One of the planters whom I found to be most congenial was Captain Martas, a French creole, whose father had come from Languedoc. He was himself native-born. He was a man of forty-eight or fifty years of age, and had two sons by his first marriage, who were in the army of Virginia, and a boy two years of age, by his second wife, who was a young and beautiful lady. The housekeeper was a mulatto girl, who was in every physical development almost a perfect being--even her small hands looking like consummate wax-work. She had been taught, petted, and indulged as much, perhaps, or more than any slave should have been, especially by Captain Martas, who uniformly spoke to her more in the tone of a father addressing his daughter, than in that of a master commanding a slave. She was always gentle and obedient. The family seemed to prize her very greatly, and the little boy especially preferred her to his own beautiful mother. I suppose it would be hard for the later generation, who remember little or nothing of the “domestic institution,” to understand how such a pleasant and beautiful confidence and friendship could exist between a slave and her owners, but it was no uncommon thing in the South before the war. The family was so attractive that I visited it often; but one evening, on my arrival at the house, I found that its peace and quiet had been disturbed by one of those painful occurrences which so often marred the happiness of Southern families, and which really constituted the curse of “the peculiar institution.” The day before, the beautiful and accomplished wife of Captain Martas had, for some unexplained reason, got into a frenzy of rage with Celia, the mulattress, and had ordered the overseer to give her a severe whipping. The girl had run off into the Black Swamp during the night, and Captain Martas, who imparted this information to me, was in a state of terrible distress by reason of her absence. He did not seem to understand the cause of the trouble, but he could not justify his slave without condemning his wife, whom he seemed to regard with a most tender and dutiful devotion. The only emotion which seemed to master him was a heart-breaking and hopeless grief. I volunteered to hunt for the runaway, and while asking for such information as I thought to be necessary about the neighboring plantations, and of the almost boundless and impracticable wilderness known as the Black Swamp, I saw Celia slowly and quietly coming up the broad walk which led from the portico to the big gate.