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Mrs. Brainard, as in future we must call her, did not
bid adieu to New England without emotions of regret,
and even some feelings of compunction. The parting
from her parents, from whom she had experienced nothing
but kindness and indulgence, was painful in the
extreme—she felt she had liberty to weep; and when
the carriage reached the last height that overlooked the
village where she had passed so many bright days, and
which she was now leaving perhaps forever, she leaned
forward to catch another look, and a torrent of tears bedewed
her cheeks. They did, indeed, owe some of their
bitterness to the remembrance of Reuben—she thought
of his affection, his disappointment, and her heart reproached
her for the part she had acted.

From the height where she then was, the house Reuben
had been building for her was plainly visible. She
had assisted him to design it, or alter it rather, and she
now recollected how cheerfully he had complied with all
her suggestions. One window in particular, she knew
he altered to please her, when no other inducement
would have prevailed. That window she now beheld,
and the train of feeling it awakened, was almost too
painful for her undisciplined mind to endure.

Without sufficient stability of principle to guide, she
had just piety enough to torment her; and the fear that,

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for her broken vows, some punishment awaited her in
the strange land to which she was going, took immediate
possession of her weak fancy.

Her husband, who thought all her grief proceeded
from the necessity of separating from her home and
parents, tried the usual methods of consolation practiced
on such occasions—kissed the tears from her fair cheek,
talked of his love, and gratitude, and constancy, all
eternal of course; and told her of the thousand amusements
awaiting her in a gay city, where his wealth would
enable her to command every pleasure she desired.

This last consideration gave her some comfort. Persons
who dare not commune with their own hearts, are
not only dependent on society for their pleasures, but
must seek it as a refuge from anxiety and remorse.

It may be thought strange, Lydia should give her
hand to Brainard, when in her heart she really preferred
her first love. But one wrong step usually makes many
others inevitable. The love of admiration first induced
her to admit the addresses of Mr. Brainard; then the
cool behavior of Reuben Porter made her fear he would
not forgive her levity without concessions, which she disdained
to make; and thus she was compelled either to
wed the former, or risk being considered a forsaken damsel,
a character she abhorred above all things.

It cannot then excite wonder, if Mrs. Brainard's ideas
of future felicity, instead of centering in the dear domestic
circle over which she was so soon to preside, should
borrow many of their tints of happiness from the fashionable
and gay diversions to which her husband inconsiderately
directed her attention.

That she now felt far from being completely happy,
her heart acknowledged; but willing to attribute it to
anything rather than her own folly, she complained of
the tediousness of traveling, the inconveniences of hotels,
and scarcely seeing an object that gave her any satisfaction
in the whole way, impatiently urged her husband to
hasten his journey.

Mr. Brainard was a gay man, and one who sometimes

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yielded his reason to the influence of violent passions, as
he had done in his hasty marriage; but he possessed,
nevertheless, a generous heart and a cultivated mind.

He was particularly fond of fine scenery, and his
principal inducement to visit the North was to examine
and take views of some of the sublime prospects nature
exhibits in this part of the Union. Often, when alone,
had he lingered on the way, and his solitary excursions
had afforded him exquisite satisfaction; but he now anticipated
an increase of pleasure, when he had such a
loved and lovely one by his side, to whom he might
whisper his observations, and who, by the delicacy and
refinement of her taste and feelings, would correct and
improve his own.

What an oversight, that before taking her “for better
for worse,” he did not ascertain whether she had taste,
and how far it was in unison with his own!

However, he soon found she had little admiration to
bestow on any object except herself. She must be the
fairest flower in every parterre, the object of unceasing
solicitude and attention, or she felt neglected and unhappy.
Sometimes, in a fit of sudden enthusiasm, he would call
on her to admire with him a sublime or beautiful prospect,
or endeavor to introduce rational conversation; but
the impatience of her countenance and her listless answers,
soon convinced him he must change his subject.

Before reaching Charleston, he had become heartily
weary of the insipid, common-place chat which only
could entertain her, and something very much like a sigh
heaved his bosom when reflecting he must travel the
journey of life with such a companion.

But he felt certain her face would, in the opinion of
the world, excuse him for marrying her; and he determined
to become her preceptor, and doubted not, but
with a little assiduity on his part, she would become as
agreeable a companion as she already was a beautiful
mistress.

He had, with all his learning, yet to learn that the
woman who has from infancy been accustomed to a

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constant course of adulation and indulgence, seldom exerts
her talents, because she thinks such exertion unnecessary;
and the person who presumes to arouse her from this
supineness, is sure to excite her displeasure.

Mr. Brainard was the owner of a large plantation
about twenty miles from Charleston, and an elegant house
in the city. It was to his city residence he first conducted
his bride, and there introduced her to his pleasant circle
of fashionable acquaintance.

The women allowed she was very pretty, yet each had
objections to urge against particular features. One thought
her nose too long; another said her forehead was too
low; a third disliked blue eyes; and a fourth was quite
sure the brilliancy of her complexion was heightened by
art; but they all joined in condemning her air and manners
as absolutely rustic if not dowdyish.

The men, however, uninfluenced for once by the ladies,
unanimously voted her an angel. Whatever was abrupt
in her conversation, or ungraceful in her address, was, by
them, termed naiveté, and, had not the days of chivalry
been past, the Northern lass might, in a Southern city,
have boasted many a champion of her charms.

It was even rumored that a number of young gentlemen
had vowed to go on a pilgrimage to New England
before selecting their wives; nay, it was absolutely asserted
one had departed; but the result of his expedition
was never, I believe, made public.

What Mrs. Brainard thought of the new scene to which
she was thus introduced, will be best understood by the
perusal of two letters which she addressed to her mother
soon after her arrival. To explain how these letters fell
into my hands, would be a long and needless story; but
the reader may depend on their authenticity. Yet the
veracity of a historian obliges me to acknowledge they
have undergone some alterations. The orthography
needed many corrections, and the punctuation had to be
entirely supplied. The capital letters, also, were distributed
with the utmost impartiality throughout the
whole, as often ending a word, as beginning a sentence.

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Indeed, no one who saw the crooked, blotted, mis-spelt
scrawls, would have imagined a delicate hand had penned,
and bright eyes overlooked them. These facts are not
recorded for a libel against Mrs. Brainard, but merely as
a warning to beautiful young ladies, lest, like her, they
should depend on the graces of their persons, and neglect
the cultivation of their minds.

For her there was some excuse. Female education
had not, at that time, been well provided for even in New
England. True, the common schools were open to girls
as well as boys; but it was often very difficult for the
former to attend. The school-house would be distant and
uncomfortable, the roads generally bad; and, though
boys could rough it through all ways, winds and weathers,
and were sent off as a matter of duty, the delicate
little girl was allowed to stay at home—if she chose.

And Lydia Romilly had chosen to stay at home. In
summer she complained of the heat, in winter of the
cold; and as such a lovely child really seemed to her
parents, as our first mother did to Adam,

— “In herself complete,”

Charleston City, Dec. 17, 17—.

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

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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.

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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.

“Charleston City, May 3d, 17—.

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

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don't say a word about it—you know who I would not
have hear of it for all the world.

I have everything money can command to content
me; and if Mr. Brainard would only send away his
servants, as he calls them, and go to a congregational
meeting, I think I should be quite happy. But these
blacks are always at my elbow. Here's one just been
into the room to see if I wanted anything, but I bade
her to go about her business. If my husband will keep
them he may order them—I will not, for they frighten
me out of my senses. Mr. Brainard is very kind to
them, and they love him like a brother, though he will
keep them in slavery; while they hate me, I know they
do, yet I tell them every day I wish they were in Guinea.
But they are a stupid, ungrateful race, and I detest them
perfectly.

I have a new carpet for my parlor—very beautiful indeed.
Father would say it was too handsome to walk
on; but yet, I don't know how it is, such fine things,
now I have them so common, are not half so pleasing as
I expected they would be. I have to sit about, with nothing
to do, till I am quite low spirited; and then I
think how I used to enjoy myself when at home—how
I could work and sing the whole day. Oh! I shall
never be so happy again. Give my love to all my
friends.

p561-030

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