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HISTORICAL ROMANCE OF THE AMERICAN NEGRO
BY
CHARLES H. FOWLER, M. D.
PRESS OF THOMAS & EVANS,
604-608 Water Street,
BALTIMORE.
_1902._
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1902, by
CHARLES H. FOWLER, M. D.,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C.
--TABLE OF CONTENTS--
- PREFACE.
- INTRODUCTORY.
- CHAPTER I.
- CHAPTER II.
- CHAPTER III.
- CHAPTER IV.
- CHAPTER V.
- CHAPTER VI.
- CHAPTER VII.
- CHAPTER VIII.
- CHAPTER IX.
- CHAPTER X.
- CHAPTER XI.
- CHAPTER XII.
- CHAPTER XIII.
- CHAPTER XIV.
- CHAPTER XV.
- CHAPTER XVI.
- CHAPTER XVII.
- CHAPTER XVIII.
- CHAPTER XIX.
- CHAPTER XX.
- CHAPTER XXI.
- THE AMERICAN-SPANISH WAR--I.
- THE AMERICAN-SPANISH WAR--II.
- BLACKS IN THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR AND IN 1812.
- "NICK" BIDDLE.
- COLOR IS NO BAR TO OFFICE.
--*ILLUSTRATIONS*--
Respectfully yours--Charles H. Fowler M. D. A. M.
BEULAH JACKSON.
THE ESCAPE.
SCENES IN NEW ORLEANS.
SCENES IN BUFFALO.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
BATTLE OF MILLIKEN'S BEND.
BATTLE OF PORT HUDSON.
JOHN BROWN.
FREDERICK DOUGLASS.
MISSISSIPPI RIVER STEAMER.
A SCENE ON THE JACKSON PLANTATION.
SCENES AT NIAGARA FALLS.
COTTON PICKING.
A RELIC OF SLAVERY DAYS.
MR. JACKSON.
HOUSE WHERE LINCOLN DIED.
EMANCIPATION STATUE BOSTON, MASS.
HAULING COTTON TO THE GIN.
FIRST READING EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION.
DE SOTO DISCOVERING MISSISSIPPI RIVER.
IN DANGER OF THE OVERSEER'S LASH.
JAMES A. GARFIELD.
RUTHERFORD B. HAYES.
CHAS. SUMNER.
WM. LLOYD GARRISON.
FRED'K DOUGLASS, ROCHESTER, N. Y.
SOUTHERN CHIVALRY--ARGUMENT VERSUS CLUB'S.
STATUE OF LIBERTY.
GRANT'S TOMB.
DICKENS' OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
TOWER OF LONDON.
GEN. ANTONIO MACEO.
THE DEFENSE OF SANTIAGO.
BATTLE OF SAN JUAN HILL.
COLORED SOLDIERS AND MUSICIANS.
SPANISH-AMERICAN WAR.
THE BOSTON MASSACRE.
THE GRAVE OF NICK BIDDLE.
THEODORE ROOSEVELT.
PREFACE.
[Illustration: _Respectfully yours--Charles H. Fowler M. D. A. M._]
For a number of years it has been on my mind to write a book regarding
the principal events that have occurred to the colored race since the
beginning of the agitation against slavery, going on from thence to the
great Rebellion, passing through that war, and also dealing with all
subjects of great importance that have arrested our attention under our
glorious freedom.
At the same time it has occurred to me, as it has to many another
writer, that my book would be far more interesting to the general
reader, if I were to select a representative woman of our own race, and
make her the mouthpiece of all I wished to say; in other words, to
introduce the whole under the pleasing form of an historical romance, so
that we might keep our heroine constantly before our eyes, and make her
weave in a continuous tale of love, travel, war and peace, and thus
portray the lady playing her own parts on that tremendous stage of Time
that has been set forth for the gaze and astonishment of the whole
country during the past fifty years. I hope those members of the general
public who favor me by a perusal of my book will be pleased with my
plan.
"Peace hath her victories, no less renowned than war," and I have
introduced into my book all the great advances that our race has made
since the fall of Richmond, and, indeed, have brought things down to
this year. The reader will find a number of things that are intended to
introduce humor, and to brighten the darker portions of the story.
And as some fault-finding person may say that I have overdrawn my
heroine, and made her far more clever than she could ever have naturally
been, I venture to affirm that such a charge can by no means be just,
for we have women among us, and men, too, who are as intelligent and
clever as can be found among any other race on the face of the earth. I
believe my book will prove the truth of this assertion in those cases,
at least, where the heroines and heroes of the colored race are
mentioned in its pages by name.
Beulah Jackson will therefore stand as a representative woman among our
own people.
CHARLES H. FOWLER.
Baltimore, Md., 1902.
INTRODUCTORY.
In this period of the Negro's development so much has been wielded
towards influencing him in the expression of manly sentiment, that when
an unhampered and heartfelt defense is made in his behalf by one of his
number, it should, and I believe will, secure a universal support by the
defenders.
The eagerness to devour books is so prevalent in the present decade that
the Anglo-Saxon litterateurs and publishers endeavor to withhold and
suppress all that tends to prove the Negro a man and an equal, patting
all of their writers and molders of public opinion on the back, who are
cringing and palliating with the deceitful exclamation, "Behold, thee!
thou art great!" The desire to secure this cowardly approbation has,
indeed, become too numerous. Learned men, with ability to withhold the
sentiments of their hearts and people, have too frequently sold the
golden opportunities of their lives for paltry sums and positions to
these literary hawks. But few of the public speakers and writers of
these times dare utter the thoughts of Douglass, Turner, Price, Garnett,
and that grand galaxy of post-bellum fighters, who knew no middle
ground, but stood out for all that the Fourteenth and Fifteenth
Amendments to the Constitution had embodied in them. They had no axe to
grind, and even so, their oppressed feelings wouldn't permit them have
it ground at the expense of the manhood of their four million brothers.
It is high time that the Negro judge whose utterances are fitting and
suitable to his case, who stands for his utterances, and which have his
sanction, not to allow those hostile to your very existence select,
under the guise of friendship, those sentiments put forth by
aggrandizing writers and leaders distasteful to you, and brand them as
your daily thoughts and hourly prayers. Respect for the sycophant cannot
exist long, even among them whom he traitorously serves. A tree is
judged by its fruit; so is a race judged by its representative men. If
they be honest, the race is placed in the category of men; if wicked,
treacherous and deceitful, their place is fixed among the distrustful.
[Illustration: _BEULAH JACKSON._]
It therefore becomes a small part for us to perform in signalizing the
honest writer and leader by giving him our unanimous support. The author
has spent months of effort and toil in compiling data and accounts, that
Caucasian authors with alertness suppress. He has made a strong case and
defense of the Negro's manhood and trustworthiness at a time when most
men would have been honest with pain. The simplicity with which his data
is compiled and presented to the reader stamps him neither in quest of
gold or greatness, but striving to convince the ignorant that heroes and
heroines can even be found among this despised race of America, whom
some would brand as rapists and thieves. A tale is welded together in
which every experience, occurrence and stage is passed through that can
occur to a poor, struggling people; yet, no instance presents itself by
which the character, the basal part of any people, can be impeached.
'Twill serve as a firer of the ambition and aspirations of the young
Negro, and at the same time, so thrilling are its narratives, that
'twill prove as interesting reading matter as many a romance. The
eagerness with which our youth devour such tales as relates the better
side of his ancestry's life, is too well known to us. The story of
Beulah Jackson will fill a long-felt niche in the young Negro's reading
matter, that will in itself prove highly beneficial.
JACOB NICHOLSON.
HISTORICAL ROMANCE OF THE AMERICAN NEGRO.
CHAPTER I.
Though this is the year of grace, just forty-seven years after the date
when my adventurous story begins, my recollections of that bright
morning in May, 1855, when I arose and at one bound broke loose from
slavery, are as vivid as the lightning's flash. "A still tongue makes a
wise head," and so I held my tongue and bided my time until I made at
last that successful spring. And never do I behold the glorious sun
rising over the hills and forests but the joyous recollection of that
Wednesday morning in May comes back to me, like the rebounding reaction
of the bow that is unbent.
I was born in the State of Kentucky, a few miles below Louisville, where
my father's mansion stood on one of those sloping hills that faces the
river Ohio, which the French named with justice, the "Beautiful River."
That mansion, with all its splendid surroundings, belonged to my father
and owner, a white man named Lemuel Jackson; but my own mother, a woman
of uncommon beauty, belonged to the colored race. My mother, for some
cause or other, was sold down the river in New Orleans, in the year
1853, when I was but fifteen years of age. I never got over that sudden
separation, and I at once formed my own resolutions, of which I said
nothing.
As my father was a rich man, who indulged me in many ways and appeared
to love me, and as I often had occasion to accompany him and Mrs.
Jackson, or some of the other members of the family, to Louisville, he
seldom refused to give me the cash I asked for, which I now began to
carefully put away in a secret place only known to the Lord and myself.
Two eventful years had passed away. I had by this time discovered the
whereabouts of my mother, Harriet, in New Orleans, and my hopes of
meeting her again grew stronger every day as the time approached for me
to kick off the detested chains of slavery. For the coming of this happy
deliverance I prayed to my good Lord both day and night.
At last that day dawned upon me, the spring-time of all my joys. The
Lord heard my prayers, and He cleared the way to freedom. There was to
be a big church gathering at Louisville, and the first session of that
great time was to be on Wednesday morning--the first Wednesday in the
month, as I very well remember, indeed.
The bishop and his wife, who were invited guests to our house, had
arrived the day before. They were to spend the night with us, and all
things breathed religion and excitement over the events of the morrow
and the rest of the week to come.
Among the inmates of the house was one Tom, whom I was accustomed to
call, Tom Lincoln--a tall, splendid young man, a shade darker in
complexion than myself, and, like myself, a slave. Tom was now
twenty-seven years old. He had been casting "sheep's eyes" at me for
several years past, but who could think of marriage whilst in a state of
slavery? Therefore I gave him no encouragement, but as he was thoroughly
reliable, I said to him one day in strict confidence, and in the most
significant manner possible, "I will talk to you about that when we are
free. While in a state of slavery it is a mockery to profane the names
of love, courtship and marriage. I will never, so help me God, be
married in the house of bondage!"
Tom Lincoln was a clever fellow, a general factotum, and acquainted with
everything about the house. He was always relied on, and the great
house, as it was called, would be left in his charge while the family
and the upper servants attended the gathering at Louisville. Soon after
the bishop and his wife arrived, I called Tom aside and laid before him
my whole plan, which had been well formed for some time past in my mind.
"Capital!" said he, slapping his knee with his big hand. "Capital,
indeed! Strike when the iron is hot, and kill chickens when they are
fat! But, Beulah, will you marry me then?"
"Yes, with pleasure, when we are free from the chains of slavery."
When I gave Tom that answer his eyes flashed bright as the stars on a
frosty night, and mine, no doubt, flashed back in a reflected lustre.
"All right," said he, and then, after some thought, he added: "Get your
trunk ready by ten o'clock to-morrow morning, as all things will be in
readiness by that time. Beulah, I will be a bondman no longer. Just
think of it. Twenty-seven years old, and a slave!"
"That's right, Tom; stick to it! Minds are never to be sold! Stick to
it!" was my instant reply.
With immediate freedom and all its joys before him, the brave Tom did
not let much grass grow under his feet. We kept a boat near the house,
and although not an expert oarsman, he knew enough to handle it when
called upon. In the darkness and silence of Tuesday night, he slipped
over to the other side of the stream, then made his way for a mile or
two down the Indiana side, where he ran the boat up a creek, near which
stood a little cabin in which some acquaintances of his lived. He
confided his secret to his friends, and as the man of the house kept a
horse and wagon, the latter consented to convey our trunks to the house
of a mutual friend in New Albany next morning. Then leaving this cabin
and the boat tied up in the creek, Tom made his way to New Albany on
foot, where his mission was also successful. With these preliminary
preparations, he returned to the great house in safety, and it was never
known that he had so much as been out of his own room! Of course there
was some risk to run, but who would not dare all for freedom?
As for that anxious Tuesday night, my excitement was such that I never
slept a wink. I thought much of a similarly planned and quite successful
dash for freedom that took place shortly before this near our place. A
girl of fifteen and her brother, twelve years of age, were left alone
one day to take care of the house while all the white people had gone
away. They never suspected anything so unusual from a girl of fifteen,
especially as she was mild and quiet.
But after they had gone, Muriel called her brother Willy, and said,
"Willie, do you see that boat? We are nothing but slaves, and yonder
across the river lies Indiana--a free State. Master keeps money in the
bureau, and I will burst it open and take what will carry you and me on
the train to a place of safety and freedom. Let us take clothes along
with us, and whatever we need. This is no robbery. It belongs to us by
right, for slavery is nothing but a system of robbery, anyhow."
So Muriel and Willy crossed the Ohio river in the open day, walked to
the nearest railway station, took a train for the North, and speedily
arrived in a land where they were slaves no longer.
The longest night comes to an end, and the morning of that
never-to-be-forgotten Wednesday in May brought lovely weather, lots of
fine prayers from the bishop, and an immense show of devotion from Mrs.
Jackson, the woman who caused my precious mother to be sent down to New
Orleans. There was a grand breakfast at the big house, and, as usual, I
figured like a flower girl at a wedding. I did my best to keep down my
excitement, but, indeed, it would never have been noticed that morning,
such was the stir on the account of our visitors and the coming glorious
gathering of the "saints" at Louisville.
Horses and carriages, and all the rest of our rich display soon hove
into sight, and in due time the coast was clear for Tom and me to strike
for freedom. We packed two large leather trunks that had long done
service on the steamboats and railways of the sunny South.
We had clothing enough to put us through for a long time to come, both
summer and winter. Tom being a big and powerful man, soon carried the
trunks down to the boat, without exciting any undue suspicion among the
few old folks and children about the house. It was wonderful, under the
circumstances, to see him so cool and circumspect.
Tom heaped up some sacking and other things upon the trunks to give the
whole the appearance of a trading skiff, and as the wind was blowing in
the right direction, he put up a little sail.
To still further avoid unwelcome attentions, I insisted on lying flat on
the bottom of the boat, and being covered with sacking (the Fugitive
Slave Law was in force now, and the sleuth hounds of slavery might be
upon our trail). At last the boat was cast loose and headed for a little
ways down the Kentucky shore. Then my adventurous pilot crossed to the
Indiana side, and concealed our little craft behind a string of barges
floating down the Ohio. Several steamboats came puffing and blowing up
the stream, and so, amid the general turmoil and confusion, we slipped
into the little creek, ran our boat under the bushes, and in a short
time had our trunks and belongings safe inside the cabin of our friends.
O praise ye the Lord! for His mercy endureth forever! We had completed
our first step towards liberty!
[Illustration: _THE ESCAPE._]
Our good friend next got out his horse and wagon, our trunks and things
were speedily flung in, and he took his way alone for New Albany. After
I had made many promises to write, and given a thousand thanks, I
started for the place of meeting, and my gallant Tom brought up the rear
at a safe distance. Of course, we were now in a free State, but Kentucky
still lay in full view of us.
One by one we arrived at the appointed number and street in New Albany,
and here we dressed for the immediate journey by rail. Having blessed
one another, and made many promises to write to these friends also, we
hurriedly betook ourselves to the station. Tom marched up to the ticket
office, two tickets were quickly secured, and at last the supreme moment
of happiness arrived when we took our seats for the far-famed city of
Cincinnati. I have seen many horses in my time, and mules like the sands
of the sea, in my native State of Kentucky, but the nicest, dearest,
most lamb-like and sweetest horse I ever saw in all my life was that
strong, iron horse named "Steam Engine," that stood ready in the station
waiting for the command to start.
We were now in the carriage: it was just twelve o'clock, and the
glorious free sun shone down upon us. The train began to move, and when
it did so, I felt as though I would faint for very joy. I don't believe
that Tom was any better than myself, the transition from slavery to
happiness came with such a rush. But, then, I was only a sensitive young
woman of seventeen, whereas Tom was an experienced man ten years my
senior, and, in appearance, at least, he managed to bear things with
more composure than did I. As our train rushed along through the
beautiful land, all adorned with the thousand beauties of the pleasant
month of May, all things looked to me like consecutive scenes in a new
paradise, as when we look through rose-colored glasses all things are
colored like the rose. The winds played, the sun shone brightly, and all
nature's face was gay, and as our mighty iron steed sped along in his
vigor. Tom and I talked but little. The time for talking would come
another day, never fear! In truth, we were too happy to talk.
The afternoon wore on, and we crossed the Indiana State line and entered
Ohio, the sight of which gave our eyes the most unbounded pleasure. On,
on, sped our devoted iron horse, until at last he came to the end of his
race in the beautiful city of Cincinnati. When we two fugitives from the
land of slavery stepped on the platform here, all safe and sound, we
were reminded of a ship entering, after many risks in the voyages of
life, the port of Heaven, with all sails spread, and never an injured
plank. I looked across the "beautiful river," and beheld the hills of my
native State coming down to the water's edge, and laving their feet in
the cooling waves. An immense traffic was rolling down, down, down to
the Mississippi and the Gulf States, and everything was hum and bustle.
Thus I stood musing at the top of one of the steep streets that run down
to the Ohio river, while Tom nearby entered into some serious
conversation with a gentleman. At last he came back to me and said,
"Beulah, let us go this way."
After walking for some time we found the right address, the home of the
Rev. John Robinson, a minister of the A. M. E. Church. In the most
polite manner possible we were asked in, and invited into the parlor.
Mr. Robinson, a jolly, fat-faced, pleasant-looking Reverend, was on hand
at once. Tom told him the main points of our history in a few minutes,
and finished by requesting him to marry us any time that night.
When the question arose as to whether the marriage should be performed
in private or public, I insisted on it being done as publicly as
possible, and that a newspaper reporter should be called in, too.
Now, as good luck would have it, there was to be a great gathering at
the Methodist Church that night, so it was decided that the wedding
should take place an hour after the meeting commenced. Mrs. Robinson and
the entire family were now called into the parlor, when we were all
introduced to one another, and there was a mighty season of rejoicing.
Tea was prepared, and we adjourned to the dining-room.
In the meantime some of the friends and neighbors were sent for, a
reporter was notified, and the news of our safe arrival and prospective
marriage spread like wildfire throughout the good city of Cincinnati.
The ladies, both white and colored, were tremendously interested in my
case. They lavished attentions upon me, and caressed me to such an
extent that I was afraid I would faint!
In due time, however, we took up our grand march to the church, and here
I will give the account of our wedding as it appeared next morning in
the Cincinnati News:
"WEDDING AT THE A. M. E. CHURCH.
"Last night we were called in to witness a happy wedding, which reminded
us of that of Jacob and Rachel. The contracting parties were Mr. Thomas
Lincoln and Miss Beulah Jackson.
"This Thomas Lincoln, aged twenty-seven, a fine, tall young man, was
formerly the house steward and general factotum of Lemuel Jackson, Esq.,
of Riverside Hall, below Louisville, Ky. The beautiful
seventeen-year-old bride is the daughter of Mr. Jackson himself, by one
Harriet, a slave woman of many graces, whom Mrs. Jackson two years ago,
through jealousy, caused to be sold to New Orleans.
"Miss Beulah was indeed 'a bride adorned for her husband,' and the
ladies had her duly arrayed in orange blossoms and the regulation
wedding costume. 'The Flower Girl of Riverside Hall,' as she has been
often called, it seems, carried a beautiful bouquet. The church was
filled to suffocation, and the interest in the ceremony was intense.
"After the knot was tied, a gentleman advanced to the front, placed a
five-dollar bill on the table, and called for a wedding present 'for
these two ex-slaves from the State of Kentucky.' The call was readily
responded to, and a good sum was contributed. The young couple passed
the night at the home of the Rev. Mr. Robinson, who performed the
ceremony. They leave this morning for Columbus, Ohio, and points beyond.
Lincoln stated that he could have left Kentucky at almost any time, but
remained until he could find an opportunity to assist in the escape of
the girl.
"As the immense assemblage at the A. M. E. Church looked upon this
splendid couple, all hearts were filled with compassion to think that
the South should call such men and women 'goods and chattels.' It was
the outspoken opinion that a day of reckoning is coming; a day of war, a
holy war, sent by God Himself, that will end this system of robbery and
oppression."
I bought several copies of the paper that contained the account of our
wedding, and posted one to Riverside Hall, one to our friends at New
Albany, and another to our benefactors in the little cabin by the creek.
Next morning at breakfast the fun was delightful, and I was obliged to
laugh when Mrs. Robinson called me "The flower girl of Riverside Hall."
Breakfast over, our host and hostess insisted on accompanying us to the
station to see us off, and here we took leave of our kind friends, whom
we felt that we could never thank enough.
As we steamed away for Columbus, all things were still new and
delightful, and I never tired of beholding the fair face of nature as
our train wound along the banks of the Little Miami. I was immensely
pleased with the beautiful State of Ohio, its fine churches along the
way, its fair and fertile farms, and all its magnificent forest-clad
hills. In due time we arrived at Columbus, the State capital, and were
much impressed with the beauty of the sweet little city.
We continued our journey on through Ohio until we crossed into
Pennsylvania, by the shores of Lake Erie, that flowed away towards
Canada like a little inland sea. Thus we continued on to Buffalo, New
York, where we left the train. Here we determined to settle down, at
least for some time. For a few days we put up at a friend's house, for
we were both very much fatigued, indeed, with our long journey and its
incidental bustle and confusion. I was only seventeen years old at this
time, the most romantic age of a woman's life--or rather she is standing
on the borderland with girlhood just behind her, and all the joys of
womanhood and matrimony just before. Anticipation invests all things
with the glories of the rainbow. It is certainly a good time to get
married, for then a girl's nature is soft and pliable, and she has had
neither time nor opportunity to become possessed of cast-iron ways of
her own.
During the few days that we were resting ourselves we became acquainted
with a few most worthy colored families who belonged to the A. M. E.
Church on Vine street, as good and loving a congregation as I have found
up to this year. God bless that loving flock!
Just at this time Tom and I had a good deal of conversation about my
writing a letter to my father at Riverside Hall. If it was to be done at
all, it had better be done soon, lest the door between us be permanently
closed. Had my father done the right thing he would have married my
mother, Harriet. She was ten times more amiable and lady-like than Mrs.
Jackson, a woman whom he married for fashion's sake; but he never did or
could love her as he did my mother, or even myself. It was the identical
case of Rachel and Joseph over again. If all the rest had died, and
Harriet and Beulah had remained alive, it would have been all right to
him. Thus were there two wives in the same house--Rachel and Leah once
more. The one was loved and the other hated. So it came to pass that
through jealousy that raged in her heart, Mrs. Jackson had my beloved
mother sold down the river to New Orleans.
I ran no risk in writing to Lemuel Jackson, as everyone at Riverside
opened his own letters. So we decided that I should write home in a week
or two, when we were settled down to practical house-keeping. And,
besides all that, the old gentleman liked a good letter, and I knew mine
would be doubly welcome.
It is very true that the Fugitive Slave Bill was on the statute books of
Congress, but that bill was practically a dead letter, and it was now
only one chance in ten thousand that anyone would attempt to come after
us all the way to Buffalo. It is quite true that immediately after the
passage of that infamous bill there were several fugitive slaves caught
close to the border, and carried back to slavery, but the true spirit of
the North arose against such Southern barbarism, and after a few
slave-hunters had been shot, the South ceased to send her couriers even
to the borderland, but remained at home nursing her sullen wrath,
cursing the Underground Railroad and all Christian abolitionism, and
flaunting her oft-repeated threat in the face of the nation, that unless
she could have her own way in the Union she would have it out of it.
We did not consider, therefore, that we had any risk to run in settling
down here in Buffalo, or even in writing to my father and giving him our
street address. Mrs. Jackson would have no doubt been capable of setting
the man-hunters on our track, but father, though a rich man, would never
have made the outlay of money necessary. Besides it would have exposed
his shame and disgrace.
In the meantime, then, we rented a small and cosy cottage not far from
the sweet little church on Vine street, furnished it cheaply, but
comfortably, and at the appointed time we invited the pastor of the
church and his good wife to come and spend the evening and take tea,
that the Lord might bless us in our happy home.
After we had been settled in Buffalo about a month, I wrote the
following letter to my father, which he duly received:
"Lemuel Jackson, Esq., Riverside Hall, Ky.
"My dear Father:--
"With great pleasure I take my pen in hand to write you a few lines. It
is but natural that your daughter should take a delight in writing to
you, and we have lived too long under the same roof for me not to know
that you will be glad to receive a letter from me. I can never forget
you, my own dear father.
"I have great pleasure in informing you that Tom is a very thoughtful,
considerate and loving husband, and is most indulgent and kind to your
own dear Beulah. If I had searched the whole United States I don't
believe that I could ever have found a better man than Tom. He promised
to be good to me when we were married in Cincinnati, and I believe he
always will.
"The first thing we did, after we had furnished our cosy little cottage
and settled down, was to join the sweet little A. M. E. Church on Vine
street. We desired to have the approbation of the Almighty upon
ourselves and on our works and ways. Therefore we joined the church of
God first of all. I do believe that if people would always put God first
they would have more luck.
"I don't know how it is, but the people of Buffalo, both white and
colored have taken a very great liking indeed to Tom and myself from the
very first hour when we left the train here and set our wandering feet
within the Queen City of the Lakes. The sweet ladies of Buffalo have
been here to see me in numbers, and I also have been to their homes,
where I am received as a daughter or a younger sister. Indeed my lines
have fallen in pleasant places, and I cannot but believe that the good
Lord sent us to Buffalo.
"We have been over on a visit to Canada, which lies across the Niagara
River, for the city of Buffalo, as you are aware, lies at the foot of
Lake Erie just where it enters the Niagara River. There is a settlement
of colored people at St. Catherine's, in Canada, only a few miles back
from the river, and Tom and I were greatly interested in them.
"They all fled from slavery in the South, and many of them have come up
on the rough side of the mountain. I can assure you, when Tom and I saw
the marks of their horrible treatment, we praised the Lord that our own
cases had been so mild and bearable at Riverside Hall.
"We consider that we are lucky in coming here at this delightful season
of the year, for the pleasant month of May seems to surpass all the
other months of the year for sweetness and flowers. All around Lake Erie
and the Niagara River, both in Canada and the State of New York, the
fair face of Nature is just blooming; all the woods are dressed in their
mantle of green, the countless birds sing among the branches, and all
things hereabout clearly shows that the self-same God that has adorned
the State of Kentucky has done as much in these parts.
"I am not aware whether you have ever visited Niagara Falls or not, as I
have never heard you say, but whether or not, it is a most wonderful
place, and one well worth the trouble of coming even from the ends of
the earth to see. It is well for Buffalo and all the towns and villages
that lie around about this river, that they are so located, that is, so
near the falls, because there is always a great tide of people coming
here from every land beneath the sun, almost; and these same people seem
never, never to grow weary of one of the most stupendous works that the
great Creator has made.
"After we had settled down at home here, and before Tom went to work as
house steward in one of the first mansions on Delaware Avenue, the
leading avenue for private residences in Buffalo, we took a special day
and went to see Niagara Falls. As we had read and heard so much of these
celebrated falls, I might almost say since the time we were born, we
were both in a state of great excitement on the morning of this
expedition. Really, my dear papa, there are some things that we really
never, never can forget.
"There were hundreds on the early morning train with us--almost all
strangers, and all in a state of highest excitement. We soon drew out of
the railway station, and left the city behind. Now we were on the bank
of the Niagara River, which flows on almost a perfect level with the
fields, and on the opposite, or Canadian side, the tall pines were
beautiful to behold. As we drew near to the station at the falls, the
roaring of the mighty waters struck with great force upon our astonished
ears, and when we got out, what astonished us more and more was the
grand stampede of every person down the road in the direction of the
great river. No need to ask which way to go; we had but to follow the
sound. At last, through the tall trees we beheld the flying waters, and
there we saw Niagara Falls before us in all their grand and terrible
array!
"For about three-quarters of a mile above where we stood, the Rapids of
Niagara came thundering down the steep incline, and the great waves
leaped like the waves of a troubled ocean. It was just one continuous
and eternal yell. I was completely dumfounded. I could do nothing but
quote from the Bible, and shout the praises of the great Creator. But
who heard me then? For the Rapids made such a noise that nobody else
could hear!
"The American Fall, on our own side, is the smaller one; the opposite,
or Canadian Fall, which assumes the shape of a gigantic horseshoe, is
the grandest one. The waters are deeply green, and at the top are said
to be eighteen feet deep. Oh, my! What a place it is, to be sure!
"We now crossed a light wooden bridge that connects our side with Goat
Island. This portion of the Rapids of Niagara was now just under our
feet, and it required all the nerve we had to allow us to even look down
upon the flying, yelling, and most tremendous waters! This is one of the
places to which so many come for the purpose of committing suicide. But
we are Christians, my dear father, and we could never think of doing
such a very foolish thing.
"My dear papa, I shall have to stop now, and continue my narrative at
another time. Here comes Tom home for his tea, and our minister and his
wife along with him. Our love to you all. Au revoir!
"From your most affectionate daughter,
"BEULAH LINCOLN."
I ran to the nearest box and posted my letter, and in ten days received
the following reply from my dear papa:
RIVERSIDE HALL, NEAR LOUISVILLE, June, 1855.
"Mrs. Beulah Lincoln,
"My Dear Daughter:--
"I duly received your nice, kind and most welcome letter. I am heartily
glad to hear that you are both in good health, and so very comfortable
in every way. I did not take your sudden leaving so much to heart as you
might imagine--I mean in the way of vexation--but Mrs. Jackson was so
much disturbed that she has not recovered from the effects of it yet, as
she did not think you and Tom would leave us. However, now that you have
gone, I wish you well, and I enclose herein a postoffice order for
$50.00, which is my wedding gift to yourself and Tom. Please excuse my
short letter; you know I am not fond of writing. Please send me a letter
at any time that you feel like writing. I am,
"Your most affectionate papa,
"LEMUEL JACKSON."
As far as my father was concerned, then, it seemed that we were safe.
From him, at least, we had nothing to fear.