xt7x959c8s9r https://exploreuk.uky.edu/dips/xt7x959c8s9r/data/mets.xml Hugo, Victor, 1802-1885  Hugo, Victor, 1802-1885 1844 books  English New York, J. Mowatt and Co.  Contact the Special Collections Research Center for information regarding rights and use of this collection   Bug-Jargal; or, A Tale of the Massacre in St. Domingo. 1791, 1844 text 80 pages 25 cm. Call Number: 843 H874b 
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A TALE OF THE

MASSACRE IN ST. DOMINGO.

1791.

BY VICTOR HUGO,

AUTHOR OF “NOTRE DAME DE PARIS.”

TRANSLATED FROM THE SIXTEENTH FRENCH EDITION-

NEW YORK :

JAMES MOWATT & 00.,
At the Depot of New Publications,
H 174 BROADWAY, CORNER OF MAIDEN LANE,
0’ w. B. KIMBAL, BOSTON; R. G. BERFORD, 101 CHESNUT 51"., PHILADELPHIA; GEORGE JONES, é,

ALBANY; A. BURKE, BUFFALO; J. \V. COOK, PITTSBURGH; WM. TAYLOR, BALTIMORE; 0x..-

ROBINSON AND JONES, CINCINNATI; W. N. HALDEMAN, LOUISVILLE; JOHN SLY, 64 RUE
ROYAL, NEW ORLEANS.

 

  

  

BUG-JARGAL‘?

A TALE OF THE

MASSACRE IN ST. DOMINGO.

1791.

BY VICTOR HUGO;/
AUTHOR OF “NOTRE DAME DE PARIS.”

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TRANSLATED FROM THE SIXTEENTH FRENCH EDITION.

 

NEW YORK:

PUBLISHED BY JAMES MOWATT
No. 174 Broadway.

1844.

 

 

 

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 "PREFACE,

lN 1818 the author of the following work had attained the age of sixteen years; it

’\ appears that he wrote a volume in" fifteen days. It was BUG-JARGAL. Sixteen years!

It is the age when the mind feels itself equal to any task; the age of young hopes; a
dazzling sun, and a glittering horizon : all is improvisation.

The present volume, therefore, was written two years before Han d’ Islande .- and
although, sevenyears later in life, the author reviewed and rewrote a large portion of the
work, it is none the less both in the conception and variety of its details“ the first work of

the author.

He should, perhaps, beg the indulgence of his readers for detaining them with matters

 

of so little importance to them: but he thought that the small number of persons who
delight to classify by the rank of life, and by the order of birth, the various works of a
poet, how obscure soever that poet may he, would not be offended at being informed of the
age of Bug-Jargali and it Was with him as with the travellers who turn about in the
midst of theirpilgrimage and seek to discover in the foggy folds of the horizon the place
from which they took their departure. He was anxious to impress the stamp of memory
upon that period of his ardor, boldness, and assurance, when he applied himself to so
immense a task; a task no less than the dramatic narrative of the revolt of the blacks of
St. Domingo 1n 1791—a struggle of giants, three worlds hanging in suspense upon the
issue: Europe and Africa as the combatants, and America as the scene of the war
Pan's, March, 1832.

 

 

 

 

  

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lNTRODUCTION,

THE following episode, the subject of which is the revolt of the slaves of
St. Domingo in 17 91, wears such an air of circumstance, that the author came
under the ban of the Censor, and was forbidden to publish it. A rough sketch
of the work, however, having already been printed, and distributed in a
restricted number of copies in 1820, at an epoch When the politics‘of the day
was little occupied with Hayti, it is evident, that if the subject he treats has
since acquired a new degree of interest, it is not from any fault of the author.
These are events, which have adapted themselves to the book, and not the book
to the events.

However that may be, the author did not dream of rescuing his production
from the kind of twilight, in which it had been enshrouded : but being apprised
that a publisher in the Capital had proposed to reprint his anonymous sketch, he
thought to prevent that reprint by bringing out his own work reviewed, and, in
a great measure reconstructed ; a )recaution, which spared his self-love a little
ennui, and perhaps saved his publisher a bad speculation.

Several distinguished individuals, both colonists and functionaries, who were
embroiled in the troubles of St. Domingo, having been apprised of the approach-
ing publication, had a desire to communicate to the author materials of a still
more valuable character than had been previously embodied in the work. Of
this aid the author retains a lively and grateful recollection. The documents,
thus obtained, have been singularly useful in rectifying the narrative of
D’Auverney, filling up its former incompleteness in respect of local accuracy,
and its uncertainty in relation to historical verity.

In conclusion, the reader ought to be informed, that Bug-Jargal is only a
fragment of a more extensive work, which was intended to be composed under
the title of “ TALES UNDER A TENT.” In the supposition of the author, several
French officers during the wars of the Revolution agreed to while away the
long nights of bivouac by the alternate recital of their several adventures. The
following episode constitutes a part of that series of narrations. It can be de-
tached from its fellows without the slightest inconvenience : moreover, the
original series has never been cornpleted, and never will be: no necessity seems
to demand it, and the completeness of the tale gives satisfaction to all parties

concerned.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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ABUG-JARGAL:

A TALE

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CHAPTER I.
a: as an: 46 44: a:
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THE bivouac was set. In the regular
series it now came the turn of our cap-
tain, Leopold D’Auverney ; with an air of
surprise, he assured his comrades that he
could recall no event of his life Which
could lay claim to their attention.

‘But, captain,’ said Lieutenant Henri
‘apart from all your modesty, it is the
common report, that you have been an un-
tiring traveller, and haVe seen the world.
Have you not paid visits to the Antilles,
to Africa, Italy, Spain ?—-Ah, captain,
here’s your lame dog.’

D’Auverney started from his chair; the
fragrant regalia fell from his fingers, as
he turned toward the entrance of the tent
at the moment that an enormous dog came
limping to his side. As the animal hob-
bled past, he crushed the cigar; the cap-
tain heeded it not.

The dog, with the utmost expression of
joy, wagged his tail, licked his master’s
feet, uttered many a faint whine, and, af-
ter several sorry attempts at antics and

- gambols, came and crouched at the cap-
tain’s feet. Amid deep and even intense
emotion, D’Auverney caressed the faithful
‘fellow with his left hand, musing in a half
mechanical reverie, while with the other
:‘he loosened the glazed strap of his gor-
get ; the words came from his lips like the
endless burthen of a song, ‘You here,
Rask! you here!’ At length, however,

 

 

on,

OF THE

ST. DOMINGO.

W‘NW

breaking from his trance, he exclaimed,
‘ Who brought you back 2’

‘ By your leave, my captain.’

For some moments the honest sergeant
Thaddeus had been standing at the up-
lifted curtain of the tent, his right arm en-
veloped in the folds of his riding-coat, hlS
eyes moistening with tears, as he watched
the denouement of this Odyssey. As It
drew near its close, he ventured to open
his lips :

‘ By your leave, my Captain.’ .

At these words D’Auverney raised his
e es.

y‘ Thou, Thad? And how the devil wert
thou able '9 Poor dog! I thought him
in the English camp. Where did you find
him then?’ .

‘ Thank God ! you see me, my Captam,
as happy as that little nephew. of yours
was, when you first introduced him to the
mysteries of declension : “ cornu, a horn,
cornu, of a horn.”’

‘Never mind that,
didst thou find him '9’

‘ I did not find him. I merely went off
in search.’

The captain rose and extended his hand
to the generous sergeant; but that of the
latter remained enveloped in his riding-
coat. The captain, hardly aroused from
his vacant reverie, did not seem to observe
the circumstance.

‘ It was because— you see, captain,
from the moment poor Rask was lost, I
perceived, if Thad may be so hold, by
your leave, that there was something miss-
ing from our circle. To confess the truth,
that very evening, when he failed to come,
as usual, and share my honest rations, it

 

but tell me, where

 

 

 

 

 

  
  

 

 

, would have taken but little to have made

old Thaddeus fall to sobbing and blubber—
ing, like a baby. But no, thank God !
twice only in his life has Thaddeus shed
tears; the first was when— that is, the
day when ’

A The sergeant hesitated, and scanned the
countenance of his captain with an evi-
dent air of disquietude.

‘ The second was, when it struck the
fancy of that odd and merry blade Baltha-
zer, corporal in the seventh d‘emi-brigade,
to make me tear the hides off a bunch of
onions.’

‘ I think,’ exclaimed Henri, as he burst
into a loud laugh, ‘ thatyou omitted to tell
us on what occasion you first wept.’

‘Out with it, Thaddeus. \Vas it not,
my old friend, when you were dubbed first
grenadier of France, by the sword of La-
tour D’Auvergne? Tell the truth,’ said
the captain, as he continued his caresses
to the happy Rask.

‘ No, captain; if sergeant Thaddeus had
tears to shed, they could only have burst
from these eyelids on that black day when
he shouted “ fire” upon Bug-Jargal, or as
he is otherwise called, Pierrot.’

A cloud of successive emotions seemed
to flit across the features of D’Auverney.
Quickly approaching the sergeant, he
made an effort to grasp his hand; but, not-
withstanding the great honor of such a
condescention, ollehaddeus retained his
arm in its hiding-p ace beneath his riding-
coat.‘

‘ Yes, captain,’ continued Thaddeus, re-
tiring a few paces, while D’Auverney re-
garded his old friend with an expressron
bordering upon anguish, ‘ yes, I had tears
then to shed ; yes, he was worthy ofa man’s
tears. His skin was black, 't is true, but
the powder in the cannon is lack, and—
and——’

The honest sergeant was racking his
brain to give a noble finale to his whimsi-
cal comparison. There was something-in
the lame approach to a simile which
pleased his fancy, but he essayed in vain
to give it utterance; and after returning,
so to speak, many times to the assault,
and charging his ideas at every vulnerable
point of its significancy, like a prudent
general repulsed from a fortified post, he
raised the siege and pursued his narrative,
unmindful of the young officers, Who were
enjoying the sergeant’s discomfiture.

‘Do you recollect, captain, how the poor
negro rushed upon us, all out of breath, at
the very moment when ten of his com-
rades, who stood hostages for his return,
were brought forth? Yes, the cords were
already bound upon their arms. 1 had

 

 

BUG-JARGAL.

 

command of the platoon. When, with
his own hands, he tore off the chains of

his hostages to take their place, how in- _

flexible he was in resisting their ardent
generosity! 0, what a noble man! He
was a true Gibraltar. And then, captain,
how straight and proud he stood there, just
as if he were going to lead off a ballet,
and his dog, old Rask there, who seemed
to guess what was about to happen, leaped,
upon me and seized me by the throat—”

‘ Thad,’ interrupted the captain, ‘you
do not usually pass over that part of your
story, without bestowing a few caresses on ,

L

Rask. See, how the honest fellow my"

gazing at you ! ’ -

‘Right, my captain,‘ answered Thad-y
deus, with evident embarrassment, ‘ poor ‘
Rask may be gazing at me, but——-—the old
Malagrida used .to tell me it was a bad
omen to pat a dog with the left hand.’ ‘

‘And why not use the right?’ demand-
ed D’Auverney with surprise, for the first
time observing the arm enveloped in the
riding-coat, and the pallid countenance of'
Thaddeus. The embarrassment of the
sergeant began to deepen.

‘ By yourleave, captain, it is because—-.
You already have a maimed dog; I fear
you are also to have a maimed sergeant.’

The captain in an instant started from
his seat.

‘How ? What ? What say you, my
old Thaddeus? Maimed ! Let’s see your
arm—maimed! Great God 1’ ’

D’Auverney trembled with suspense;
the sergeant slowly unrolled his mantle,
and offered to the eye of his captain the
arm wrapped in a handkerchief, stiff with
the coagulated blood.

‘ Oh! my God!’ murmered the cap- ’
tain, as he carefully raised the bandage.

 

 

‘But tell‘me, my old friend, how————? ’
‘O, that is a very easy matter. I told
you that I saw you bewailed the loss of
your fine dog, the noble fellow whom the
redcoats stole away ; poor Rask, the com‘
panion of Bug—. Enough,enough; I re-
solved to fetch him back again this very
day, at the risk of my own life. Iwanted
to eat one supper again, with something
like an appetite. Well, you see, Igave
your soldier, Mathelet, his orders, over and
over again, to give the best polish to your.
best uniform, as the morrow is the day of
battle; then I stole softly out of the camp
and, with only my sabre in hand, took my
way over hedges and ditches, to reach the
English camp by the shortest cut. I had
hardly gained the first outposts, when, by
your leave, captain,I discovered in a little
copse upon my left, a riotous troop of the
redcoats. Crawling up to spy out their

 

   
  
   
   
   
   
  
   
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
   
  
  
   
 
  
 
  
   
    
 
 
  
   
   
     
     
     
     
     
       
   
       
     
      

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,m, if BUG-JARGAL. 9

s of i . . . . .

in- 3 busrness, Without their catchinga glimpse
lent . ofmy movements, Idiscovered 1n the very
He 1 midst of them old Rask, bound to a tree,
ain, ' whlle two of the John_Bulls, naked as two
just 3 Hottentots, were boxtpg away at each
llet, ;: other’s bones, and making as great arack-
ned' ,3. et as the bass-drums of a demt-brtgade.

ped. '3 They were two English privates, fighting a
_n ‘ :3 duel for the ownership of your stolen dog.

The moment Rask saw me, he gave so fu-
riousa spring in his collar that the cord
l snapped, and in a twinkling the good fel-
‘ low was pulling away at my trowscrs. As
you might imagine, the troop did not long

  
  
 

tad- . sit idle. I plunged into the neighboring
I001. rt" copse; Rask follotved. Many a bullet
old V whiStled past my head. Rask answered
bad them with hearty barks; but, happily,

they could not hear his voice amid their
nd- own noisy outcry of “ French dog, French
irst dog,” as if your dog was not a splendid,
the noble blood from St. Domingo._ But let
'of that pass. I traversed (the thicket, and
the Was just emerging from the oppOStte Slde,

when two redcoats presented their pistols
at my breast. My sabre soon rid me of
one of them, and was proceeding to de-
liver me from his fellow.-—but his pistol
'r was charged with ball. There, there’s my
right arm—never mind. French dog fell
upon his neck and hugged him, like a

 

ny meeting of old acquaintances; the Eng-
)ur lishman strangled and fell, and, I think, he
. . found it a rude embrace. Now, why
.e, should that devil of man be as eager to
Le, catch me as ever a beggar was after a
it}: seminariat? \Vell, Thad has got back to
camp again, and flash too. I am only
sorry that God did not keep that ball to
lp' send me in the battle to-morrow ’
ie. The countenance of the old sergeant
. darkened at the thought of not having re-
)Id l ceived the wound in battle.
Of "I‘haddeus,’ cried the captain in an
he irritated tone of voice ; but soon softening
n— ‘ his manner, he added, ‘ Why were you so
re- l foolish as thus to expose your life for a
ry it." dog?’
Ed it ‘It was not for a dog, captain; it was
1g i for Rask.’ The features of D’Auverney
ve "l in an instant relaxed their stern complex-
ld “ ion. The sergeant continued, ‘For Rask,
ur

. a“ the dog of Bug———’
‘Enough, enough, my old Thad!’ ex-

 

1p ‘ claimed the captain, raising his hand to
'Y ,»'his forehead, and stifling a starting tear.
1'3 3 ‘ Come,’ added be after a short pause, ‘let
Ld -‘ us be going ; lean upon my arm; attend
’y f me to the quarters of the surgeon.’
le After a, modest resistance, Thaddeus
re ' ’ yielded. The dog, who during this scene
“- had in his joy half gnawed through a fine
; 2
I . TN?” - ,M—é‘" . a. —

 

bearskin for his master, sprang up at the
signal, and followed them from the tent.

CHAPTER II.

THE preceding episode had awakened
the liveliest curiosity in'the breasts of the
mirthful story-tellers.

Captain Leopold D’Auverney was one of
that class of men, who, upon whatever
round of the ladder fortune or the fluctua-
tions of society may have left them, con-
tinue to inspire a high degree of respect
and interest. There was nothing, however
in his appearance which would impress at
first sight. His manners were cold and
distant, and his features of an indifferent
beauty. A tropical sun, in throwing its
bronze tinges over his face, had failed to
contribute also that vivacity ofgesture and
conversation which is found in the Creole,
united with a nonchalance that is fre-
quently full of grace and elegance. D’Au-
verney was a man of few 'words, rarely a
listener, but always exhibited a readiness
for action. The first upon his horse, and
the last to retire to his tent, he seemed to
seek in bodily fatigue a means of distrac—
tion front some corroding reminiscences.
Upon the early wrinkles of his open brow,
sad thoughts had engraven their severe
outline. They were not of that kind; of
which men can rid themselves by commu-
nication, nor of thatspecies which readily
mix in the frivolous conversation bf com-
panions, and are thus soon absorbed in the
ideas and opinions of others. Leopold
D’Auverney, whose physical powers the
arduous labors of war could not subdue,
seemed to experience an insupportable fa-
tigue in What are termed the encounters
of wit. He shunned controversy and dis-
sention as eagerly as he courted the din of
arms. Ifhe occasionally allowed himself
to be drawn into a dispute, he would throw
out a few sentiments, full of good sense
and solid reason, and then, at the very
point of conquering his adversary, would
dismiss the subject with the remark, ‘ To
what purpose is all this ?’ and leaving the
company, would proceed to his commander
to inquire what could be done, while wait-
ing the hour for the charge or the assault.

His comrades pardoned his cold, taciturn
and reserved habits, for they found him on
every occasion brave, generous and benevo-
lent. The lives of many of their circle he
had saved, at the imminent danger of his
own, and they had learned, that though
his lips were rarely opened, his purse at
least was never closed. Beloved by the.

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

iO

army, all forgave him a hauteur of con-
duct, the sole fruit of which was the re-
quisition of a reverence somewhat more
formal than his rank could claim.

He had seen but few years. Though
supposed to be about thirty, he was far
from having reached that period of life;
and notwithstanding he had fought for
some time in the ranks of the Repu'hl'can
army, the adventures of his life were un~
known to his companions in arms. . The
only being, besides Rask, who ever elicited
from him any lively demonstration of at-
tachment, was the noble old sergeant
Thaddeus, who had with him entered the
corps, and never quitted his side. From
this individual his comrades had wrung
a few vague particulars of his mysterious
fortunes.

It was known that D’Auverney had suf-
fered great reverses of fortune in the West
Indies; that having married in St. Do-
mingo, he soon after lost his wife and all
his relations in the massacres which mark-
ed the progress of the Revolution in that
magnificent colony. At the present epoch
of French history, reverses of this charac-
ter were so common that they elicited a
kind of universal sympathy, and every one
seemed ready to assume and bear a part.
But Captain D’Auverney was less com-
miserated for the losses he had suffered,
than for his manner of enduring their
memory ; for, under the thin veil ofan icy
. indifference, any one might easily catch
glimpses ofa wound that was internal and
incurable. .

At the commencement of battle, his
brow would appear calm. During the ac-
tion his spirit was as intrepid as if the eye
of hisambition was upon the rank of a
marshal; yet after the victory, he was as
retiring and modest as ifhis highest desire
were to be a private in the ranks. His
comrades, observing his contempt of honor
and advancement, could not comprehend
the reason, why, before a combat, his eye
seemed to glisten with an indefinable hope
or desire,—not divining that D’Auverney,
amid all the chances of war, had but one
hope and but one desire—death.

On one occasion the National Repre-
sentatives despatched a delegation to the
army, to nominate him the general of a
brigade upon.the very field of battle : he
declined the honor because, by separating
from his company, it would be necessary
to part with his sergeant Thaddeus. A
few days after, he offered to head an expe-
ditmn of great danger, from which, how-
ever, contrary] to universal anticipation,
and certainly against his own wishes, he
returned in safety. Then was he over

 

BUG-JAR‘GAL-.

heard, in a fit of mortification, to regret
his former refusal of promotion, ‘for,’ said
he, ‘ since the enemy’s cannon is fated to
spare me, the guillotine, which is thirsting
to decapitate every fortunate aspirant,
might haply drop its keen and welcome
edge on this neck of mine.’

CHAPTER III.

SUCH was the individual whose myste»
rious history, the moment he had left the
tent, gave rise to the following conversa-
non.

‘ I’ll wager,” said Lieutenant Henri,
wiping from his red boot a large spot of
mud which the dog had left upon it as he
hobbled by, ‘I’ll wager that our captain
would not exchange his dog’s lame feet
even for those ten baskets of Madeira we
had a glimpse of the other day in the ge-
neral’s wagon.’

‘Tnt, tut!’ said the aid-de-camp Pas-
chal, in a gay tone, ‘ that would be driving
a bad bargain. I know something about
that affair: the baskets are empty, and,’
he added in a serious tone, ‘thirty bottles
with their corks out would, as you are
aware, lieutenant, be of no service to the
paw of this poor dog, out of which the
most that could be fashioned would be but
——a little bell-handle.’

The gravity with which the aid-de—
camp pronounced these last words .con-
vulsed the company with laughter. A
young officer of the Basque-I—Iussars, Al-
fred, who alone did notjoin in the merri-
ment, exclaimed with an air of chagrin,

‘ 1 do not see, gentlemen, any great
subject of mirth in what has transpired.
This dog, and this sergeant, whomI ob-
serve to be ever attending D’Auverney, ap-
pear to me to be objects that should excite
a little more curiosity in us to know their
history. In fine, this scene—’

Piqued at the chagrin of Alfred and the
gay humor of the company, Paschal inter~
rupted him—~ ‘ 1

‘ Come, come; this scene is getting very
sentimental.
Merely a dog recovered and an arm
broken.’

‘Captain Paschal, you are in error,’ re-
plied Henri, casting the bottle he hadjust
emptied out of the tent; ‘this Bug—, or so
called Pierrot, has awakened my curiosity
most provokingly.’ "

Though more than half inclined to be
angry,Paschal restrained his passion on ob-
serving that the. glass, which he thought

 

empty, was again sparkling to the brim.
At this moment D’Auverney re-entered

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V lieutenant. At length he yielded to their

.« Api-

BUG~JARGAL. 11:

and resumed his seat without uttering a
word. His air was thoughtful, but his
countenance wore an expression of com-
posure. So pre-occupied did he appear to
be with the foregoing scene, that he heard
nothing of the discord-ant chatter around
him. Rask, who had followed his steps
into the tent, couched at his feet, and
raising his generous eyes, gazed in his
master’s face, as if he shared the emotions
of his internal sorrow.

‘ Yo,ur glass, Captain D’Auverney. Try
1, .—

‘ Ah, thank God l’ replied the captain,
with the intention of answering Paschal’s
remark, ‘ the wound is not dangerous ; the
arm is not broken.’

The involuntary respect which his
companions in arms always observed to-
wards their captain, was the only motive
that restrained the laughter that Was ready
to burst from the lips of Henri. ,

‘ As you are no longer apprehensive for
Thaddeus,’ he replied, ‘ and we are all as-
sembled here to abridge this long night of
binouac by relating our several adventures,
I hope, my dear friend, you will fulfil your
engagement by recounting to us the history
of your lame door and of Bug—, something
or other, I know not What, otherwise
called Pierrot, or as your sergeant called
him, that true Gibraltar.’

To. this question proposed in a half-
serious, half-comical tone of voice, D’Au-
verney would not have replied, if all had
not joined their entreaties to those of the

urgent solicitations.

‘ I will endeavor to gratify you, gentle-
men, but you must expect only the rapid
narration of an event, in which I played
merely a secondary part. If the attach-
ment which exists between Rask, Thad-
deus and myself, has led you to anticipate
the development of some extraordinary
mystery,I foresee you will be disappointed.
Let us proceed, however, to the narra-
tive.’ .
Silence was instantly restored in the
company. Paschal emptied at one draught
his gourd of brandy. Henri wrapped him-
self in his bearskin to protect. him from the
freshness of the night-breeze, while Alfred
finished humming his favorite Gallician
catch of mam-perms.

D’Auverney remained musing for a mo-
ment to refresh his memory with events,
which had long since been replaced by
others. At length be commenced his nar-
rative, at first in a voice almost inaudible
and with frequent pauses.

CHAPTER IV.

THOUGH a native of France, I was sent
in my early years to St. Domingo, to an
uncle of mine, a colonist of unbounded
wealth, whose daughter it had been de--
termined I should eventually espouse.
The residence of my uncle was near
Fort Galifet, and his plantations occupied
the larger portion of the plains of the
Acul. This unfortunate position, the men—
tion of which may seem to you unimpor-
tant, was one of the primary causes of
the disasters and total destruction of our
family.

A body of eight hundred negroes culti-
vated the immense domains of my uncle.
lmnst confess that the sad and pitiable
condition of these slaves was rendered
still worse by the insensibility of their
master. My uncle might be reckoned of
that class of planters—fortunately limited
in its numbers—whose hearts a long ha—
bit of despotism has contributed to harden.
Accustomed to be obeyed at his very
glance, the least hesitation on the part of
a slave was punished with the severest

children frequently served only to increase
the strength of his anger. Upon such oc—
casions we were constrained to content
ourselves with meliorating in secret the.-
evils we could not prevent or turn aside.’

‘ Aha! now for a philanthropic episode,’
said Henri, in an under tone, as be bent
over the shoulder of his neighbor. ‘ I hope
the captain will not let the misfortunes of
the ci-de'vant blacks pass without an inci—
dental dissertation upon the duties which
humanity imposes on those who hear her
insignia, et celera. I’m sure, it would not
have been omitted by the Massiac Club.”E

 

 

* Our readers have perhaps forgotten, that.
the Massiac Club of which Lieutenant Henri
speaks, was an association of sympathisers,
called Negrophilcs. This club, formed in Pa-
ris upon the outbreak of the Revolution, had
instigated most of the insurrections which at;
that time burst forth in the colonies.

Some may perhaps be astonished at the
bold levity with which the young lieutenant.
rails at those philanthropists, some of whom,
no thanks to the presiding genius of the guil—
lotine, still survive. But we must recollect,
that before, during and after “the Reign of
Terror,” freedom of thought and speech took
refuge in the camp. This noble privilege oc-
casionally cost the head of a general, but one
circumstance wipes off all reproach from the-
glorious escutchoou of those brave soldiers,
that the informers of the Convention denomi-
nated them, “ the gentlemen of the army of

 

 

 

 

 

 

the Rhine.”

treatment, while the intercession of his .

w—'W’i”—--\t:~¢w _ w,

   

/‘”A’/I’pl‘"r‘¥ V ‘

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

12

‘Itshall thank you, Henri, to spare me
your ridicule,’ observed D’Auverney cold-
ly, after having listened o the lieutenant’s
raillery. He resumed—-

‘Among all these slaves one only had
found favor in the eyes of my uncle. He
was a Spanish dwarf, a gritfe* in color,
and was presented to our family by Lord
Effingham, a former governor of Jamaica.

‘ Contracting during a long residence in
Brazil, the habits and propensities of Por-
tuguese ostentation, my uncleloved to sur-
round himself with a retinue correspon-
dent to his riches. Numerous slaves,
habited in livery like European servants,
gave his house the appearance of a knight-
ly castle. That nothing might be wanting
to this ambitious display, he had dubbed
Lord Effingham’s slave his domestic buf-
foon, in imitation ofthose old feudal prin-
ces who keptjesters at their courts. The
griffe Habibrah—such was his name—was
one of those singular beings, whose physi-
cal formation is so strangely distorted that
it would appear to be the shape ofa mon-
sterifit were not at the same time so com-
ical as to excite a smile. This hideous

 

* An accurate definition of terms will per-
haps be necessary to the understanding of
this and some other words, which may be
used in the course of D’Auverney’s narrative.
M. Moreau of St. Méry, developing the sys-
tem of Franklin, has classed in their generic
species the different tints which the mixture
of the colored population presents. In his
supposition, man forms by the union of whites
with whites and blacks with blacks, a totality
capable of division into one hundred and
twenty-eight parts. Proceeding on this prin-
ciple, he affirms that an individual is near or
distant from either extreme color, as he ap-
proaches or recedes from the sixty-fourth
term, which constitutes the proportional
mean.

In this system, every man who has not
eight parts of white is accounted black.
From black to white they distinguish nine
principal stocks, which have their interme-
diate varieties according to the greater or less
number of parts, which they retain of one or
the other color. These nine species are the
aacatra, the grife, the marabout, the mulatto,
the quadroon, the mongrel, the mamelouc, the
quarteromté, and the sang-mélé.

The sang-me‘lé, continuing its amalgama-
tion with the white blood, vanishes in an in-
discriminate confusion with the latter color.
It is said, however, that there is always per-
ceivable on a particular part of the body, the
ineffaceable traces of its origin. The grifl'e
is the result of five combinations, and may
possess from twenty-four to thirty-two parts

white, and from eighty-six to one hundred and
four black.

 

BUG-JARGAL.

dwarf, fat, short and corpulent, moved
about on a pair of slender weak legs, which
he folded under him when he sat down, as
a spider would its branching members.
His enormous head, deeply sunken be-
tween his projecting shoulders, bristled up
with frizzly wool, and was embellished
with two ears of such dimensions that his
comrades were accustomed to say, that
Habibrah made use of them to wipe his
eyes when he wept. His face wore an
incessant grimace, yet as incessantly
changing: it was a singular mobility of
features, which threw around his ugliness
all the rare charms of variety. My uncle
loved him for his uncommon deformity
and hisunalterable gaiety. Habibrah was
a favorite. While the other slaves were
burdened with labor, Habibrah