FootNote
The new kid on the block, FootNote is known for digitizing historical
documents... many of which are genealogical gems. With naturalizations,
city directories, war records, newspapers, town records, etc... this new
kid is quickly being recognized as an alternative to Ancestry.
While we know our northern friends may not feel it, in the South, Spring is
here. So we thought we'd share a few of our gardening sites appropriate
for this time of the year. Along with gardening, there's grilling, and getting
ready to diet so that you can fit back into that bathing suit this summer!
The clouds that had skirted
the sky during the day broke at last, and
the rain fell in torrents, as Jerome and
Clotelle retired for the night, in the
little town of Ferney, on the borders of
Lake Leman. The peals of thunder, and
flashes of vivid lightening, which seemed to
leap from mountain to mountain and from crag
to crag, reverberating among the surrounding
hills, foretold a heavy storm.
"I would we were back at Geneva," said
Clotelle, as she heard groans issuing from
an adjoining room. The sounds, at first
faint, grew louder and louder, plainly
indicating that some person was suffering
extreme pain.
"I did not like this hotel, much, when we
came in," said Jerome, relighting the lamp,
which had been accidentally extinguished.
"Nor I," returned Clotelle.
The shrieks increased, and an occasional
"she's dead!" "I killed her!" "No, she is
not dead!" and such like expressions, would
be heard from the person, who seemed to be
deranged.
The thunder grew louder, and the flashes of
lightening more vivid, while the noise from
the sick room seemed to increase.
As Jerome opened the door, to learn, if
possible, the cause of the cries and groans,
he could distinguish the words, "She's dead!
yes, she's dead! but I did not kill her. She
was my child! my own daughter. I loved her,
and yet I did not protect her."
"Whoever he is," said Jerome, "he's crack
brained; some robber, probably, from the
mountains."
The storm continued to rage, and the loud
peals of thunder and sharp flashes of
lightening, together with the shrieks and
moans of the maniac in the adjoining room,
made the night a fearful one. The long hours
wore slowly away, but neither Jerome nor his
wife could sleep, and they arose at an early
hour in the morning, ordered breakfast, and
resolved to return to Geneva.
"I am sorry, sir, that you were so much
disturbed by the sick man last night," said
the landlord, as he handed Jerome his bill.
"I should be glad if he would get able to go
away, or die, for he's a deal of trouble to
me. Several persons have left my house on
his account."
"Where is he from?" inquired Jerome. "He's
from the United States, and has been here a
week to day, and has been crazy ever since."
"Has he no friends with him?" asked the
guest.
"No, he is alone," was the reply.
Jerome related to his wife what he had
learned from the landlord, respecting the
sick man, and the intelligence impressed her
so strongly, that she requested him to make
further inquiries concerning the stranger.
He therefore consulted the book in which
guests usually register their names, and, to
his great surprise, found that the
American's name was Henry Linwood, and that
he was from Richmond, Va.
It was with feelings of trepidation that
Clotelle heard these particulars from the
lips of her husband.
"We must see this poor man, whoever he is,"
said she, as Jerome finished the sentence.
The landlord was glad to hear that his
guests felt some interest in the sick man,
and promised that the invalid's room should
be got ready for their reception.
The clock in the hall was just striking ten,
as Jerome passed through and entered the
sick man's chamber. Stretched upon a
mattress, with both hands tightly bound to
the bedstead, the friendless stranger was
indeed a pitiful sight. His dark,
dishevelled hair prematurely gray, his long,
unshaven beard, and the wildness of the eyes
which glanced upon them as they opened the
door and entered, caused the faint hope
which had so suddenly risen in Clotelle's
heart, to sink, and she felt that this man
could claim no kindred with her. Certainly,
he bore no resemblance to the man whom she
had called her father, and who had fondly
dandled her on his knee in those happy days
of childhood.
"Help!" cried the poor man, as Jerome and
his wife walked into the room. His eyes
glared, and shriek after shriek broke forth
from his parched and fevered lips.
"No, I did not kill my daughter! I did not!
she is not dead! Yes, she is dead! but I did
not kill her poor girl! Look! that is she!
No, it cannot be! she cannot come here! it
cannot be my poor Clotelle."
At the sound of her own name, coming from
the maniac's lips, Clotelle gasped for
breath, and her husband saw that she had
grown deadly pale. It seemed evident to him
that the man was either guilty of some
terrible act, or imagined himself to be. His
eyeballs rolled in their sockets, and his
features showed that he was undergoing "the
tortures of that inward hell," which seemed
to set his whole brain on fire. After
recovering her self possession and strength,
Clotelle approached the bedside, and laid
her soft hand upon the stranger's hot and
fevered brow.
One long, loud shriek rang out on the air,
and a piercing cry, "It is she! Yes, it is
she! I see, I see! Ah! no, it is not my
daughter! She would not come to me if she
could!" broke forth from him.
"I am your daughter," said Clotelle, as she
pressed her handkerchief to her face, and
sobbed aloud.
Like balls of fire, the poor man's eyes
rolled and glared upon the company, while
large drops of perspiration ran down his
pale and emaciated face. Strange as the
scene appeared, all present saw that it was
indeed a meeting between a father and his
long lost daughter. Jerome now ordered all
present to leave the room, except the nurse,
and every effort was at once made to quiet
the sufferer. When calm, a joyous smile
would illuminate the sick man's face, and a
strange light beam in his eyes, as he seemed
to realize that she who stood before him was
indeed his child.
For two long days and nights did Clotelle
watch at the bedside of her father before he
could speak to her intelligently. Sometimes,
in his insane fits, he would rave in the
most frightful manner, and then, in a few
moments, would be as easily governed as a
child. At last, however, after a long and
apparently refreshing sleep, he awoke
suddenly to a full consciousness that it was
indeed his daughter who was watching so
patiently by his side.
The presence of his long absent child had a
soothing effect upon Mr. Linwood, and he now
recovered rapidly from the sad and almost
hopeless condition in which she had found
him. When able to converse, without danger
of a relapse, he told Clotelle of his
fruitless efforts to obtain a clew to her
whereabouts after old Mrs. Miller had sold
her to the slave trader. In answer to his
daughter's inquiries about his family
affairs up to the time that he left America,
he said,
"I blamed my wife for your being sold and
sent away, for I thought she and her mother
were acting in collusion; But I afterwards
found that I had blamed her wrongfully. Poor
woman! she knew that I loved your mother,
and feeling herself forsaken, she grew
melancholy and died in a decline three years
ago."
Here both father and daughter wept at the
thought of other days. When they had
recovered their composure, Mr. Linwood went
on again:
"Old Mrs. Miller," said he, "after the death
of Gertrude, aware that she had contributed
much toward her unhappiness, took to the
free use of intoxicating drinks, and became
the most brutal creature that ever lived.
She whipped her slaves without the slightest
provocation, and seemed to take delight in
inventing new tortures with which to punish
them. One night last winter, after having
flogged one of her slaves nearly to death,
she returned to her room, and by some means
the bedding took fire, and the house was in
flames before any one was awakened. There
was no one in the building at the time but
the old woman and the slaves, and although
the latter might have saved their mistress,
they made no attempt to do so. Thus, after a
frightful career of many years, this hard
hearted woman died a most miserable death,
unlamented by a single person."
Clotelle wiped the tears from her eyes, as
her father finished this story, for,
although Mrs. Miller had been her greatest
enemy, she regretted to learn that her end
had been such a sad one.
"My peace of mind destroyed," resumed the
father, "and broken down in health, my
physician advised me to travel, with the
hope of recruiting myself, and I sailed from
New York two months ago."
Being brought up in America, and having all
the prejudice against color which
characterizes his white fellow countrymen,
Mr. Linwood very much regretted that his
daughter, although herself tinctured with
African blood, should have married a black
man, and he did not fail to express to her
his dislike of her husband's complexion.
"I married him," said Clotelle, "because I
loved him. Why should the white man be
esteemed as better than the black? I find no
difference in men on account of their
complexion. One of the cardinal principles
of Christianity and freedom is the equality
and brotherhood of man."
Every day Mr. Linwood became more and more
familiar with Jerome, and eventually they
were on the most intimate terms.
Fifteen days from the time that Clotelle was
introduced into her father's room, they left
Ferney for Geneva. Many were the excursions
Clotelle made under the shadows of Mont
Blanc, and with her husband and father for
companions; she was now in the enjoyment of
pleasures hitherto unknown.
Clotelle or The Colored Heroine, A tale
of the Southern States
