On the plantation where my own quarters were was a woman
who had been so beaten when approaching the trials of maternity as to
crush out the life of the unborn child. But this planter had one
daughter who looked with horror on the scenes of which she was the
unwilling witness. She declared to her parents and sisters that it was
hell to live in such a place. She was accustomed to advise the negroes
how best to avoid being whipped. When the war began, she assured them
that the story of the masters that the Yankees were going to send them
to Cuba was all a lie. Surely a kind Providence will care for this noble
girl! This war will, indeed, emancipate others than blacks from bonds
which marriage and kindred have involved. But it is unpleasant to dwell
on these painful scenes of the past, constant and authentic as they are;
and they hardly concern the practical question which now presses for a
solution. Nor in referring to them is there any need of injustice or
exaggeration. Human nature has not the physical endurance or moral
persistence to keep up a perpetual and universal cruelty; and there are
fortunate slaves who never received a blow from their masters.
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