquiries. I learnt that his domestic _status_ is far from enviable. He himself, could he follow his heart’s proclivities, would be a miser. Then he could be happy and contented—in his way. But this his wife will not allow. She forces him by the power of a superior will into expenses at which his heart revolts, although they do not absorb a fifth part of his income. The daughter shrinks from him with an innate aversion which she cannot overcome. And so, unloving and unloved, he finds in his own base avarice the instrument that scourges him and keeps him wretched.”

“I should not feel much compunction in compelling such a man to unclutch his riches,” remarked Onslow.

“It will be very difficult to do that, I fear,” said Vance, “even supposing we can find and identify the true heir.”

“We must find her, cost what it may!” cried Kenrick. “Cousin, take me to New Orleans with you.”

“No, Charles. You are wanted here on the Potomac. Your reputation in gunnery is already high. The country needs more officers of your stamp. You cannot be spared. The Captain here can go with me to the Gulf. He is wounded and entitled to a furlough. A trip to New Orleans by sea will do him good.”

With a look of grave disappointment Kenrick took up a newspaper and kept his face concealed by it for a moment. Then putting it down, and turning to Vance, he said, with a sweet sincerity in his tone: “Cousin, where my wishes are so strongly enlisted, you can judge better than I of my duty. I yield to your judgment, and, if you persist in it, will make no effort to get from government the permission I covet.”

“Truly I think your place is here,” said Vance.

A servant entered with a letter. It was for Vance. He opened it, and finding it was from Peek, read as follows:—

“NEW ORLEANS, February, 1862.

”DEAR MR. VANCE: On leaving you at the Levee I drove straight for the
stable where my horses belonged. I passed the night with my friend
Antoine, the coachman. The next day I went to your house, where I have
stayed with those kind people, the Bernards, ever since.

“Please inform Mr. Winslow I duly attended to his commissions. What
will seem strange to you is the fact that in attending to his affairs
I am attending to yours. Two days after your departure the newspapers
contained flaming accounts of the treacherous seizure of the Artful
Dodger by Messrs. Vance, Winslow, & Co.,—their pursuit by the Rebel,
the encounter, the Rebel’s discomfiture, the ‘abduction’ of Mr.
Ratcliff, the funeral of his poor wife, etc. Seeing that Mr. Ratcliff
was absent, I thought the opportunity favorable for me to call at his
house on the quadroon lady, Madame Volney, to whom Mr. Winslow had
commended me. I went and found in the servant who opened the door an
old acquaintance, Esha, whom years ago you sought for in vain. She was
here keeping watch over a white slave.

“And who is the white slave? you will ask. Ah! there’s the mystery.
Who _is_ she indeed! In the first place, she is claimed by Ratcliff;
in the next, she and Madame Volney are the residuary legatees of the
late Mrs. Ratcliff; in the next, she is the young lady who has been
staying with Miss Tremaine at the St. Charles.”

Here there was a cry of pain from Vance, so sharp and sudden that Kenrick started forward to his relief.

“What’s the matter? Is it bad news?” inquired Onslow.

“I’ll finish reading the letter by myself,” replied Vance, taking his departure without ceremony.

Seated in his own apartment, he continued the reading:—

“Do not think me fanciful, Mr. Vance, but the moment I set eyes on
this young woman the conviction struck me, She is the lost Clara for
whom we are seeking. The coincidence of age and the fact that I have
had the search of her on my mind, may fully explain the impression.
_May._ But you know I believe in the phenomena of Spiritualism.
_Belief_ is not the right word. _Knowledge_ would be nearer the truth.

“There is here in New Orleans a young man named Bender who calls
himself a _medium_. He is a worthless fellow, and I have several times
caught him cheating. But he nevertheless gives me glimpses of
spiritual powers. There are some plain cases in which cheating is
impossible. For instance, if without throwing out any previous hint,
however remote, I think of twenty different persons in succession, my
knowledge of whom is a secret in my own brain, and if I say to a
medium, ‘Of what person am I thinking now?’ and if the medium
instantly, without hesitation or inquiry, gives me the right reply
twenty times in succession, I may reasonably conclude—may I not?—that
the power is what it appears to be, and that the medium gets his
knowledge through a faculty which, if not preternatural, is very rare,
and is denied as possible by science. Well, this test has been
fulfilled, not once only, but more than fifty different times.[37]

“I got Madame Volney’s consent to bring Bender to the house. After he
had showed her his wonderful powers of thought-reading, we put the
hand of the white slave in his, and bade him tell us her name. He
wrote with great rapidity, _Clara Aylesford Berwick_. We asked her
father’s name. In a moment the medium’s limbs twitched and writhed,
his eyeballs rolled up so that their natural expression was lost, and
he extended his arm as if in pain. Then suddenly dropping the girl’s
hand he drew up the sleeve from his right arm, and there, in crimson
letters on the white skin were the words _Henry Berwick_.[38]

“Now whether this is the right name or not I do not know. I presume
that it is; though it is rarely safe to trust a medium in such cases.
The child’s name I have heard you say was Clara Berwick. I have never
spoken or written it except to yourself. Still Bender may have got the
father’s name,—the surname at least,—from my mind. But if the name
_Henry_ is right, where did he get _that_? I am not aware of ever
having known the father’s name. The check he once gave you for me you
never showed me, but cashed it yourself. Still I shall not too
positively claim that the name was communicated preternaturally; for
experience has convinced me it may have been in my mind without my
knowing it. Every thought of our lives is probably photographed on our
brains, never to be obliterated. Let me study, then, to multiply my
good thoughts. But in whatever way Bender got the name, whether from
my mind or from a spirit, the fact is interesting and important in
either case.

“The effect upon Clara (for so we now all call her) of this singular
event was such as to convince her instantaneously that the name was
right, and that she is the child of Henry Berwick. As soon as the
medium had gone, she asked me if I could not find out who Mr. Berwick
was. I then told her the story of the Pontiac, down to the recent
confession of Quattles, and my own search for Colonel Delancy Hyde.
All my little group of hearers—Madame Volney, Esha, and Clara—were
deeply interested, as you may suppose, in the narrative. Clara was
much moved when she learnt that the same Mr. Vance, whose acquaintance
she had made, was the one who had known the parents, and was now
seeking for their daughter. She has a serene conviction that she is
the identical child. When I read what you had written about different
colored eyes, she simply said, ‘Look, Peek!’ And there they were,—blue
and gray!

“Mr. Ratcliff’s house is in the charge of his lawyer, Mr. Semmes, who
keeps a very strict eye over all outgoings and incomings. Esha has his
confidence, but he distrusts both Clara and Madame Volney. By
pretending that I am her half-brother, Esha enables me to come and go
unsuspected. The medium, Bender, was introduced as a chiropedist.
Clara never goes out without a driver and footman, who are agents and
spies of Semmes. It does not matter at present; for it would be
difficult in the existing state of affairs to remove Clara out of the
city without running great risk of detection and pursuit. I have
sometimes thought of putting her in a boat and rowing down the river
to Pass à l’Outre; but the hazard would be serious.

“As it is important to collect all the proofs possible for Clara’s
identification, it was at first agreed among the women that Esha
should call, as if in the interests of Mr. Ratcliff, on Mrs. Gentry,
the teacher, and get from that lady all the facts, dates, and
memorials that may have a bearing on Clara’s history. But, on
reflection, I concluded it would be better to put the matter in the
hands of a lawyer who could take down in legal form, with the proper
attestation, all that Mrs. Gentry might have to communicate. Mr.
Winslow had given me a letter of introduction to Mr. Jasper, his
confidential adviser, and a loyal man. To him I went and explained
what I wanted. He at once gave the business his attention. With two
suitable witnesses he called on Mrs. Gentry and took down her
deposition. I had told him to procure, if possible, some articles of
dress that belonged to the child when first brought to the house. This
he succeeded in doing. A little undershirt and frock,—a child’s
petticoat and pocket-handkerchief,—were among the articles, and they
were all marked in white silk, C. A. B. Mrs. Gentry said that her own
oath as to the clothes could be confirmed by Esha’s. Esha was
accordingly sent for, and she came, and, being duly sworn, identified
the clothes as those the child had on when first left at the house;
which clothes Esha had washed, and the child had subsequently worn.
This testimony being duly recorded, the clothes were done up carefully
in a paper package, to which the seals of all the gentlemen present
were attached; and then the package was placed in a small leather
trunk which was locked.

“I should mention one circumstance that adds fresh confirmation. In
telling Miss Clara what Quattles had confessed (the details of which
you give in that important letter you handed me) I alluded to the pair
of sleeve-buttons. ‘Was there any mark upon them?’ she asked. ‘Yes,
the initials C. A. B.’ She instantly drew forth from her bosom another
pair, the counterpart probably of that described in your letter, and
on one of the buttons were the same characters! Can we resist such
evidences?

“Let me mention another extraordinary development. Madame Volney does
not scruple to resort to all the stratagems justifiable in war to get
information from the enemy. Mr. Semmes is an old fox, but not so
cunning as to guard against an inspection of his papers by means of
duplicate keys. In one of the drawers of the library he deposits his
letters. In looking them over the other day, Madame V. found one from
Mr. Semmes’s brother in New York, in which the fact is disclosed that
this house, hired by Mr. Ratcliff, belonged to Miss Clara’s father,
and ought, if the inheritance had not been fraudulently intercepted,
to be now her property! Said Miss Clara to me when she learnt the
fact, ‘Peek, if I am ever rich, you shall have a nice little cottage
overlooking my garden.’ Ah! Mr. Vance, I thought of Naomi, and
wondered if she would be living to share the promised fortune.

“I have a vague fear of this Mr. Semmes. Under the affectation of
great frankness, he seems to me one of those men who make it a rule to
suspect everybody. I have warned the women to take heed to their
conversation; to remember that walls have ears. I rely much on Esha.
She has, thus far, been too deep for him. He has several times tried
to throw her off her guard; but has not yet succeeded. He is evidently
distrustful and disposed to lay traps for us.

“It appears that Mr. Ratcliff’s plan, at the time you intercepted him
in his career, and had him sent North, was to offer marriage to this
young girl he claims to hold as a slave. Marriage with him would
plainly be as hateful to her as any other species of relation; and my
present wish is to put her as soon as possible beyond his reach, lest
he should any time unexpectedly return. Madame Volney is so confident
in her power to save her, that Clara’s anxieties seem to be much
allayed; and now that she fully believes she is no slave, but the
legitimate child of honorable parents, she cultivates an assurance as
to her safety, which I hope is not the precursor of misfortune. The
money which Mr. Winslow left in my hands for her use would be
sufficient to enable us to carry out some effectual scheme of escape;
but Madame Volney does not agree with me as to the importance of an
immediate attempt. Will Ratcliff come back? That is the question I now
daily ask myself.

“I recognized on Clara’s wrist the other day a bracelet of your wife’s
hair. How did she come by it? The reply was simple. Esha gave it to
her. Clara is very fond of questioning me about you. She has learnt
from me all the particulars of your wife’s tragical fate, and of the
debt you yourself owe to the Slave Power. She takes the intensest
interest in the war. Learning from me that my friend Cailloux was
forming a secret league among the blacks in aid of the Union cause,
she made me take five hundred dollars of the money left by Mr. Winslow
for her in my possession, and this she sent to Cailloux with a letter.
He wrote her in reply, that he wished no better end than to die
fighting for the Union and for the elevation of his race.[39]

“I have not forgotten the importance of getting hold of Colonel Hyde.
I have searched for him daily in the principal drinking-saloons, but
have found no trace of him as yet. I have also kept up my search for
my wife, having sent out two agents, who, I trust, may be more
fortunate than I myself have been; for I sometimes think my own
over-anxiety may have defeated my purpose. In making these searches I
have availed myself of the means you have so generously placed at my
disposal.

“The few Union men who are here are looking hopefully to the promised
expedition of Farragut and Butler. But the Rebels are defiant and even
contemptuous in their incredulity. They say our fleet can never pass
Forts Jackson and St. Philip. And then they have an iron ram, on the
efficacy of which they largely count. Furthermore, they mean to
welcome us with bloody hands, &c.; die in the last ditch, &c. We shall
see. This prayer suffices for me: _God help the right!_ Adieu!

“Faithfully,
PEEK.”

We have seen with what profound emotion Vance received the information, that the man whose formidable power was enclosing Clara in its folds was the same whose brutality had killed Estelle. Vance could no longer doubt that Clara and Perdita were identical. He looked in his memorandum-book to assure himself of the name of Clara’s father. Yes! Bender was right. There were the words: _Henry Berwick_.

Then putting on his hat Vance hurried to the War Office. Would the Secretary have the goodness to address a question to the officer commanding at Fort Lafayette? Certainly: it could be done instantly by telegraph. Have the goodness to ask if Mr. Ratcliff, of New Orleans, is still under secure confinement.

The click of the telegraph apparatus in the War Office was speedily heard, putting the desired interrogatory.

“Expect a reply in half an hour,” said the operator.

Vance looked at his watch, and then passed out into the paved corridor and walked up and down. He thought of Clara,—of the bracelet of his wife’s hair on her wrist. It moved him to tears. Was there not something in the identity in the position of these two young and lovely women that seemed to draw him by the subtle meshes of an overruling fate to Clara’s side? Could it be that Estelle herself, a guardian angel, was favoring the conjunction?

For an instant that gracious image which had so long been the light of his waking and his sleeping dreams, seemed to retire, and another to take her place; another, different, yet hardly less lovely.

For an instant, and for the second time, visions of a new domestic paradise,—of beautiful children who should call him father,—of a daughter whose name should be Estelle,—of life’s evening spent amid the amenities of a refined and happy home,—flitted before his imagination, and importuned desire. But they speedily vanished, and that other transcendent image returned and resumed its place.

Ah! it was so life-like, so real, so near and positive in its presence, that no other could be its substitute! For no other could his heart’s chalice overflow with immortal love. Had she not said,—

“And dear as sacramental wine
To dying lips was all she said,”—

had she not said, “I shall see you, though you may not see me?” Vance took the words into his believing heart, and thenceforth they were a reality from the sense of which he could not withdraw himself, and would not have withdrawn himself if he could.

He looked again at his watch, and re-entered that inner office of the War Department, to which none but those high in government confidence were often admitted.

“We have just received a reply to your inquiry,” said the clerk. “Mr. Ratcliff of New Orleans made his escape from Fort Lafayette ten days ago. The Department has taken active measures to have him rearrested.”

-----

Footnote 31:

The names and the facts are real. See Harper’s Weekly, July 4, 1868.

Footnote 32:

Mr. W.S. Grayson of Mississippi writes, in De Bow’s Review (August,
1860): “Civil liberty has been the theme of praise among men, and most
wrongfully. This is the infatuation of our age.” And Mr. George
Fitzhugh of Virginia writes: “Men are never efficient in military
matters, or in industrial pursuits, until wholly deprived of their
liberty. _Loss of liberty is no disgrace._”

Footnote 33:

Testimony of Mrs. Fanny Kemble to facts within her knowledge.

Footnote 34:

Late member of Congress from Texas. In his speech in New York (1862)
he said: “I know that the loyalists of Texas have died deaths not
heard of since the dark ages until now; not only hunted and shot,
murdered upon their own thresholds, but tied up and scalded to death
with boiling water; torn asunder by wild horses fastened to their
feet; whole neighborhoods of men exterminated, and their wives and
children driven away.”

It is estimated by a writer in the New Orleans Crescent (June,
1863), that at least _twenty-five hundred_ persons had been hung in
Texas during the preceding two years _for fidelity to the Union_.

The San Antonio (Texas) Herald, a Rebel sheet of November 13th,
1862, taunted the Unionists with the havoc that had been made among
them! It says: “They (Union men) are known and will be remembered.
Their numbers were small at first, and they are becoming every day
less. In the mountains near Fort Clark and along the Rio Grande
_their bones are bleaching in the sun_, and in the counties of Wire
and Denton _their bodies are suspended by scores_ from black-jacks.”

Such are the shameless butchers and hangmen that Slavery spawns!

Footnote 35:

“Marriage,” says a Catholic Bishop of a Southern State, quoted in
the Cincinnati Catholic Telegraph, “is scarcely known amongst them
(the slaves); the masters _attach no importance to it_. In some
States those who teach them (the slaves) to read _are punished with
death_.”

Footnote 36:

Our experience in South Carolina and Louisiana proves that there would
be no danger, but, on the contrary, great good in instant
emancipation.

Footnote 37:

The writer has fully tested it in repeated instances; and there are
probably several hundred thousand persons at this moment in the
United States, to whom the same species of test is a _certainty_,
not merely a _belief_.

Footnote 38:

The parallel facts are too numerous and notorious to need
specification.

Footnote 39:

Captain Andre Cailloux, a negro, was a well-educated and
accomplished gentleman. He belonged to the First Louisiana regiment,
and perished nobly at Port Hudson, May 17, 1863, leading on his men
in the thickest of the fight. His body was recovered the latter part
of July, and interred with great ceremony at New Orleans.