had lived in Pennsylvania for several generations, and, so far as he
could trace them, they had never been slaves. In his boyhood the war of
the American Revolution began. The States of this Union were then
colonies of Great Britain. Being taxed without being represented in the
British Parliament, they remonstrated against it as an act of injustice.
The king, George the Third, was a dull, obstinate man, disposed to be
despotic. The loyal, respectful petitions of the Colonies were treated
with indifference or contempt; and at last they resolved to become
independent of England. When James Forten was about fourteen years old
he entered into the service of the Colonial navy, in the ship Royal
Louis, commanded by Captain Decatur, father of the celebrated commodore.
It was captured by the British ship Amphion, commanded by Sir John
Beezly. Sir John's son was on board, as midshipman. He was about the
same age as James Forten; and when they played games together on the
deck, the agility and skill of the brown lad attracted his attention.
They became much attached to each other; and the young Englishman
offered to provide for the education of his colored companion, and to
help him on in the world, if he would go to London with him. But James
preferred to remain in the service of his native country. The lads shed
tears at parting, and Sir John's son obtained a promise from his father
that his friend should not be enlisted in the British army. This was a
great relief to the mind of James; for his sympathies were on the side
of the American Colonies, and he knew that colored men in his
circumstances were often carried to the West Indies and sold into
Slavery. He was transferred to the prison-ship Old Jersey, then lying
near New York. He remained there, through a raging pestilence on board,
until prisoners were exchanged.
After the war was over, he obtained employment in a sail-loft in
Philadelphia, where he soon established a good character by his
intelligence, honesty, and industry. He invented an improvement in the
management of sails, for which he obtained a patent. As it came into
general use, it brought him a good deal of money. In process of time, he
became owner of the sail-loft, and also of a good house in the city. He
married a worthy woman, and they brought up a family of eight children.
But though he had served his country faithfully in his youth, though he
had earned a hundred thousand dollars by his ingenuity and diligence,
and though his character rendered him an ornament to the Episcopal
Church, to which he belonged, yet so strong was the mean and cruel
prejudice against his color, that his family were excluded from schools
where the most ignorant and vicious whites could place their children.
He overcame this obstacle, at great expense, by hiring private teachers
in various branches of education.
By the unrivalled neatness and durability of his work, and by the
uprightness of his character, he obtained extensive business, and for
more than fifty years employed many people in his sail-loft. Being near
the water, he had opportunities, at twelve different times, to save
people from drowning, which he sometimes did at the risk of his own
life. The Humane Society of Philadelphia presented him with an
engraving, to which was appended a certificate of the number of people
he had saved, and the thanks of the Society for his services. He had it
framed and hung in his parlor; and when I visited him, in 1835, he
pointed it out to me, and told me he would not take a thousand dollars
for it. He likewise told me of a vessel engaged in the slave-trade, the
owners of which applied to him for rigging. He indignantly refused;
declaring that he considered such a request an insult to any honest or
humane man. He always had the cause of the oppressed colored people
warmly at heart, and was desirous to do everything in his power for
their improvement and elevation. He early saw that colonizing free
blacks to Africa would never abolish Slavery; but that, on the contrary,
it tended to prolong its detestable existence. He presided at the first
meeting of colored people in Philadelphia, to remonstrate against the
Colonization Society. He was an earnest and liberal friend of the
Anti-Slavery Society; and almost the last words he was heard to utter
were expressions of love and gratitude to William Lloyd Garrison for his
exertions in behalf of his oppressed race. He never drank any
intoxicating liquor, and was a steadfast supporter of the Temperance
Society. Being of a kindly and humane disposition, he espoused the
principles of the Peace Society. His influence and pure example were
also given to those who were striving against licentiousness. Indeed, he
was always ready to assist in every good word and work.
He died in 1842, at the age of seventy-six years. His funeral procession
was one of the largest ever seen in Philadelphia; thousands of people,
of all classes and all complexions, having united in this tribute of
respect to his character.
THE MEETING IN THE SWAMP.
BY L. MARIA CHILD.
In 1812 there was war between the United States and Great Britain; and
many people thought it likely that a portion of the British army would
land in some part of the Southern States and proclaim freedom to the
slaves. The more intelligent portion of the slaves were aware of this,
and narrowly watched the signs of the times.
Mr. Duncan, of South Carolina, was an easy sort of master, generally
thought by his neighbors to be too indulgent to his slaves. One evening,
during the year I have mentioned, he received many requests for passes
to go to a great Methodist meeting, and in every instance complied with
the request. After a while, he rang the bell for a glass of water, but
no servant appeared. He rang a second time, but waited in vain for the
sound of coming footsteps. Thinking over the passes he had given, he
remembered that all the house-servants had gone to Methodist meeting.
Then it occurred to him that Methodist meetings had lately been more
frequent than usual. He was in the habit of saying that his slaves were
perfectly contented, and would not take their freedom if he offered it
to them; nevertheless the frequency of Methodist meetings made him a
little uneasy, and brought to mind a report he had heard, that the
British were somewhere off the coast and about to land.
The next morning, he took a ride on horseback, and in a careless way
asked the slaves on several plantations where was the Methodist meeting
last night. Some said it was in one place, and some in another,--a
circumstance which made him think still more about the report that the
British were going to land. He bought a black mask for his face, and a
suit of negro clothes, and waited for another Methodist meeting. In a
few days his servants again asked for passes, and he gave them. When the
last one had gone, he put on his disguise and followed them over field
and meadow, through woods and swamps. The number of dark figures
steering toward the same point continually increased. If any spoke to
him as they passed, he made a very short answer, in the words and tones
common among slaves. At last they arrived at an island in the swamp,
surrounded by a belt of deep water, and hidden by forest-trees matted
together by a luxuriant entanglement of vines. A large tree had been
felled for a bridge, and over this dusky forms were swarming as thickly
as ants into a new-made nest. After passing through a rough and
difficult path, they came out into a large level space, surrounded by
majestic trees, whose boughs interlaced, and formed a roof high
overhead, from which hung down long streamers of Spanish moss. Under
this canopy were assembled hundreds of black men and women. Some were
sitting silent and thoughtful, some eagerly talking together, and some
singing and shouting. The blaze of pine torches threw a strong light on
some, and made others look like great black shadows.
Mr. Duncan felt a little disturbed by the strange, impressive scene, and
was more than half disposed to wish himself at home. For some time he
could make nothing out of the confused buzz of voices and chanting of
hymns. But after a while a tall man mounted a stump and requested
silence. "I suppose most all of ye know," said he, "that at our last
meeting we concluded to go to the British, if we could get a chance; but
we didn't all agree what to do about our masters. Some said we couldn't
keep our freedom without we killed the whites, but others didn't like
the thoughts of that. We've met again to-night to talk about it. An'
now, boys, if the British land here in Caroliny, what shall we do about
our masters?"
As he sat down, a tall, fierce-looking mulatto sprang upon the stump, at
one leap, and exclaimed: "Scourge _them_, as they have scourged _us_.
Shoot _them_, as they have shot _us_. Who talks of mercy to our
masters?"
"I do," said an aged black man, who rose up tottering, as he leaned both
hands on a wooden staff,--"I do; because the blessed Jesus always talked
of mercy. They shot my bright boy Joe, an' sold my pretty little Sally;
but, thanks to the blessed Jesus! I feel it in my poor old heart to
forgive 'em. I've been member of a Methodist church these thirty years,
an' I've heard many preachers, white and black; an' they all tell me
Jesus said, Do good to them that do evil to you, an' pray for them that
spite you. Now I say, Let us love our enemies; let us pray for 'em; an'
when our masters flog us, let us sing,--
'You may beat upon my body,
But you cannot harm my soul.
I shall join the forty thousand by and by.'"
When the tremulous chant ceased, a loud altercation arose. Some cried
out for the blood of the whites, while others maintained that the old
man's doctrine was right. Louder and louder grew the sound of their
excited voices, and the disguised slaveholder hid himself away deeper
among the shadows. In the midst of the confusion, a young man of
graceful figure sprang on the stump, and, throwing off a coarse cotton
frock, showed his back and shoulders deeply gashed by a whip and oozing
with blood. He made no speech, but turned round and round slowly, while
his comrades held up their torches to show his wounds. He stopped
suddenly, and said, with stern brevity, "Blood for blood."
"Would you murder 'em all?" inquired a timid voice. "Dey don't _all_
cruelize us."
"Dar's Massa Campbell," pleaded another. "He neber hab his boys flogged.
You wouldn't murder _him_, would you?"
"No, no," shouted several voices; "we wouldn't murder _him_."
"I wouldn't murder _my_ master," said one of Mr. Duncan's slaves. "I
don't want to work for him for nothin'; I'se done got tired o' that; but
he sha'n't be killed, if I can help it; for he's a good master."
"Call him a good master if ye like," said the youth with the bleeding
shoulders. "If the white men don't cut up the backs that bear their
burdens, if they don't shoot the limbs that make 'em rich, some are
fools enough to call 'em good masters. What right have they to sleep in
soft beds, while we, who do all the work, lie on the hard floor? Why
should I go in coarse rags, to clothe my master in broadcloth and fine
linen, when he knows, and I know, that we are sons of the same father?
Ye may get on your knees to be flogged, if ye like; but I'm not the boy
to do it." His high, bold forehead and flashing eye indicated an
intellect too active, and a spirit too fiery, for Slavery. The listeners
were spell-bound by his superior bearing, and for a while he seemed
likely to carry the whole meeting in favor of revenge. But the aged
black, leaning on his wooden staff, made use of every pause to repeat
the words, "Jesus told us to return good for evil"; and his gentle
counsel found response in many hearts.
A short man, with roguish eyes and a laughing mouth, rose up and looked
round him with an expression of drollery that made everybody begin to
feel good-natured. After rubbing his head a little, he said: "I don't
know how to talk like Bob, 'cause I neber had no chance. But I'se
_thought_ a heap. Many a time I'se axed myself how de white man always
git he foot on de black man. Sometimes I tink one ting, and sometimes I
tink anoder ting; and dey all git jumbled up in my head, jest like seed
in de cotton. At last I finds out how de white man always git he foot on
de black man." He took from his old torn hat a bit of crumpled
newspaper, and smoothing it out, pointed at it, while he exclaimed:
"_Dat's_ de way dey do it! Dey got de _knowledge_; and dey don't let
poor nigger hab de knowledge. May be de British lan', and may be de
British no lan'. But I tell ye, boys, de white man can't keep he foot on
de black man, ef de black man git de knowledge. I'se gwine to tell ye
how I got de knowledge. I sot my mind on larning to read; but my ole
boss he's de most begrudgfullest massa, an' I knows he wouldn't let me
larn. So when I sees leetle massa wid he book, I ax him, 'What you call
dat?' He tell me dat's A. So I take ole newspaper, an' ax missis, 'May I
hab dis to rub de boots?' She say yes. Den, when I find A, I looks at
him till I knows him bery well. Den I ax leetle massa, 'What you call
dat?' He say dat's B. I looks at him till I knows him bery well. Den I
find C A T, an' I ax leetle massa what dat spell; an' he tell me _cat_.
Den, after a great long time, I read de newspaper. An' dar I find out
dat de British gwine to lan'. I tells all de boys; and dey say mus' hab
Methodist meetin'. An' what you tink dis nigger did todder day? You know
Jim, Massa Gubernor's boy? Wal, I wants mighty bad to tell Jim dat de
British gwine to lan'; but he lib ten mile off, and ole boss nebber let
me go. Wal, Massa Gubernor come to massa's, an' I bring he hoss to de
gate. I makes bow, and says, 'How Jim do, Massa Gubernor?' He tells me
Jim bery well. Den I tells him Jim and I was leetle boy togeder, an' I
wants to sen' Jim someting. He tells me Jim hab 'nuff ob eberyting. I
says, 'O yes, Massa Gubernor, I knows you good massa, and Jim hab
eberyting he want. But Jim an' I was leetle boy togeder, and I wants to
sen' Jim some backy.' Massa Gubernor laugh an' say, 'Bery well, Jack.'
So I gibs him de backy in de bery bit ob newspaper dat tell de British
gwine to lan'. I marks it wid brack coal, so Jim be sure to see it. An'
Massa Gubernor hisself carry it! Massa Gubernor hisself carry it! I has
to laugh ebery time I tinks on't."
He clapped his hands, shuffled with his feet, and ended by rolling heels
over head, with peals of laughter. The multitude joined loudly in his
merriment, and it took some time to restore order. There was a good deal
of speaking afterward, and some of it was violent. A large majority were
in favor of being merciful to the masters; but all, without exception,
agreed to join the British if they landed.
With thankfulness to Heaven, Mr. Duncan again found himself in the open
field, alone with the stars. Their glorious beauty seemed to him clothed
in new and awful power. Groups of shrubbery took startling forms, and
the sound of the wind among the trees was like the unsheathing of
swords. He never forgot the lesson of that night. In his heart he could
not blame his bondmen for seeking their liberty, and he felt grateful
for the merciful disposition they had manifested toward their
oppressors; for alone that night, in the solemn presence of the stars,
his conscience told him that Slavery _was_ oppression, however mild the
humanity of the master might make it. He did not emancipate his slaves;
for he had not sufficient courage to come out against the community in
which he lived. He felt it a duty to warn his neighbors of impending
danger; but he could not bring himself to reveal the secret of the
meeting in the swamp, which he knew would cause the death of many
helpless creatures, whose only crime was that of wishing to be free.
After a painful conflict in his mind, he contented himself with advising
the magistrates not to allow any meetings of the colored people for
religious purposes until the war was over.
I have called him Mr. Duncan, but I have in fact forgotten his name.
Years after he witnessed the meeting in the swamp, he gave an account of
it to a gentleman in Boston, and I have stated the substance of it as it
was told to me.
A REASONABLE REQUEST.
We are natives of this country; we ask only to be treated _as well_ as
foreigners. Not a few of our fathers suffered and bled to purchase its
independence; we ask only to be treated _as well_ as those who fought
against it. We have toiled to cultivate it, and to raise it to its
present prosperous condition; we ask only to share _equal_ privileges
with those who come from distant lands to enjoy the fruits of our
labor.--REV. PETER WILLIAMS, _colored Rector of St. Philip's Church, New
York_, 1835.
THE SLAVE POET.
Mr. James Horton, of Chatham County, North Carolina, had a slave named
George, who early manifested remarkable intelligence. He labored with a
few other slaves on his master's farm, and was always honest, faithful,
and industrious. He contrived to learn to read, and every moment that
was allowed him for his own he devoted to reading. He was especially
fond of poetry, which he read and learned by heart, wherever he could
find it. After a time, he began to compose verses of his own. He did not
know how to write; so when he had arranged his thoughts in rhyme, he
spoke them aloud to others, who wrote them down for him.
He was not contented in Slavery, as you will see by the following verses
which he wrote:--
"Alas! and am I born for this,
To wear this slavish chain?
Deprived of all created bliss,
Through hardship, toil, and pain?
"How long have I in bondage lain,
And languished to be free!
Alas! and must I still complain,
Deprived of liberty?
"O Heaven! and is there no relief
This side the silent grave,
To soothe the pain, to quell the grief
And anguish of a slave?
"Come, Liberty! thou cheerful sound,
Roll through my ravished ears;
Come, let my grief in joys be drowned,
And drive away my fears.
"Say unto foul oppression, Cease!
Ye tyrants, rage no more;
And let the joyful trump of peace
Now bid the vassal soar.
"O Liberty! thou golden prize,
So often sought by blood,
We crave thy sacred sun to rise,
The gift of Nature's God.
"Bid Slavery hide her haggard face,
And barbarism fly;
I scorn to see the sad disgrace,
In which enslaved I lie.
"Dear Liberty! upon thy breast
I languish to respire;
And, like the swan unto her nest,
I'd to thy smiles retire."
George's poems attracted attention, and several were published in the
newspaper called "The Raleigh Register." Some of them found their way
into the Boston newspapers, and were thought remarkable productions for
a slave. His master took no interest in any of his poems, and knew
nothing about them, except what he heard others say. Dr. Caldwell, who
was then President of the University of North Carolina, and several
other gentlemen, became interested for him, and tried to help him to
obtain his freedom. In 1829 a little volume of his poems, called "The
Hope of Liberty," was printed in Raleigh, by Gales and Son. The pamphlet
was sold to raise money enough for George to buy himself. He was then
thirty-two years old, in the prime of his strength, both in mind and
body. He was to be sent off to Liberia as soon as he was purchased; but
he had such a passion for Liberty, that he was willing to follow her to
the ends of the earth; though he would doubtless have preferred to have
been a freeman at home, among old friends and familiar scenes. He was
greatly excited about his prospects, and eagerly set about learning to
write. When he first heard the news that influential gentlemen were
exerting themselves in his behalf, he wrote:--
"'Twas like the salutation of the dove,
Borne on the zephyr through some lonesome grove,
When spring returns, and winter's chill is past,
And vegetation smiles above the blast.
"The silent harp, which on the osiers hung,
Again was tuned, and manumission sung;
Away by hope the clouds of fear were driven,
And music breathed my gratitude to Heaven."
It would have been better for him if his hopes had not been so highly
excited. His poems did not sell for enough to raise the sum his master
demanded for him, and his friends were not sufficiently benevolent to
make up the deficiency. In 1837, when he was forty years old, he was
still working as a slave at Chapel Hill, the seat of the University of
North Carolina. It was said at that time that he had ceased to write
poetry. I suppose the poor fellow was discouraged. If he is still alive,
he is sixty-seven years old; and I hope it will comfort his poor,
bruised heart to know that some of his verses are preserved, and
published for the benefit of those who have been his companions in
Slavery, and who, more fortunate than he was, have become freemen before
their strength has left them.
RATIE:
A TRUE STORY OF A LITTLE HUNCHBACK.
BY MATTIE GRIFFITH.
I want to tell you a story of a poor little slave-girl who lived and
died away down South.
This little girl's name was Rachel, but they used to call her Ratie. She
was a hunchback and a dwarf, with an ugly black face, coarse and
irregular features, but a low, pleasant voice, and nice manners. Nobody
ever scolded Ratie, for she never deserved it. She always did her
work--the little that was assigned her--with a cheerful heart and
willing hand. This work was chiefly to gather up little bits of chips in
baskets, or collect shavings from the carpenters' shops, and take them
to the cabins or the great kitchen, where they were used for kindling
fires. She had a sweet, gentle spirit, and a low, cheery laugh that
charmed everybody. Even the white folks who lived up at the great house
loved her, and somehow felt better when she was near.
Ratie used to go out into the fields on summer days, or in the early
spring, and pick the first flowers. Later in the season she caught the
butterflies or grasshoppers, but she never hurt them. She would look at
the bright spangled wings of the butterflies, or the green coats of the
pretty, chirping grasshoppers, with an eye full of admiration; and she
always seemed sorry when she gave them up. The lambs used to run to her,
and eat from her hands. If she went into the park, the deer came to her
side lovingly, and the young fawns sported and played around her. No one
harmed Ratie or expected harm from her.
Poor little hunchback! Many an idle traveller has paused in his slow
wanderings to listen to her song, as she sat on the wayside stump,
knitting stockings for the work-people, and singing old snatches of
songs, and airs that bring back to the heart glimpses of the paradise of
our lost childhood! No broad-throated robin ever poured out a wilder,
fuller gush of melody than the songs of this untaught child!
Little Ratie's days were passed in the same even routine, without
thought or chance of change. Up at the house they loved her; and her
young mistresses used to supply her with cast-off ribbons and shawls and
fancy trappings from their own wardrobes, which she prized very
much,--delighting to deck out her odd little person with these old
fineries.
Once, as she sat singing on an old stile, and knitting a stocking, a
rough sort of gentleman, driving by in his neat little tilbury, stopped
and listened to Ratie's song. When he looked at the strange child he
felt a little shocked; but he called out in a loud voice, "Halloo,
Dumpey Blackie! here is a fip for your song"; and he tossed her a small
coin. "Take that, and give me another song."
The child was pleased with the gift, took it up from where it had rolled
on the ground at her feet, and soon began another of her wild little
ditties. As she sang on, she forgot the exact words, and put in some of
her own, which harmonized just as well with the air. The stranger was so
much pleased, that he gave her another fip, and called for another
song, and still another. At length, he asked the child to whom she
belonged. She told him that she belonged to her old master.
"And what is your old master's name?" asked the gentleman.
Ratie, who had never been two miles beyond the borders of the
plantation, laughed, thinking it a fine joke that anybody should not
know the name of her "old master"; for, to her, he was the most
important personage in the world. So she only laughed and shook her head
derisively in answer.
"Will you not tell me his name?" again asked the stranger.
But the child smiled still more incredulously; so the gentleman deemed
it best to follow her home, which he accordingly did, and found that
Colonel Williams, a rich old planter, was the owner of this little
melodious blackbird.
The stranger alighted and asked to see Colonel Williams. After a little
conversation he proposed to buy Ratie from her master. Colonel Williams
had never thought of selling the little deformity. He kept her on the
place more through charity than aught else. The extent of her musical
genius was unappreciated, and even unknown to him; but as she was a
happy little creature, much liked by all the family, and was only a
trifling expense, he had never thought of parting with her. Now,
however, when a handsome price was offered, she assumed something like
importance and interest in his eyes. He called her into the house, and
she obeyed with great alacrity, coming in neatly dressed, with a fresh
white apron, and sundry bits of bright-colored ribbons tied round her
head and neck.
"Give us one of your best songs, Ratie," said her master.