she should be free; and it was said that in her will she made good
the promise. But when the estate was settled, Dr. Flint told the
faithful old servant that, under existing circumstances, it was
necessary she should be sold.
On the appointed day, the customary advertisement was posted up,
proclaiming that there would be “a public sale of negroes, horses,
&c.” Dr. Flint called to tell my grandmother that he was unwilling
to wound her feelings by putting her up at auction, and that he
would prefer to dispose of her at private sale. She saw through
his hypocrisy, and understood very well that he was ashamed of the
job. She was a very spirited woman, and if he was base enough to
sell her, after her mistress had made her free by her will, she was
determined the public should know it. She had, for a long time,
supplied many families with crackers and preserves; consequently
“Aunt Marthy,” as she was called, was generally known; and all who
knew her respected her intelligence and good character. It was
also well known that her mistress had intended to leave her free,
as a reward for her long and faithful services. When the day of
sale came, she took her place among the chattels, and at the first
call she sprang upon the auction-block. She was then fifty years
old. Many voices called out, “Shame! Shame! Who’s going to sell
_you_, Aunt Marthy? Don’t stand there! That’s no place for _you_!”
She made no answer, but quietly awaited her fate. No one bid for
her. At last, a feeble voice said, “Fifty dollars.” It came from
a maiden lady, seventy years old, the sister of my grandmother’s
deceased mistress. She had lived forty years under the same roof
with my grandmother; she knew how faithfully she had served her
owners, and how cruelly she had been defrauded of her rights, and
she resolved to protect her. The auctioneer waited for a higher
bid; but her wishes were respected; no one bid above her. The old
lady could neither read nor write; and when the bill of sale was
made out, she signed it with a cross. But of what consequence was
that, when she had a big heart overflowing with human kindness? She
gave the faithful old servant her freedom.
My grandmother had always been a mother to her orphan
grandchildren, as far as that was possible in a condition of
slavery. Her perseverance and unwearied industry continued unabated
after her time was her own, and she soon became mistress of a
snug little home, and surrounded herself with the necessaries of
life. She would have been happy, if her family could have shared
them with her. There remained to her but three children and two
grandchildren; and they were all slaves. Most earnestly did she
strive to make us feel that it was the will of God; that He had
seen fit to place us under such circumstances; and, though it
seemed hard, we ought to pray for contentment. It was a beautiful
faith, coming from a mother who could not call her children her
own. But I, and Benjamin, her youngest boy, condemned it. It
appeared to us that it was much more according to the will of God
that we should be free, and able to make a home for ourselves, as
she had done. There we always found balsam for our troubles. She
was so loving, so sympathizing! She always met us with a smile, and
listened with patience to all our sorrows. She spoke so hopefully,
that unconsciously the clouds gave place to sunshine. There was a
grand big oven there, too, that baked bread and nice things for
the town; and we knew there was always a choice bit in store for
us. But even the charms of that old oven failed to reconcile us to
our hard lot. Benjamin was now a tall, handsome lad, strongly and
gracefully made, and with a spirit too bold and daring for a slave.
One day, his master attempted to flog him for not obeying his
summons quickly enough. Benjamin resisted, and in the struggle
threw his master down. To raise his hand against a white man was
a great crime according to the laws of the State, and to avoid a
cruel public whipping, Benjamin hid himself and made his escape. My
grandmother was absent visiting an old friend in the country, when
this happened. When she returned, and found her youngest child had
fled, great was her sorrow. But, with characteristic piety, she
said, “God’s will be done.” Every morning she inquired whether any
news had been heard from her boy. Alas, news did come; sad news.
The master received a letter, and was rejoicing over the capture of
his human chattel.
That day seems to me but as yesterday, so well do I remember it.
I saw him led through the streets in chains to jail. His face was
ghastly pale, but full of determination. He had sent some one to
his mother’s house, to ask her not to come to meet him. He said the
sight of her distress would take from him all self-control. Her
heart yearned to see him, and she went; but she screened herself in
the crowd, that it might be as her child had said.
We were not allowed to visit him. But we had known the jailer for
years, and he was a kind-hearted man. At midnight he opened the
door for my grandmother and myself to enter, in disguise. When we
entered the cell, not a sound broke the stillness. “Benjamin,”
whispered my grandmother. No answer. “Benjamin!” said she, again,
in a faltering tone. There was a jingling of chains. The moon
had just risen, and cast an uncertain light through the bars. We
knelt down and took Benjamin’s cold hands in ours. Sobs alone were
heard, while she wept upon his neck. At last Benjamin’s lips were
unsealed. Mother and son talked together. He asked her pardon
for the suffering he had caused her. She told him she had nothing
to forgive; that she could not blame him for wanting to be free.
He told her that he broke away from his captors, and was about to
throw himself into the river, but thoughts of her came over him and
arrested the movement. She asked him if he did not also think of
God. He replied, “No, mother, I did not. When a man is hunted like
a wild beast, he forgets that there _is_ a God.”
The pious mother shuddered, as she said, “Don’t talk so, Benjamin.
Try to be humble, and put your trust in God.”
“I wish I had some of your goodness,” he replied. “You bear
everything patiently, just as though you thought it was all right.
I wish I could.”
She told him it had not always been so with her; that once she was
like him; but when sore troubles came upon her, and she had no arm
to lean upon, she learned to call on God, and he lightened her
burdens. She besought him to do so likewise.
The jailer came to tell us we had overstayed our time, and we were
obliged to hurry away. Grandmother went to the master and tried
to intercede for her son. But he was inexorable. He said Benjamin
should be made an example of. That he should be kept in jail till
he was sold. For three months he remained within the walls of
the prison, during which time grandmother secretly conveyed him
changes of clothes, and as often as possible carried him something
warm for supper, accompanied with some little luxury for her
friend the jailer. He was finally sold to a slave-trader from New
Orleans. When they fastened irons upon his wrists to drive him
off with the coffle, it was heart-rending to hear the groans of
that poor mother, as she clung to the Benjamin of her family,--her
youngest, her pet. He was pale and thin now from hardships and long
confinement, but still his good looks were so observable, that the
slave-trader remarked he would give any price for the handsome lad,
if he were a girl. We, who knew so well what slavery was, were
thankful that he was not.
Grandmother stifled her grief, and with strong arms and unwavering
faith set to work to purchase freedom for Benjamin. She knew the
slave-trader would charge three times as much as he gave for him;
but she was not discouraged. She employed a lawyer to write to New
Orleans, and try to negotiate the business for her. But word came
that Benjamin was missing; he had run away again.
Philip, my grandmother’s only remaining son, inherited his mother’s
intelligence. His mistress sometimes trusted him to go with a
cargo to New York. One of these occasions occurred not long
after Benjamin’s second escape. Through God’s good providence the
brothers met in the streets of New York. It was a happy meeting,
though Benjamin was very pale and thin; for, on his way from
bondage, he had been taken violently ill, and brought nigh unto
death. Eagerly he embraced his brother, exclaiming, “O Phil!
here I am at last! I came nigh dying when I was almost in sight
of freedom; and O how I prayed that I might live just to get one
breath of free air! And here I am. In the old jail I used to wish
I was dead. But life is worth something now, and it would be hard
to die.” He begged his brother not to go back to the South, but
to stay and work with him till they earned enough to buy their
relatives.
Philip replied: “It would kill mother if I deserted her. She has
pledged her house, and is working harder than ever to buy you. Will
you be bought?”
“Never!” replied Benjamin, in his resolute tone. “When I have got
so far out of their clutches, do you suppose, Phil, that I would
ever let them be paid one red cent? Do you think I would consent
to have mother turned out of her hard-earned home in her old age?
And she never to see me after she had bought me? For you know,
Phil, she would never leave the South while any of her children or
grandchildren remained in slavery. What a good mother! Tell her to
buy _you_, Phil. You have always been a comfort to her; and I have
always been making her trouble.”
Philip furnished his brother with some clothes, and gave him what
money he had. Benjamin pressed his hand, and said, with moistened
eyes, “I part from all my kindred.” And so it proved. We never
heard from him afterwards.
When Uncle Philip came home, the first words he said, on entering
the house, were: “O, mother, Ben is free! I have seen him in New
York.” For a moment, she seemed bewildered. He laid his hand gently
on her shoulder, and repeated what he had said. She raised her
hands devoutly, and exclaimed, “God be praised! Let us thank Him.”
She dropped on her knees, and poured forth her heart in prayer.
When she grew calmer, she begged Philip to sit down and repeat
every word her son had said. He told her all, except that Benjamin
had nearly died on the way, and was looking very pale and thin.
Still the brave old woman toiled on to accomplish the rescue of her
remaining children. After a while, she succeeded in buying Philip,
for whom she paid eight hundred dollars, and came home with the
precious document that secured his freedom. The happy mother and
son sat by her hearth-stone that night, telling how proud they were
of each other, and how they would prove to the world that they
could take care of themselves, as they had long taken care of
others. We all concluded by saying, “He that is _willing_ to be a
slave, let him be a slave.”
My grandmother had still one daughter remaining in slavery. She
belonged to the same master that I did; and a hard time she had
of it. She was a good soul, this old Aunt Nancy. She did all she
could to supply the place of my lost mother to us orphans. She was
the _factotum_ in our master’s household. She was housekeeper,
waiting-maid, and everything else; nothing went on well without
her, by day or by night. She wore herself out in their service.
Grandmother toiled on, hoping to purchase release for her. But one
evening word was brought that she had been suddenly attacked with
paralysis, and grandmother hastened to her bedside. Mother and
daughter had always been devotedly attached to each other; and now
they looked lovingly and earnestly into each other’s eyes, longing
to speak of secrets that weighed on the hearts of both. She lived
but two days, and on the last day she was speechless. It was sad
to witness the grief of her bereaved mother. She had always been
strong to bear, and religious faith still supported her; but her
dark life had become still darker, and age and trouble were leaving
deep traces on her withered face. The poor old back was fitted to
its burden. It bent under it, but did not break.
Uncle Philip asked permission to bury his sister at his own
expense; and slaveholders are always ready to grant _such_ favors
to slaves and their relatives. The arrangements were very plain,
but perfectly respectable. It was talked of by the slaves as a
mighty grand funeral. If Northern travellers had been passing
through the place, perhaps they would have described it as a
beautiful tribute to the humble dead, a touching proof of the
attachment between slaveholders and their slaves; and very likely
the mistress would have confirmed this impression, with her
handkerchief at her eyes. _We_ could have told them how the poor
old mother had toiled, year after year, to buy her son Philip’s
right to his own earnings; and how that same Philip had paid the
expenses of the funeral, which they regarded as doing so much
credit to the master.
There were some redeeming features in our hard destiny. Very
pleasant are my recollections of the good old lady who paid fifty
dollars for the purpose of making my grandmother free, when she
stood on the auction-block. She loved this old lady, whom we all
called Miss Fanny. She often took tea at grandmother’s house. On
such occasions, the table was spread with a snow-white cloth, and
the china cups and silver spoons were taken from the old-fashioned
buffet. There were hot muffins, tea-rusks, and delicious
sweetmeats. My grandmother always had a supply of such articles,
because she furnished the ladies of the town with such things for
their parties. She kept two cows for that purpose, and the fresh
cream was Miss Fanny’s delight. She invariably repeated that it was
the very best in town. The old ladies had cosey times together.
They would work and chat, and sometimes, while talking over old
times, their spectacles would get dim with tears, and would have to
be taken off and wiped. When Miss Fanny bade us “Good by,” her bag
was always filled with grandmother’s best cakes, and she was urged
to come again soon.
[Here follows a long account of persecutions endured by the
granddaughter, who tells this story. She finally made her escape,
after encountering great dangers and hardships. The faithful old
grandmother concealed her for a long time at great risk to them
both, during which time she tried in vain to buy free papers for
her. At last there came a chance to escape in a vessel Northward
bound. She goes on to say:--]
All arrangements were made for me to go on board at dusk.
Grandmother came to me with a small bag of money, which she wanted
me to take. I begged her to keep at least part of it; but she
insisted, while her tears fell fast, that I should take the whole.
“You may be sick among strangers,” said she; “and they would send
you to the poor-house to die.” Ah, that good grandmother! Though I
had the blessed prospect of freedom before me, I felt dreadfully
sad at leaving forever that old homestead, that had received and
sheltered me in so many sorrows. Grandmother took me by the hand,
and said, “My child, let us pray.” We knelt down together, with my
arm clasped round the faithful, loving old friend I was about to
leave forever. On no other occasion has it been my lot to listen
to so fervent a supplication for mercy and protection. It thrilled
through my heart and inspired me with trust in God. I staggered
into the street, faint in body, though strong of purpose. I did
not look back upon the dear old place, though I felt that I should
never see it again.
[The granddaughter found friends at the North, and, being
uncommonly quick in her perceptions, she soon did much to
supply the deficiencies of early education. While leading a
worthy, industrious life in New York, she twice very narrowly
escaped becoming a victim to the infamous Fugitive Slave Law. A
noble-hearted lady purchased her freedom, and thereby rescued her
from further danger. She thus closes the story of her venerable
ancestor:--]
My grandmother lived to rejoice in the knowledge of my freedom;
but not long afterward a letter came to me with a black seal. It
was from a friend at the South, who informed me that she had gone
“where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at
rest.” Among the gloomy recollections of my life in bondage come
tender memories of that good grandmother, like a few fleecy clouds
floating over a dark and troubled sea.
H. J.
NOTE.--The above account is no fiction. The author, who was
thirty years in slavery, wrote it in an interesting book entitled
“Linda.” She is an esteemed friend of mine; and I introduce this
portion of her story here to illustrate the power of character
over circumstances. She has intense sympathy for those who are
still suffering in the bondage from which she escaped. She is
now devoting all her energies to the poor refugees in our camps,
comforting the afflicted, nursing the sick, and teaching the
children. On the 1st of January, 1863, she wrote me a letter, which
began as follows: “I have lived to hear the Proclamation of Freedom
for my suffering people. All my wrongs are forgiven. I am more than
repaid for all I have endured. Glory to God in the highest!”
L. M. C.
* * * * *
We hear men often enough speak of seeing God in the stars and
the flowers, but they will never be truly religious, till they
learn to behold Him in _each other_ also, where He is most
easily, yet most rarely discovered.
J. R. LOWELL
[Illustration]
AULD LANG SYNE.
BY ROBERT BURNS.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min’?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o’ lang syne?
CHORUS.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne;
We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
We twa hae ran about the braes,
And pu’d the gowans[L] fine;
But we’ve wandered mony a weary foot,
Sin’ auld lang syne.
We twa hae paidl’t i’ the burn,[M]
Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roared
Sin’ auld lang syne.
CHORUS.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne;
We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
[L] Wild daisies.
[M] Brook.
OLD FOLKS AT HOME.
They love the places where they wandered
When they were young;
They love the books they’ve often pondered,
They love the tunes they’ve sung.
The easy-chair, so soft and dozy,
Is their delight;
The ample slippers, warm and cozy,
And the dear old bed at night.
CHORUS.
Near their hearth-stones, warm and cheery,
Where, by night or day,
They’re free to rest when they are weary,
There the old folks love to stay.
L. M. C.
[Illustration]
OLD UNCLE TOMMY
FROM THE CHRISTIAN REGISTER.
“Let him, where and when he will, sit down
Beneath the trees, or by the grassy bank
Of highway-side, and with the little birds
Share his chance-gathered meal; and finally,
As in the eye of Nature he has lived,
So in the eye of Nature let him die.”
WORDSWORTH.
The morning after the storm was calm and beautiful; just one
of those days so dear to every lover of Nature; for every true
worshipper of our all-bountiful Mother is a poet at heart, though
his lips may often fail to utter the rich experience of his soul.
The air was full of fragrance and the songs of birds. Here and
there a gentle breeze would shower down the drops of moisture from
the trees, forming a mimic rain; every bush and shrub, and each
separate blade of grass, glittered in the morning sunlight, as if
hung with brightest jewels. The stillness was in harmony with the
day of rest, and only the most peaceful thoughts were suggested by
this glorious calm, returning after the tempest.
The late proprietor of the Leigh Manor had presented a small,
though very perfect, chime of bells to Leighton Church; they had
never been successfully played until now, when the ringers, having
become more skilful, they for the first time pealed a regular
chant; and right merrily did the sound go forth over the quiet
plain.
To God the mighty Lord,
Your joyful songs repeat;
To Him your praise accord,
As good as He is great.
“Ah,” said an old man, leaning on his staff, and gazing at the
bells, “how I wish the Masther could a’ heard ye! Well, p’r’aps
he _does_ hear the bonny bells a-praising God. God bless thee,
dear Masther, and have thee forever in his holy keeping!” and
raising his hat reverently from his head, the old man stood with
the white hair streaming back upon his shoulders, leaving unshaded
his upturned countenance, where were visible the traces of many a
conflict and of many a hard-earned victory; the _traces_ only, for
time and living faith had smoothed the deeper marks. As in Nature
this morning you saw there _had been_ storm and fierce strife; but
now all was at peace. The clear blue eye of the aged man shone with
a brighter light than youth alone can give. It was the undying
light of immortality; for, old and poor and ignorant as he was,
to worldly eyes, his soul had attained a noble stature; and as he
stood there with uncovered head, in the June sunshine, there was a
majesty about him which no mere earthly rank can impart. You saw
before you a child of the Great Father; you _felt_ that he communed
in spirit with his God, as with a dear and loving parent; that the
Most High was very nigh unto him. And yet this man dwelt amongst
the paupers of a country almshouse, and men called him insane! But
he was “harmless,” they said; so he was allowed to come and go
about the neighborhood, as he pleased, and no one feared him.
The little children, as they passed to Sunday School this morning,
stepped more lightly, lest they should disturb him; for he was a
favorite with the “little people,” as he called them.
When beyond his hearing, they whispered to one another, “I don’t
believe Uncle Tommy is crazy, do you? I never want to plague him;
he’s so kind.”
“He isn’t a mite like laughing Davy,” said another; “for Davy is
real mischievous sometimes, and Uncle Tommy isn’t a bit; what do
you s’pose folks call him crazy for?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” whispered a third, “for he knows _ever so
much_. I guess it’s ’cause he _seems_ as he does now; and nobody
else ever does, do they? That’s what folks laugh at.”
“Well, it’s too bad,” exclaimed a rosy little girl of nine or ten
summers. “I mean to go speak to him. That’ll wake him up. He’s
always so good to us, I _hate_ to have folks look queer at him, and
make fun of his ways.”
“Why, Nelly, he don’t care for the laughing.”
“No matter; I do,” stoutly maintained the child; and going up to
the old man, she softly pulled his clean, patched sleeve, and said,
“Uncle Tommy, if you please, do look here!”
He did not seem to hear her for a little while; then passing his
hand across his forehead, as if rousing himself, he turned, with a
pleasant, cheering manner, to the children, who had gathered around
him: “Ah! little Nelly, is it you? and all my little people? why
you’re out early this good morning. May the blessing of Our Father
shine through your young hearts, making beautiful your lives, as
the sunshine makes beautiful your fresh young faces!”
“Uncle Tommy,” said John Anton, “what makes you love the sun so
like everything?”
Old Tommy smiled at the boy’s eagerness; but looking upward, he
answered: “I love it as the first, brightest gift of Our Father. I
see in it the purest emblem of Him whose dwelling _is_ the light.”
After a moment’s silence, he extended his hands over the children’s
heads, saying fervently, “Pour thy light into their souls, O
Father, that, the eyes of the mind being opened, they may see Thee
in all thy works!” Then taking Nelly by the hand, he asked, if
they were not too soon for school.
“Yes,” answered she; “for we came to hear the bells chime. It’s so
pleasant, Uncle Tommy, perhaps you will tell us something. Just a
little while, till the teachers come.”
“O yes, do now, Uncle Tommy, tell us some of the nice stories you
know,” chimed in the whole group.
“I’ll be still as a mouse, if you will,” coaxed a lively child,
whose ceaseless motion usually disturbed all quiet talk.
Uncle Tommy patted her curly head, and good-naturedly consented to
gratify them, “if they would try and be good as the flowers in the
meadow yonder.”
“Yes, yes, we will,” shouted they.