Wall, the next mornin' Cicely wus better, and we sot sail for Mount
Vernon. It was about ten o'clock A.M. when I, accompanied by Cicely and
the boy, sot sail from Washington, D.C., to perform about the ostensible
reason of my tower,--to weep on the tomb of the noble G. Washington.
My intentions had been and wuz, to weep for him on my tower. I had come
prepared. 2 linen handkerchiefs and a large cotton one reposed in the
pocket of my polenay, and I had on my new waterproof. I never do things
by the 1/2s.
It was a beautiful seen, as we floated down the still river, to look
back and see the Capitol risin' white and fair like a dream, the
glitterin' snow of the monument, and the green heights, all bathed in
the glory of that perfect May mornin'. It wuz a fair seen.
Happy groups of people sot on the peaceful decks,--stately gentlemen,
handsome ladies, and pretty children. And in one corner, off kinder by
themselves, sot that band of dusky singers, whose songs have delighted
the world. Modest, good-lookin' dark girls, manly, honest-lookin' dark
boys.
Only a few short years ago this black people was drove about like dumb
cattle,--bought and sold, hunted by blood-hounds; the wimmen hunted to
infamy and ruin, the men to torture and to death. The wimmen denied the
first right of womanhood, to keep themselves pure. The men denied the
first right of manhood, to protect the ones they loved. Deprived legally
of purity and honor, and all the rights of commonest humanity--worn with
unpaid toil, beaten, whipped, tortured, dispised and rejected of men.
[Illustration: GOING TO MOUNT VERNON.]
Now, a few short years have passed over this dark race, and these
children of slaves that I looked upon have been guests of the proudest
and noblest in this and in foreign lands. Hands that hold the destinies
of mighty empires have clasped theirs in frankest friendship, and
crowned heads have bowed low before 'em to hide the tears their sweet
voices have called forth. What feelin's I felt as I looked on 'em! and
my soul burned inside of me, almost to the extent of settin' my polenay
on fire, a thinkin' of all this.
And pretty soon, right when I was a reveryin'--right there, when we wuz
a floatin' clown the still waters, their voices riz up in one of their
inspired songs. They sung about their “Hard Trials,” and how the “Sweet
Chariot swung low,” and how they had “Been Redeemed.”
And I declare for't, as I listened to 'em, there wuzn't a dry eye in my
head; and I wet every one of them 3 handkerchiefs that I had calculated
to mourn for G. Washington on, wet as sop. But I didn't care. I knew
that George had rather not be mourned for on dry handkerchiefs, than
that I should stent myself in emotions in such a time as this. He loved
Liberty himself, and fit for it. And anyway, I didn't sense what I was
a doin', not a mite. I took out them handkerchiefs entirely unbeknown to
me, and put 'em back unbeknown.
The words of them songs hain't got hardly any sense, as we earthly
bein's count sense; there are scores of great singers, whose trained
voices are a hundred-fold more melodious: but these simple strains move
us, thrill us; they jest get right inside of our hearts and souls, and
take full possession of us.
It seems as if nothin' human of so little importance could so move us.
Is it God's voice that speaks to us through them? Is it His Spirit that
lifts us up, sways us to and fro, that blows upon us, as we listen to
their voices? The Spirit that come down to cheer them broken hearts,
lift them up in their captivity, does it now sway and melt the hearts
of their captors? We read of One who watches over His sorrowing, wronged
people, givin' them “songs in the night.”
Anon, or nearly at that time, a silver bell struck out a sweet sort of
a mournful note; and we jest stood right in towards the shore, and
disembarked from the bark.
We clomb the long hill, and stood on top, with powerful emotions (but
little or no breath); stood before the iron bars that guarded the tomb
of George Washington, and Martha his wife.
I looked at the marble coffin that tried to hold George, and felt
how vain it wuz to think that any tomb could hold him. That peaceful,
tree-covered hill couldn't hold his tomb. Why, it wuz lifted up in every
land that loved freedom. The hull liberty-lovin' earth wuz his tomb and
his monument.
And that great river flowin' on and on at his feet--as long as that
river rolls, George Washington shall float on it, he and his faithful
Martha. It shall bear him to the sea and the ocian, and abroad to every
land.
Oh! what feelin's I felt as I stood there a reveryin', my body still,
but my mind proudly soarin'! To think, he wuz our Washington, and that
time couldn't kill him. For he shall walk through the long centuries to
come. He shall bear to the high chamber of prince and ruler, memories
that shall blossom into deeds, awaken souls, rouse powers that shall
never die, that shall scatter blessings over lands afar, strike the
fetters from slave and serf.
The hands they folded over his peaceful breast so many years ago, are
not lying there in that marble coffin: the calm blue eyes closed so many
years ago, are still lookin' into souls. Those hands lift the low walls
of the poor boy's chamber, as he reads of victory over tyranny, of
conquerin' discouragement and defeat.
[Illustration: BEFORE THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON.]
The low walls fade away; the dusky rafters part to admit the infinite,
infinite longin's to do and dare, infinite resolves to emulate those
deeds of valor and heroism. How the calm blue eyes look down into the
boy's impassioned soul, how the shadowy hands beckon him upward, up the
rocky heights of noble endeavor, noble deeds! How the inspiration of
this life, these deeds of might and valor, nerve the young heart for
future strivings for freedom and justice and truth!
Is it not a blessed thing to thus live on forever in true, eager hearts,
to nerve the hero's arm, to inspire deeds of courage and daring? The
weary body may rest; but to do this, is surely not to die; no, it is
to live, to be immortal, to thus become the beating heart, the living,
struggling, daring soul of the future.
And right while I was thinkin' these thoughts, and lookin' off over the
still landscape, the peaceful waters, this band of dark singers stood
with reverent faces and uncovered heads, and begun singin' one of their
sweetest melodies,--
“He rose, he rose, he rose from the dead.”
Oh! as them inspired, hantin' notes rose through the soft, listenin'
air, and hanted me, walked right round inside my heart and soul, and
inspired me--why! how many emotions I did have,--more'n 85 a minute
right along!
As I thought of how many times since the asscension of our Lord, tombs
have opened, and the dead come forth alive; how Faith and Justice will
triumph in the end; how you can't bury 'em deep enough, or roll a stun
big enough and hard enough before the door, but what, in some calm
mornin', the earliest watcher shall see a tall, fair angel standin'
where the dead has lain, bearin' the message of the risen Lord, “He rose
from the dead.”
I thought how George W. and our other old 4 fathers thought in the long,
toilsome, weary hours before the dawnin', that fair Freedom was dead;
but she rose, she rose.
I thought how the dusky race whose sweet songs was a floatin' round the
grave of him who loved freedom, and gave his life for it; I thought
how, durin' the dreary time when they was captives in a strange land,
chained, scourged, and tortured, how they thought, through this long,
long night of years, that Justice was dead, and Mercy and Pity and
Righteousness.
But there come a glorious mornin' when fathers and mothers clasped their
children in their arms, their own once more, in arms that was their own,
to labor and protect, and they sung together of Freedom and Right, how
though they wuz buried deep, and the night wuz long, and the watchers
by the tomb weary, weary unto death, yet they rose, they rose from the
dead.
And then I thought of the tombs that darken our land to-day, where the
murdered, the legally murdered, lay buried. I thought of the graves more
hopeless fur than them that entomb the dead,--the graves where lay the
livin' dead. Dead souls bound to still breathin' bodies, dead hopes,
ambitions, dead dreams of usefulness and respectability, happiness, dead
purity, faith, honor, dead, all dead, all bound to the still breathin'
body, by the festerin', putrid death-robes of helplessness and despair.
There they lie chained to their dark tombs by links slight at first,
but twisted by the hard old fingers of blind habit, to chains of iron,
chains linked about, and eatin' into, not only the quiverin' flesh, but
the frenzied brains, the hope less hearts, the ruined souls.
Heavy, hopeless-lookin' vaults they are indeed, whose air is putrid with
the sickenin' miasma of moral loathsomness and deseese; whose walls are
painted with hideous pictures of murder, rapine, lust, starvation, woe,
and despair, earthly and eternal ruin. Shapes of the dreadful past, the
hopeless future, that these livin' dead stare upon with broodin' frenzy
by night and by day.
Oh the tombs, the countless, countless tombs, where lie these breathin'
corpses! How mothers weep over them! how wives kneel, and beat their
hearts out on the rocky barriers that separate them from their hearts'
love, their hearts' desire! How little starvin', naked children cower in
their ghostly shadows through dark midnights! How fathers weep for their
children, dead to them, dead to honor, to shame, to humanity! How the
cries of the mourners ascend to the sweet heavens!
And less peaceful than the graves of the departed, these tombs
themselves are full of the hopeless cries of the entombed, praying for
help, praying for some strong hand to reach down and lift them out of
their reeking, polluted, living death.
The whole of our fair land is covered with jest such graves: its turf is
tread down by the footprints of the mourners who go about the streets.
They pray, they weep: the night is long, is long. But the morning will
dawn at last.
And the women,--daughters, wives, mothers,--who kneel with clasped
hands beside the tombs, heaviest-eyed, deepest mourners, because most
helpless. Lift up your heavy eyes: the sun is even now rising, that
shall gild the sky at last. The mornin' light is even now dawnin' in the
east. It shall fall first upon your uplifted brows, your prayerful eyes.
Most blessed of God, because you loved most, sorrowed most. To you shall
it be given to behold first the tall, fair angel of Resurection and
Redemption, standin' at the grave's mouth. Into your hands shall be put
the key to unlock the heavy doors, where your loved has lain.
The dead shall rise. Temperance and Justice and Liberty shall rise.
They shall go forth to bless our fair land. And purified and enobled,
it shall be the best beloved, the fairest land of God beneath the sun.
Refuge of the oppressed and tempted, inspiration of the hopeless, light
of the world.
And free mothers shall clasp their free children to their hearts; and
fathers and mothers and children shall join in one heavenly strain, song
of freedom and of truth. And the nations shall listen to hear how “they
rose, they rose, they rose from the dead.”
As the tones of the sweet hymn died on the soft air, and the blessed
vision passed with it; when I come down onto my feet,--for truly, I had
been lifted up, and by the side of myself,--Cicely was standin' with her
brown eyes lookin' over the waters, holdin' the hand of the boy; and I
see every thing that the song did or could mean, in the depths of her
deep, prophetic eyes. Sad eyes, too, they was, and discouraged; for the
morning wus fur away--and--and the boy wus pullin' at her hand, eager to
get away from where he wus.
The boy led us; and we follered him up the gradual hill to the old
homestead of Washington, Mount Vernon.
Lookin' down from the broad, high porch, you can look directly down
through the trees into the river. The water calm and sort o' golden,
through the green of the trees, and every thing looked peaceful and
serene.
There are lots of interestin' things to be seen here,--the tombs of the
rest of the Washington family; the key of the Bastile, covered with the
blood and misery of a foreign land; the tree that carries us back in
memory to his grave, where he rests quietly, who disturbed the sleep of
empires and kingdoms; the furniture of Washington and his family,--the
chairs they sot in, the tables they sot at, and the rooms where
they sot; the harpiscord, that Nelly Custis and Mrs. G. Washington
harpiscorded on.
But she whose name wus once Smith longed to see somethin' else fur more.
What wus it?
It wus not the great drawin'-rooms, the guest-chambers, the halls, the
grounds, the live-stock, nor the pictures, nor the flowers.
No: it wus the old garret of the mansion, the low old garret, where she
sot, our Lady Washington, in her widowed dignity, with no other fire
only the light of deathless love that lights palace or hovel,--sot there
in the window, because she could look out from it upon the tomb of her
mighty dead.
Sot lookin' out upon the river that wus sweepin' along under sun and
moon, bearing on every wave and ripple the glory and beauty of his name.
Bearing it away from her mebby, she would sometimes sadly think, as she
thought of happy days gone by; for though souls may soar, hearts will
cling. And sometimes storms would vex the river's unquiet breast; and
mebby the waves would whisper to her lovin' heart, “Never more, never
more.”
[Illustration: THE OLD HOME OF WASHINGTON.]
As she sot there looking out, waiting for that other river, whose waves
crept nearer and nearer to her feet,--that other river, on which her
soul should sail away to meet her glorious dead; that river which
whispers “Forever, forever;” that river which is never unquiet, and
whose waves are murmuring of nothing less beautiful than of meeting, of
love, and of lasting repose.