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The new kid on the block, FootNote is known for digitizing historical
documents...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!
It was a beautiful Sunday in
September, with a cloudless sky, and the
rays of the sun parching the already thirsty
earth, that Clotelle stood at an upper
window in Slater's slave pen in New Orleans,
gasping for a breath of fresh air. The bells
of thirty churches were calling the people
to the different places of worship. Crowds
were seen wending their way to the houses of
God; one followed by a Negro boy carrying
his master's Bible; another followed by her
maid servant holding the mistress' fan; a
third supporting an umbrella over his
master's head to shield him from the burning
sun. Baptists immersed, Presbyterians
sprinkled, Methodists shouted, and
Episcopalians read their prayers, while
ministers of the various sects preached that
Christ died for all. The chiming of the
bells seemed to mock the sighs and deep
groans of the forty human beings then
incarcerated in the slave pen. These
imprisoned children of God were many of them
Methodists, some Baptists, and others
claiming to believe in the faith of the
Presbyterians and Episcopalians.
Oh, with what anxiety did these creatures
await the close of that Sabbath, and the
dawn of another day, that should deliver
them from those dismal and close cells.
Slowly the day passed away, and once more
the evening breeze found its way through the
barred windows of the prison that contained
these injured sons and daughters of America.
The clock on the calaboose had just struck
nine on Monday morning, when hundreds of
persons were seen threading the gates and
doors of the Negro pen. It was the same gang
that had the day previous been stepping to
the tune and keeping time with the musical
church bells. Their Bibles were not with
them, their prayer books were left at home,
and even their long and solemn faces had
been laid aside for the week. They had come
to the man market to make their purchases.
Methodists were in search of their brethren.
Baptists were looking for those that had
been immersed, while Presbyterians were
willing to buy fellow Christians, whether
sprinkled or not. The crowd was soon gazing
at and feasting their eyes upon the lovely
features of Clotelle.
"She is handsomer," muttered one to himself,
"than the lady that sat in the pew next to
me yesterday."
"I would that my daughter was half so
pretty," thinks a second.
Groups are seen talking in every part of the
vast building, and the topic on 'Change, is
the "beautiful quadroon." By and by, a tall
young man with a foreign face, the curling
mustache protruding from under a finely
chiseled nose, and having the air of a
gentleman, passes by. His dark hazel eye is
fastened on the maid, and he stops for a
moment; the stranger walks away, but soon
returns he looks, he sees the young woman
wipe away the silent tear that steals down
her alabaster cheek; he feels ashamed that
he should gaze so unmanly on the blushing
face of the woman. As he turns upon his heel
he takes out his white handkerchief and
wipes his eyes. It may be that he has lost a
sister, a mother, or some dear one to whom
he was betrothed. Again he comes, and the
quadroon hides her face. She has heard that
foreigners make bad masters, and she shuns
his piercing gaze. Again he goes away and
then returns. He takes a last look and then
walks hurriedly off.
The day wears away, but long before the time
of closing the sale the tall young man once
more enters the slave pen. He looks in every
direction for the beautiful slave, but she
is not there she has been sold! He goes to
the trader and inquires, but he is too late,
and he therefore returns to his hotel.
Having entered a military school in Paris
when quite young, and soon after been sent
with the French army to India, Antoine
Devenant had never dabbled in matters of
love. He viewed all women from the same
stand point respected them for their
virtues, and often spoke of the goodness of
heart of the sex, but never dreamed of
taking to himself a wife. The unequalled
beauty of Clotelle had dazzled his eyes, and
every look that she gave was a dagger that
went to his heart. He felt a shortness of
breath, his heart palpitated, his head grew
dizzy, and his limbs trembled; but he knew
not its cause. This was the first stage of
"love at first sight."
He who bows to the shrine of beauty when
beckoned by this mysterious agent seldom
regrets it. Devenant reproached himself for
not having made inquiries concerning the
girl before he left the market in the
morning. His stay in the city was to be
short, and the yellow fever was raging,
which caused him to feel like making a still
earlier departure. The disease appeared in a
form unusually severe and repulsive. It
seized its victims from amongst the most
healthy of the citizens. The disorder began
in the brain by oppressive pain accompanied
or followed by fever. Fiery veins streaked
the eye, the face was inflamed and dyed of a
dark dull red color; the ears from time to
time rang painfully. Now mucous secretions
surcharged the tongue and took away the
power of speech; now the sick one spoke, but
in speaking had foresight of death. When the
violence of the disease approached the
heart, the gums were blackened. The sleep
broken, troubled by convulsions, or by
frightful visions, was worse than the waking
hours; and when the reason sank under a
delirium which had its seat in the brain,
repose utterly forsook the patient's couch.
The progress of the fever within was marked
by yellowish spots, which spread over the
surface of the body. If then, a happy crisis
came not, all hope was gone. Soon the breath
infected the air with a fetid odor, the lips
were glazed, despair painted itself in the
eyes, and sobs, with long intervals of
silence, formed the only language. From each
side of the mouth, spread foam tinged with
black and burnt blood. Blue streaks mingled
with the yellow all over the frame. All
remedies were useless. This was the yellow
fever. The disorder spread alarm and
confusion throughout the city. On an average
more than four hundred died daily. In the
midst of disorder and confusion, death
heaped victims on victims. Friend followed
friend in quick succession. The sick were
avoided from the fear of contagion, and for
the same reason the dead were left unburied.
Nearly two thousand dead bodies lay
uncovered in the burial ground, with only
here and there a little lime thrown over
them, to prevent the air becoming infected.
The Negro, whose home is in a hot climate,
was not proof against the disease. Many
plantations had to suspend their work for
want of slaves to take the places of those
who had been taken off by the fever.
Clotelle or The Colored Heroine, A tale
of the Southern States
