Part 1.—MURILLO.

AUTOGRAPHS

FOR

FREEDOM.

BY MRS. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE,

AND

Thirty-five other Eminent Writers.

LONDON:

SAMPSON LOW, SON & CO.; AND JOHN CASSELL,

LUDGATE HILL:

AND ALL BOOKSELLERS.

1853.

PREFACE

TO THE

American Edition.

There is, perhaps, little need of detaining the kind reader, even for

one moment, in this the vestibule of our Temple of Liberty, to state the

motives and reasons for the publication of this collection of

Anti-slavery testimonies.

The good cause to which the volume is devoted;—the influence which must

ever be exerted by persons of exalted character, and high mental

endowments;—the fact that society is slow to accept any cause that has

not the baptism of the acknowledged noble and good;—the happiness

arising from making any exertion to ameliorate the condition of the

injured race amongst us, will at once suggest reasons and motives for

sending forth this offering, which, while it shall prove acceptable as a

GIFT BOOK, may help to swell the tide of that sentiment that, by the

Divine blessing, will sweep away from this otherwise happy land the

great sin of SLAVERY.

Should this publication be instrumental in casting _one_ ray of hope on

the heart of one poor slave, or should it draw the attention of one

person, hitherto uninterested, to the deep wrongs of the bondman, or

cause one sincere and earnest effort to promote emancipation, we believe

that the kind contributors, who have generously responded to our call,

not less than the members of our Society, will feel themselves gratified

and compensated.

The proceeds of the sale of the “AUTOGRAPHS FOR FREEDOM” will be devoted

to the dissemination of light and truth on the subject of slavery

throughout the country.

On behalf of “_The Rochester Ladies’ Anti-Slavery Society_,”

JULIA GRIFFITHS, _Secretary_.

Preface to the English Edition.

Few better evidences of the deep interest which most of the leading

minds in America take in the question of slavery can be afforded than

are contained in this book. The ablest men and women of the country have

here set their hands to a solemn protest against its enormities. Mrs.

Stowe, who has achieved a reputation as widely extended as it is well

earned,—who has, both in this country and in the United States, aroused

thousands to a sense of the guilt and wrong of slavery who never spent a

thought upon it before,—has her name side by side with that of Horace

Mann, one of the most brilliant orators in the Union. Whittier, whose

sweet strains have delighted thousands wherever the English language is

spoken, finds himself in company with Frederick Douglass, who has

experienced all those horrors whose bare recital has made us shudder;

and with the Earl of Carlisle, who is setting an example full of promise

to the men of his order; and with the son of the immortal Wilberforce.

Widely differing as these do upon the majority of public questions,

there is not a shade of difference in their opinions as to the iniquity

of slavery.

Linked as we are with America by the ties of kindred, commerce,

language, literature, and political sympathies, upon nothing which

affects the destiny and progress of the Union can the English people

help looking with the deepest interest. There is not a man of intellect

or judgment on either side of the Atlantic who does not acknowledge the

fearful importance of the slavery question, even if it be considered in

a political point of view only, and laying aside all thoughts of its

guilt and immorality. It already threatens to cause the disruption of

the great American confederation, upon which we all look with so much

hope and pride; and there exists not a doubt, that, sooner or later, all

the wrongs it has caused will be atoned for by a terrible social

convulsion, if not remedied by the timely and peaceful concession of the

rights of the negro race. We can hardly wonder, then, that the whole

subject should possess such momentous importance in the eyes of all

earnest-thinking, patriotic men and women in America. Assuredly, if in

the face of the tremendous difficulties, deeply rooted prejudice,

self-interest, and a host of base passions, which beset them in arguing

the cause of the slave, they occasionally commit errors of judgment, or

make use of means which we, farther removed from the scene of action,

may deem inexpedient or ill-timed,—no Englishman should regard their

self-denying efforts with any other feeling than one of deep sympathy.

Nay, we should look upon their struggle with the greater admiration,

when we know that the church in America has abandoned its post, and is

unfaithful to its mission; that the clergy, who, of all others, should

be the last to recognise any inequality in men as men, have sought to

hide the abominations of slave-holding under the cloak of Divine

sanction. We all know the vast moral power which England possesses in

the United States, and we may readily conjecture how comforting it must

be for those who are battling for the rights of a down-trodden race, in

the face of a hostile senate, a hostile press, and a hostile aristocracy

of slave-holders, to hear a cheer of encouragement from those across the

water who feel that the position of the Anglo-Saxon race in the future

of the world, depends upon the respect it now shews for the sacred

rights, and the inherent nobility of humanity.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

Be up and doing _Hon. Wm. H. Seward_ 9

Caste and Christ _Mrs. H. E. B. Stowe_ 11

Letter from the Earl of Carlisle to Mrs. H. B. Stowe 13

Momma Charlotte _Mrs. C. M. Kirkland_ 16

A Name _Hon. Horace Mann_ 19

Letter from Joseph Sturge 20

Slavery and Polygamy _R. Hildreth_ 20

The Way _John G. Whittier_ 22

The Slave and Slave-Owner _Miss Sedgwick_ 23

Letter from the Bishop of Oxford 25

Hide the Outcasts _Rev. William Goodell_ 25

Can Slaves rightfully resist and _Rev. Geo. W. Perkins_

fight? 28

Death in Life _Ebenezer Button_ 33

True Reform _Mrs. C. W. H. Dall_ 34

How Long? _J. M. Whitfield_ 35

Letter from Wilson Armistead 42

Impromptu Stanzas _J. M. Eells_ 44

John Murray (of Glasgow) _James M’Cune Smith_ 46

Power of American Example _Lewis Tappan_ 50

The Gospel as a Remedy for Slavery „ „ 52

Letter from Rev. C. G. Finney 54

The Slave’s Prayer _Miss C. E. Beecher_ 55

The Struggle _Hon. Charles Sumner_ 56

Work and Wait _Horace Greeley_ 56

The Great Emancipation _Gerrit Smith_ 58

Ode _Rev. John Pierpont_ 58

Passages in the Life of a Slave _Annie Parker_

Woman 61

Story Telling „ „ 68

The Man-Owner _Rev. E. Buckingham_ 70

Damascus in 1851 _Rev. F. W. Holland_ 73

Religious, Moral, and Political _Lindley Murray Moore_

Duties 80

Why Slavery is in the Constitution _James G. Birney_ 81

The Two Altars _Mrs. H. B. Stowe_ 88

Outline of a Man _Rev. R. R. Raymond_ 103

The Heroic Slave Woman _Rev. S. J. May_ 112

Kossuth _John Thomas_ 115

The Heroic Slave _Frederick Douglass_ 120

A Plea for Free Speech _Prof. J. H. Raymond_ 166

Placido _Prof. W. G. Allen_ 177

To the Friends of Emancipation 183

AUTOGRAPHS FOR FREEDOM.

BE UP AND DOING.

Can nothing be done for Freedom? Yes, much can be done. Everything can

be done. Slavery can be confined within its present bounds. It can be

meliorated. It can be, and it must be abolished. The task is as simple

as its performance would be beneficent and as its rewards would be

glorious. It requires only that we follow this plain rule of conduct and

course of activity, namely, to do, everywhere, and on every occasion

what we can, and not to neglect nor refuse to do what we can at any

time, because at that precise time and on that particular occasion we

cannot do more. Circumstances define possibilities. When we have done

our best to shape them and to make them propitious, we may rest

satisfied that superior wisdom has, nevertheless, controlled them and

us, and that it will be satisfied with us if we do all the good that

shall then be found possible.

But we can, and we must begin deeper and lower than the composition and

combination of factions. Wherein do the security and strength of slavery

consist? You answer, in the constitution of the United States, and in

the constitutions and laws of the slave-holding States. Not at all. It

is in the erroneous sentiments of the American people. Constitutions and

laws can no more rise above the virtue of the people than the limpid

stream can climb above its native spring. Inculcate the love of freedom

and the sacredness of the rights of man under the paternal roof. See to

it, that they are taught in the schools and in the churches. Reform your

own codes and expurgate the vestiges of slavery. Reform your own manners

and customs and rise above the prejudices of caste. Receive the fugitive

who lays his weary limbs at your door, and defend him as you would your

household gods, for he, not they, has power to bring down blessings on

your hearth. Correct your error that slavery has any constitutional

guarantee that may not be released, and that ought not to be

relinquished. Say to slavery, when it shows its bond and demands its

pound of flesh, that if it draws one drop of blood its life shall pay

the forfeit. Inculcate that the free States can exercise the rights of

hospitality and humanity, that Congress knows no finality and can

debate, that Congress can at least mediate with the slave-holding

States, that at least future generations may be bought and given up to

freedom. Do all this, and inculcate all this, in the spirit of

moderation and benevolence, and not of retaliation and fanaticism, and

you will ultimately bring the parties of this country into a common

condemnation, and even the slave-holding States themselves into a

renunciation of slavery, which is not less necessary for them than for

the common security and welfare. Whenever the public mind shall be

prepared, and the public conscience shall demand the abolition of

slavery, the way to do it will open before us, and then mankind will be

surprised at the ease with which the greatest of social and political

evils can be removed.

[Signature: William H. Seward.]

CASTE AND CHRIST.

“He is not ashamed to call them brethren.”

Ho! thou dark and weary stranger

From the tropic’s palmy strand,

Bowed with toil, with mind benighted,

What wouldst thou upon our land?

Am I not, O man, thy brother?

Spake the stranger, patiently,

All that makes thee, man, immortal,

Tell me, dwells it not in me?

I, like thee, have joy, have sorrow;

I, like thee, have love and fear;

I, like thee, have hopes and longings

Far beyond this earthly sphere.

Thou art happy,—I am sorrowing;

Thou art rich, and I am poor;

In the name of our _one_ Father,

Do not spurn me from your door.

Thus the dark one spake, imploring,

To each stranger passing nigh;

But each child and man and woman,

Priest and Levite passed him by.

Spurned of men,—despised, rejected,

Spurned from school and church and hall,

Spurned from business and from pleasure,

Sad he stood, apart from all.

Then I saw a form all glorious,

Spotless as the dazzling light,

As He passed, men veiled their faces,

And the earth, as heaven, grew bright.

Spake he to the dusky stranger,

Awe-struck there on bended knee,

Rise! for _I_ have called thee _brother_,

I am not ashamed of thee.

When I wedded mortal nature

To my Godhead and my throne,

Then I made all mankind sacred,

Sealed all human for mine own.

By Myself, the Lord of ages,

I have sworn to right the wrong;

I have pledged my word, unbroken,

For the weak against the strong.

And upon my Gospel banner

I have blazed in light the sign—

He who scorns his lowliest brother,

Never shall have hand of mine.

Hear the word!—who fight for freedom!

Shout it in the battle’s van!

Hope! for bleeding human nature!

Christ the _God_, is Christ the _man_!

[Signature: H. E. B. Stowe.]

ANDOVER, JULY 22, 1852.

LETTER FROM THE EARL OF CARLISLE TO THE SECRETARY OF THE SOCIETY.

LONDON, JULY 8, 1852.

MADAM,—I should be very sorry indeed to refuse any request addressed to

me from the “Rochester Ladies’ Anti-Slavery Association.”

At the same time I really should feel at a loss what to send, but as I

am on the point of sending off a letter to the authoress of Uncle Tom’s

Cabin, I venture to submit a copy of it to those who I feel sure must be

fond of such a countrywoman.

Your very faithful Servant,

[Signature: Carlisle.]

* * * * *

LONDON, JULY 8, 1852.

MADAM,—I have allowed some time to elapse before I thanked you for the

great honour and kindness you did me in sending to me, from yourself, a

copy of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. I thought it due to the subject of which I

perceived that it treated, not to send a mere acknowledgment, as I

confess from a motive of policy I am apt to do, upon the first arrival

of the book. I therefore determined to read, before I wrote.

Having thus read, it is not in the stiff and conventional form of

compliment, still less in the technical language of criticism, that I am

about to speak of your work. I return my deep and solemn thanks to

Almighty God, who has led and enabled you to write such a book.

I do feel, indeed, the most thorough assurance that in His good

providence such a book cannot have been written in vain. I have long

felt that slavery is by far the _topping_ question of the world and age

we live in, involving all that is most thrilling in heroism, and most

touching in distress,—in short, the real epic of the universe. The

self-interest of the parties most nearly concerned on the one hand, the

apathy and ignorance of unconcerned observers on the other, have left

these august pretensions to drop very much out of sight, and hence my

rejoicing that a writer has appeared who will be read, and must be felt,

and that happen what may to the transactions of slavery, they will no

longer be suppressed, “carent quia vate sacrâ.”

I trust that what I have just said was not required to show the entire

sympathy I entertain with respect to the main truth and leading scope of

your high argument, but we live in a world only too apt to regard the

accessories and accidents of a subject above its real and vital essence;

no one can know so well as you how much the external appearance of the

negro detracts from the romance and sentimentality which undoubtedly

might attach to his position and his wrongs, and on this account it does

seem to me proportionately important that you should have brought to

your portraiture great grace of style, great power of language, a play

of humour which relieves and brightens even the dark depth of the

back-ground which you were called upon to reveal, a force of pathos

which, to give it the highest praise, does not lay behind even all the

dread reality, and, above all, a variety, a discrimination, and a truth

in the delineation of character, which even to my own scanty and limited

experience of the society you describe accredits itself instantaneously

and irresistibly. Seldom, indeed, could I more forcibly apply the line

of a very favourite poet,—

“And truths divine came mended from that tongue.”

I have been told, that in an English periodical the quality of genius

has been denied to your book. The motives which must have guided its

composition will probably have made you supremely indifferent to mere

criticism, especially to any which argues so much obfuscation both of

head and heart. Your work has genius of the highest order, and it is the

lowest of its merits.

There is one point which, in face of all that your book has aimed at and

achieved, I think of extremely slight importance, but which I will

nevertheless just mention, if only to show that I have not been bribed

into this fervour of admiration. I think, then, that whenever you speak

of England and her institutions, it is in a tone which fails to do them

fair justice. I do not know what distinct charges you think could be

established against our aristocracy and capitalists, but you generally

convey the impression that the same oppressions in degree, though not in

kind, might be brought home to them which are now laid to the charge of

Southern slave-holders. Exposed to the same ordeal, they might very

probably not stand the test better. All I contend for is, that the

circumstances in which they are placed, and the institutions by which

they are surrounded, make the parallel wholly inapplicable. I cannot but

suspect that your view has been in many respects derived from composers

of fiction and others among ourselves who, writing with distinguished

ability, have been more successful in delineating and dissecting the

morbid features of our modern society, than in detecting the principle

which is at fault, or suggesting the appropriate remedy. My own belief

is, liable, if you please, to national bias, that our capitalists are

very much the same sort of persons as your own in the Northern States,

with the same mixtures and inequalities of motive and action. With

respect to our aristocracy, I should really be tempted to say that,

tried by their conduct on the question of Free Trade, they do not

sustain an unfavourable comparison with your uppermost classes. Allow me

to add, that when in one place you refer to those who have already

emancipated their slaves, I think a case more directly in point than the

proceedings of the Hungarian nobles might have been selected: such, at

least, I feel sure would have been the case, if the passages in question

had been written by one who certainly was keenly alive to the faults of

England, but who did justice to her good qualities and deeds with a

heartiness exceeding that of most of her own sons,—your great and good

Dr. Channing.

I need not repeat how irrelevant, after all, I feel what I have said

upon this head to be to the main issues involved in your work; there is

little doubt, too, that as a nation we have our special failings, and

one of them probably is that we care too little about what other nations

think of them.

Nor can I wish my countrymen ever to forget that their own past history

should prevent them from being forward in casting accusations on their

transatlantic brethren on the subject of slavery. With great ignorance

of its actual miseries and horrors, there is also among us great

ignorance of the fearful perplexities and difficulties with which its

solution could not fail to be attended. I feel, however, that there is a

considerable difference between reluctant acquiescence in what you

inherit from the past, and voluntary fresh enlargements and

reinforcements of the system. For instance, I should not say that the

mode in which such an enactment as the Fugitive Slave Law has been

considered in this country has at all erred upon the side of overmuch

indignation.

I need not detain you longer; I began my letter with returning thanks to

Almighty God for the appearance of your work, and I offer my humble and

ardent prayer to the same Supreme Source that it may have a marked

agency in hastening the great consummation, which I should feel it a

practical atheism not to believe must be among the unfulfilled purposes

of the Divine power and love.

I have the honour to be, Madam,

Your sincere admirer and well-wisher,

CARLISLE.

MRS. BEECHER STOWE.

MOMMA CHARLOTTE.

“Slavery is merely an idea!” said Mr. S——; “the slaves are, in reality,

better off than we are, if they had sense enough to know it. They are

taken care of—(they must be, you know, because it is the master’s

interest to keep them in good condition, and a man will always do what

is for his interest). They get rid of all responsibility,—which is what

we are groaning under; and if they were only let alone, they would be

happy enough,—happier than their masters, I dare say.”

“You think it, then, anything but kindness to urge their emancipation?”

“To be sure I do! and I would have every one that teaches them to be

discontented hung up without judge or jury.”

“You seem particularly interested for the slave,—”

“Interested! I would have every one of them sent beyond the Rocky

Mountains, if I could,—or into ‘kingdom come,’ for that matter. They are

the curse of the country; but as long as they are _property_, I would

shoot any man that put bad ideas in their heads or that interfered with

my management of them, as I would shoot a dog that killed my sheep.”

“But do they never get what you call ‘bad ideas’ from any but white

people?”

“O, there is no knowing where they get them,—but they are full of ’em.

No matter how kind you are to them, they are never satisfied!”

“I can tell you where they get some of their ideas of slavery, if you

will allow me.”

“Certainly,—I am always glad of information.”

“Well,—I will take up your time with nothing but actual facts, for the

truth of which I will be answerable. In a Western tour, not many years

since, I saw one day a young lady, fair as a lily, and with a sweet

expression of countenance, walking in the street with a little black

girl whom she held by the hand. The little girl was about six years old,

neatly dressed and very clean; and on her neck she had a little gauze

shawl that somebody had given her, the border of which was composed of

the figure of the American Eagle many times repeated, each impression

accompanied by the word ‘LIBERTY,’ woven into the fabric.

“This curious decoration, together with the wistful look of the child’s

face, and the benevolent air of the young lady, with whom I was slightly

acquainted, led me to ask some questions, which were answered with an

air in which modesty and sensibility were blended. I learned that the

young lady had undertaken the trying task of accompanying the little

girl through the place—which was a considerable village—for the purpose

of collecting the sum of fifty dollars, with which to purchase the

freedom of the child.

“‘And how,’ said I, ‘did you become interested in the poor little

thing?’

“‘She belongs to a member of my family,’ said Miss C——, with a blush;

‘to my aunt, Mrs. Jones.’

“‘And how did she find her way to the north?’

“‘Her mother, who is the servant of my aunt, got leave to bring Violet

along with her, when her mistress came here for the summer.’

“‘But both mother and child are free by the mere circumstance of being

brought here,—’

“‘O, but Momma Charlotte promised her mistress that she would not leave

her, nor let Violet do so, if she might bring the child with her, and

beg money to buy her. She says she does not care for freedom for

herself.’

“I could not do less than go with the good girl for awhile, to assist a

little in her labour of love, which in the end, and with a good deal of

difficulty, was finally accomplished. It was not until after this that I

became acquainted with Momma Charlotte, the mother of Violet, and

learned a few of the particulars of a story which had made her ‘not care

for freedom.’

“Momma Charlotte was the mother of ten children,—six daughters and four

sons. Her husband had been a free black,—a carpenter, able to keep a

comfortable home for his family, hiring his wife of her master. At the

time of the Southampton insurrection, this man was among the suspected,

and, on suspicion, not proof, he was taken up, tried after the fashion

of that time, and hung, with several others, all between sunset and

sunrise of a single day.

“‘He was innocent,—he had had no hand in the matter, as God is my

judge!’ said poor Momma Charlotte.

“This was but the beginning of troubles. A sense of insecurity made the

sale of slaves more vigorous than ever. Charlotte’s children were sold,

one by one—no two together—the boys for the sugar country,—the girls for

‘the New Orleans market,’ whence they were dispersed, she never knew

where.

“‘All gone!’ she said; ‘where I could never see ’em nor hear from ’em. I

don’t even know where one of ’em is!’

“‘And Violet?’

“‘O yes,—I mean all but Violet. She’s all I’ve got in the world, and I

want to keep her. I begged Missus to let me keep jist one! and she said

if I could get any body to buy her for me, I might have her,—for you

know I couldn’t own her myself, ’cause I’m a slave.’

“‘But you are no longer a slave, Momma Charlotte; your mistress by

bringing you here voluntarily has freed you,—’

“‘Yes,—I know,—but I promised, you see! And I don’t care to be free. I’m

old, and my children’s gone, and my heart’s broke. I ha’n’t no more

courage. If I can keep Violet, it’s all I expect. My mistress is good

enough to me,—I live pretty easy.’

“Such was Momma Charlotte’s philosophy, but her face told through what

sufferings such philosophy had been acquired. A fixed grief sat on her

brow; since the judicial murder of her husband she had never been known

to laugh,—hardly to smile. Her eyes were habitually cast on the ground,

and her voice seemed always on the brink of tears. She was what you call

‘_dissatisfied_,’ I think, Mr. S——.”

“O, you have selected an extreme case! those things very seldom happen.”

(Seldom!) “After all, you see the poor old thing knew what was right;

she showed the right spirit,—”

“Yes,—she,—but her _owners_?”

Here Mr. S—— was sure he saw a friend at a distance to whom it was

necessary he should speak immediately; so he darted off, and I lost the

benefit of his defence of the peculiarities of the peculiar institution.

[Signature: Mrs. C. M. Kirkland]

A NAME,

ON BEING ASKED FOR HIS AUTOGRAPH.

Why ask a Name? Small is the good it brings;

Names are but breath; _deeds_, DEEDS alone are Things.

[Signature: Horace Mann.]

WEST NEWTON, OCT. 23, 1852.

TO THE SECRETARY OF THE SOCIETY.

In compliance with the request that I would send a few lines for

insertion in “The Anti-Slavery Autograph,” I may say that I cannot

express too strongly my conviction that, if there be truth in

Revelation, it is the duty of every Christian to promote, by all

legitimate means, not only the universal and total, but the _immediate_

abolition of any system under which man can hold property in his fellow

man. Perhaps few of those who take this view of the subject are

sufficiently careful to avoid, as far as possible, any participation in,

or encouragement of slavery, by refusing to use the produce of the

unrequited toil of the slave. Yet until we do this, I think we have

little right to expect the Divine blessing upon our efforts to promote

the abolition of slavery and of the slave trade.

[Signature: Joseph Sturge]

SLAVERY AND POLYGAMY: DOCTORS OF DIVINITY IN A DILEMMA.

An argument is derived from the Jewish Scriptures in favour of

slave-holding, very plausible and weighty with that large class of

persons so poorly gifted with hearts as to find it difficult to

discriminate between the letter that killeth and the spirit that maketh

alive. The Old Testament shows clearly enough, that slave-holding was

tolerated among the Jews; and it being assumed that the system of Jewish

society, or, at all events, that the Mosaic code, was framed after a

Divine model, it is alleged to be at least supererogatory, if not

actually impious, to denounce as inconsistent with Christianity that

which God permitted to his chosen and selected people. Are _we_ to

pretend to be better and wiser than Abraham and Moses, David and

Solomon?

A recent application of this same argument can hardly fail to operate

with many, as what the mathematicians call a _reductio ad absurdum_; a

proof, that is, of the falsity of a proposition assumed, by exhibiting

its operation in other cases.

The famous Mormon doctrine of the plurality of wives, now at length

openly avowed by the heads and apostles of that new sect, is upheld and

justified by this very same argument. It plainly appears from the Old

Testament, that polygamy, equally with slavery, was one of the social

institutions of the Jews, recognised and sanctioned by their laws. And

borrowing the tone, and indeed the very words of our pro-slavery

theologians,—“Do you pretend,” asks Orson Hyde, one of the Mormon

apostles, addressing himself to those who question this new privilege of

the saints,—“Do you pretend to set yourselves above the teaching of God,

and the example of his chosen people?”

Nor does the analogy between the two cases stop here. According to the

pro-slavery biblical argument, slave-holding is only to be justified in

Christian slave-holders, who, in holding slaves, have in view not only

selfish benefit or advantage, but the good of the slaves, (who are not

able to take care of themselves,) and the glory of God. According to the

Mormon biblical argument, polygamy is to be allowed only to the saints;

and that, not for any sensual gratification, but only for the benefit of

the women (who, according to the Mormon doctrine, cannot get to heaven

without some holy husband to introduce them), and for the raising up of

a righteous seed to God’s glory.

Their favourite biblical argument, urged with such a tone of triumph and

self-satisfaction in all the southern presbyteries and consociations,

and in some northern ones, being thus newly applied by the Mormons, our

pro-slavery friends are placed in a somewhat delicate dilemma. For they

must either abandon as invalid their dogma of slave-holding derived from

Jewish practices, or, if they still hold on to the argument, and

maintain its force, they must prepare to extend the right hand of

fellowship to Brigham Young and his five and forty wives. It is, indeed,

very natural, in fact inevitable, that slavery and polygamy, avowed or

disavowed, should go together; nor does any good reason appear why those

who find justification for the one in the Jewish Scriptures should

hesitate about accepting the other.

[Signature: R. Hildreth]

THE WAY.

Believe me still, as I have ever been,

The steadfast lover of my fellow men;

My weakness,—love of holy Liberty!

My crime,—the wish that all mankind were free!

Free, not by blood; redeemed, but not by crime;

Each fetter broken, but in God’s good time!

[Signature: John G. Whittier]

AMESBURY, 10th MO. 16, 1852.

THE SLAVE AND SLAVE-OWNER.

“I would rather be anything than a slave,—except a slave-owner!” said a

wise and good man. The slave-owner inflicts wrongs,—the slave but

suffers it. He has friends and champions by thousands. Some men live

only to defend and save him. Many are willing to fight for him. Some

even to die for him.

The most effective romance of our times has been written for slaves. The

genius of more than one of our best poets has been consecrated to them.

They divide the hearts and councils of our great nation. They are daily

remembered in the prayers of the faithful. They are the most earnest

topic of the Christian world.

But the slave-owner! who weeps, who prays, who lives, who dies for him!

True, he is of the boasted Saxon race, or descended from the brilliant

Gaul, or gifted Celt. He is enriched by the transmitted civilisation of

all ages. He has been nurtured by Christian institutions. To him have

been opened the fountains of Divine truth. But from this elevation he is

to be dragged down by the mill-stone of slavery.

If he be a rural landlord, he looks around upon his ancestral

possessions, and sees the curse of slave-ownership upon them,—he knows

the time must come when “the field shall yield no meat, the flock shall

be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stall.” To

him the onward tendencies of the age are reversed. His movement is

steadily backward.

To the slave are held out the rewards of fortitude, of long suffering,

of meekness, of patience in tribulation. What and where are the promises

to the slave-owner?

Thousands among them are in a false position. They are the involuntary

maintainers of wrong, and transmitters of evil. Hundreds among them have

scrupulous consciences and tender feelings. They use power gently. They

feed their servants bountifully. They nurse the sick kindly,—and devote

weary days to their instruction. But alas! they live under the laws of

slave-owners. They are forbidden to teach the slave to read, write, or

cipher, to give them the means of independent progress and increasing

light. Their teaching is as bootless as the labour of Sisyphus! most

wearisome and disheartening.

The great eras of domestic life, bright to the thoughtless slave, are

dark with forecasting shadows to the slave-owner. The mother cannot

forget her sorrows, because a man-child is born. If she dare contemplate

his future, she sees that the activities of his nature must be

repressed, his faculties but half developed, his passions stimulated by

irresponsible power, inflamed by temptation, and solicited by convenient

opportunity. She knows that his path in life must be more and more

entangled as he goes onward,—darker and darker with the ever-deepening

misery of this cruel institution.

Is it a “_merry_ marriage-bell” that rings in the ear of a slave-owning

mother for the bridal of her daughter? Does not her soul recoil from the

possible (probable?) evils before her child; to be placed, perchance, on

an isolated plantation, environed by natural enemies; to see, it may be,

the brothers and sisters of her own children follow their slave-mother

to the field, or severed from her to be sold at the slave-market?

Compared with these miseries of the slave-owner, what are the toils and

stripes of the slave? what his labour without stimulus or requital? what

his degradation to a chattel? what the deprivation of security to the

ties of kindred, and the annulling of that relation which is their

source and chiefest blessing?

The slave looks forward with ever-growing hope to the struggle that must

come. He joyfully “smells the battle afar off.” The slave-owner folds

his arms, and shuts his eyes in paralysing despair. He hears the fearful

threatenings of the gathering storm. He knows it must come,—to him

fatally. It is only a question of time!

Who would not “rather be a slave than a slave-owner?”

[Signature: C. M. Sedgwick]

LETTER FROM THE BISHOP OF OXFORD[1] TO THE SECRETARY OF THE SOCIETY.

CUDDESDON PALACE, JULY 7, 1852.

MADAM,—I readily comply with your desire. England taught her descendants

in America to injure their African brethren. Every Englishman should aid

the American to get rid of this cleaving wrong and deep injury to his

race and nation.—I am ever yours,

[Signature: S Oxon.]

“HIDE THE OUTCASTS.”

Hide the outcasts, and bewray not

Him that wand’reth to be free;

Haste!—deliver and delay not;—

Let my outcasts dwell with thee.[2]

Shelter thou shalt not refuse him,

Lest, with him, his Lord ye slight;[3]

When, at noon, the foe pursues him,

Make thy shadow dark as night.

With thee shall he dwell, protected,

Near thee, cherished by thy side;

Though degraded, scorned, neglected,—

Thrust him not away, in pride.[4]

As, in truth, ye would that others

Unto you should succour lend,

So, to them, as equal brothers,

Equal love and help extend.[5]

Thou shalt not the slave deliver

To his master, when he flees:—

Heritage, from GOD, the Giver,

Yield them freely, where they please.[6]

As thyself,[7]—thy babes,—their mother,—

Thou wouldst shield from murd’rous arm,

So the slave, thy equal brother,

And his household, shield from harm.

Hearken, ye that know and fear me,[8]

Ye who in my law delight;

Ye that seek me, and revere me,

Hate the wrong and love the right.[9]

Fear ye not, when men upbraid you,

Worms shall all their strength devour;

My salvation still shall aid you,

Coming ages learn my power.

Why forget the Lord thy Maker?

Why th’ oppressor’s fury dread?

Zion’s King shall ne’er forsake her;—

Where’s th’ oppressor’s fury fled?[10]

Scorn the mandates of transgressors;[11]

Fear thy God, and fear none other;

’Gainst _thyself_ conspire oppressors,

When they bid thee bind thy _brother_.

Lo! the captive exile hasteth

To be loosed from thrall, forever;[12]

Lo! the power of tyrants wasteth,

Perish soon,—recovered, never!

[Signature: Wm. Goodell]

CAN SLAVES RIGHTFULLY RESIST AND FIGHT?

I do not answer this question. But the following facts are submitted as

containing the materials for an answer.

About seventy years ago, three millions of people in America thought

themselves wronged by the powers ordained of God. They resolved not to

endure the wrong. They published to the world a statement of grievances

which justified resistance to the powers ordained of God, and

deliberately revolted against the king, though explicitly commanded by

God to “honour the king.” In the process of revolt, about one hundred

thousand men, Europeans and Americans,—were slaughtered in battle, or

slowly butchered by the sickness, imprisonments, and hardships incident

to a state of war.

It was distinctly maintained in 1776, that men may rightfully fight for

liberty, and resist the powers ordained of God, if those powers

destroyed liberty. Christian men, ministers in their pulpits,

strenuously argued that it was men’s _duty_ to fight for liberty, and to

kill those who opposed them. Prayer was offered to God for success in

this process of resistance and blood; and good men implored and obtained

help from other nations, to complete the work of resistance to

oppression, and death to the oppressors.

I do not say that these positions were right, or that the men of 1776

acted right. But I do say, that _if_ they were right, we are necessarily

led to some startling conclusions. For there are now three millions of

people of America grievously wronged by the government they live under.

_If_ it was right in 1776 to resist, fight, and kill, to secure

liberty,—it is right to do the same in 1852. _If_ three millions of

whites might rightfully resist the powers ordained of God, then three

millions of blacks may rightfully do the same. _If_ France was justified

in aiding our band of revolutionists to fight for liberty, then a

foreign nation may lawfully aid men now to vindicate their rights. _If_,

as the men of 1776 declared, “when a long train of abuses evinces a

design to reduce them _under absolute despotism_, it is their right, it

is their _duty_, to throw off such government,”—then it is the duty of

three millions of men in 1852 to throw off the government which reduces

them to the frightful and absolute despotism of chattel slavery.

But what were the oppressions, which, in 1776, justified revolt, battle,

and one hundred thousand deaths? They are stated in the “Declaration of

Independence,” are familiar to all, and will therefore only be abridged

here. The powers ordained of God over the men of 1776,—“restrained their

trade,”—“refused assent to laws enacted by the local legislature,”—“kept

soldiers to overawe them,”—“did not punish soldiers for killing a few

colonists,”—“imposed taxes without their consent,”—“in some cases, did

not allow them trial by jury,”—“abolished good laws,”—“made war on them

in case of disobedience.”

These were the wrongs they complained of. But nearly all their rights

were untouched. They had schools and colleges, and could educate their

children; they could become intelligent and learned themselves; they

could acquire property, and large numbers of them had become rich; they

could emigrate without hindrance to any other country, when weary of the

oppressions of their own; they could elect their own town and state

officers; they could keep swords, muskets, powder and ball in their own

houses; they could not be lashed and sold like brutes; they were never

compelled to work without wages; they could appeal to courts of justice

for protection.

Let us now hear a statement of the wrongs inflicted on three millions of

Americans in 1852.

We have no rights left to us.

Laws forbid us to be taught even to read, and severe penalties are

inflicted on those who teach us.

The natural right of the parent over the child is wholly taken away; our

children are systematically kept in profound ignorance, and are worked

or sold like brutes, at the will of slave-holders.

We can acquire no property, and are kept in utter and perpetual

pauperism, dependent on the mere caprice or selfishness of other men for

subsistence.

If we attempt peaceably to emigrate from this land of oppression, we are

hunted by bull-dogs, or shot down like beasts,—dragged back to perpetual

slavery without trial by jury.

We are exposed to the most degrading and revolting punishments, without

judge or trial, at the passion, caprice, or cruelty of the basest

overseers.

When our wives and daughters are seduced or ravished, we are forbidden

to appeal to the courts of justice.

Whatever outrage may be perpetrated on ourselves or our families, we

have no redress.

We are compelled to work without wages; the fruits of our labour are

systematically extorted from us.

Many thousands of our people are annually collected by slave-traders,

and sold to distant States; by which means families are broken up, and

the most frightful debasement, anguish, and outrage is inflicted on us.

We have no access to courts of justice, no voice in the election of

rulers, no agency in making the laws,—not even the miserable remnant of

liberty, in choosing the despot who may have absolute power over us.

We are hopelessly consigned to that condition most revolting and

loathsome to one in whom the least vestige of manly or womanly feeling

is left,—that of absolute slavery.

The laws treat us not as human beings, but “as _chattels personal_, to

all intents, constructions, and purposes whatsoever.”

Great numbers of our people, in addition to all these enormities, endure

unutterable bodily sufferings, from the cruelty and torturing

punishments inflicted on us.

I do not assert that three millions of people, suffering such

intolerable wrongs and outrages, ought to throttle their oppressors, and

kill fifty thousand of them. I only say, that _if_ it was right to do so

in 1776, it is also right to do the same in 1852. _If_ the light

oppressions which the men of the last century endured justified war and

bloodshed, then oppressions ten thousand times worse would surely

justify revolt and blood. _If_ the colonists might rightfully refuse to

“remain in the calling wherein they were called,” as subjects of the

English government, then slaves may rightfully refuse to continue in the

calling wherein they were called. _If_ three millions of men might

lawfully disregard the text, “honour the king,” on the ground that the

king oppressed them, then three millions of men may lawfully disregard

the text, “servants obey your masters,” on the ground that those masters

grievously oppress them. _If_ the _prospect of success_ justified the

war of 1776, then as soon as three millions of slaves feel able and

determined to vindicate their rights, they may justly demand them at the

point of the sword; and any black Washington who shall lead his

countrymen to victory and liberty, even through carnage, will merit our

veneration. _If_ “liberty or death” was a noble and Christian war-cry in

1776 for the oppressed, then it would be noble and Christian-like for

the oppressed men of 1852 practically to adopt the same.

If these inferences appear startling and even horrible, why do they so

appear? Is there any reason except that inveterate prejudice, which

applies very different principles to the coloured man and the white man?

If three millions of white men were in slavery in Algiers now, should we

not urge them, as soon as there was hope of success, to imitate the men

of 1776, rise and fight for liberty? Therefore, until we are prepared to

condemn our ancestors as guilty rebels, and abhor their insurrection as

a wicked resistance to the ordinance of God, can we blame _any class_ of

people for successful revolt against an oppressive government?

Let this further question be pondered. Who were to blame for the

destruction of one hundred thousand lives in the war of 1776? The

oppressors or the oppressed? The men who fought for liberty or the men

who would not let them have it without fighting? Who then would be

responsible for the death of one hundred thousand men, if the oppressed

men of 1852 should kill so many, in fighting for liberty?

If the reader is shocked by such inquiries and inferences, and as

directly and intentionally designed to encourage servile insurrection

and civil war, he may be assured that my aim is entirely different. It

is my wish to secure timely precautions against danger. For we are to

remember, that our slave and coloured population is advancing with the

same gigantic rate of increase characteristic of our country. In

twenty-five years, we shall have six millions of slaves; in fifty years,

twelve millions; in seventy-five years, twenty-four millions. Can any

one dream of the possibility of retaining twenty-four millions, or

twelve millions, of human beings in slavery? Long before that number is

reached, will not vast multitudes of them learn the simple lessons of

liberty and right, which our books, orations, and politicians inculcate

day by day? Will there not arise among them men of courage, genius,

enthusiasm, who will, at all hazards, lead them on to that glorious

liberty which we have taught them is cheaply purchased at any peril, or

war, or bloodshed? When that day comes, as sure it must, will there not

be horrors such as civil war has never yet produced? Is it not wise,

then, to begin measures for averting so fearful a catastrophe? Is it not

madness to slumber over such a frightful future? Should not the talent

and energies of the country be directed to the momentous inquiry, How

can slavery _now_ be peacefully and rightfully removed? Does not every

attempt to hush agitation, and insist on the finality of anti-slavery

measures, make more sure the awful fact that slavery is to work out its

own emancipation in fighting and blood?

[Signature: Geo. W. Perkins]

DEATH IN LIFE.

SUPPOSED INSCRIPTION UPON THE SEPULCHRE OF A NEGRO SLAVE, WHO, FOR

SOME IMAGINED CRIME, HAD BEEN IMMURED HALF A CENTURY IN A DUNGEON.

Ope, jealous portal! ope thy cavern womb,

Thy pris’ner will not flee its close embrace;

He lived and moved too long within a tomb,

Beyond its narrow bounds to dream of space.

To eat his crust and muse, unvarying lot!

Thus, like his beard, his life slow length’ning grew;

So long shut out, the world the wretch forgot,

His cell his universe,—’twas all he knew.

For Memory soon with loving pinions wheeled

In circles narrowing each successive flight;

Her sickly wings at length enfeebled yield,

Too weak to scale the walls that bound his sight.

But Hope sat with him once, and cheered his day;

And raised his limbs, and kept his lamp alight;

Scared by his groans, at length she fled away;

And left him lone,—to spend one endless night.

What change to him, then, is the vault below,

From that where late the captive was confined?

But this,—a worm _here_ eats his BODY now;

Whilst _there_ it gnawed his slow decaying MIND.

[Signature: E. Button.]

LONDON, 1852.

TRUE REFORM.

I have received your appeal, my friends, and am not sorry to find myself

remembered by you. Every moment of the ages is pregnant with the fate of

humanity, but we are inclined to imagine that in which we live to have a

peculiar significance. At this hour, it seems to us as if the great

balance of justice swayed to and fro, in most disheartening uncertainty;

but this moment, like all others, lies in the hollow of God’s hand, and

his infinite love will not fail to justify to men and angels its

terrible discipline.

I have departed on this occasion from the plan of action once laid down

to myself. I have not presented you in these pages with the revolting

facts of slavery; for to deal with the subject at this moment in a

fitting manner, demands a prudence and tact not likely to be possessed

by one absent from the scene of action, and ignorant of the passing

moment. I wish to convey to you the assurance of my deep sympathy in all

Christ-like opposition to sin; my deep sorrow for every loss of manly

self-control, and failure of faith in God, among reformers; my

conviction that the Constitution of the United States, in so far as it

is not in harmony with the law of God, can be no sure foundation for the

law of man; that until it gives place to a higher ground of union, or

until the nation consent to give it a higher interpretation, it will

depress the national industry, corrupt the national morals, and palsy

the national strength. It is my firm faith, that man owes his first

allegiance to God, and that it is the duty of every citizen who disobeys

the law of a land, to bear its penalties with a patience and firmness

which shall show him adequate to the hour, and neither unwilling nor

unfit to complete the sacrifice he has begun. Above all, O my friends! I

pray that God may fill the hearts of the reformers in this cause with

the deepest devotion to his absolute truth, the truest perception of the

humility of Christ; that He may show them how, as its exigencies press,

they must not only be men full of anti-slavery zeal, but filled with

Divine prudence, sincere desirers of that peace which is founded on

purity,—possessors of that temperance which is its own best pledge. In

the consciousness of the martyrdom of the affections, which his position

involves, the reformer feels oftentimes secure of his eternal

compensation. But I have wondered, of late, whether martyrdom may not be

as dangerous to his spiritual life as worldly renown, or pecuniary

prosperity.

Stretched upon the rack, I may still be puffed up with pride, or an

unhealthy spirit of self-dependence; and sacrificing my last copper on

the altar of a great truth, I may still refuse to offer there my

personal vanity, my wilful self-esteem, or my bitterness of temper.

Let us be willing, O my friends! to lay these also at the feet of

Christ.

[Signature: Caroline W. Healey Dall.]

TORONTO, CANADA, JULY 22, 1852.

HOW LONG?

How long, O gracious God! how long,

Shall power lord it over right?

The feeble, trampled by the strong,

Remain in slavery’s gloomy night?

In every region of the earth,

Oppression rules with iron power;

And every man of sterling worth,

Whose soul disdains to cringe or cower

Beneath a haughty tyrant’s nod,

And, supplicating, kiss the rod

That, wielded by oppression’s might,

Smites to the earth his dearest right,—

The right to speak, and think, and feel,

And spread his uttered thoughts abroad,

To labour for the common weal,

Responsible to none but God,—

Is threatened with the dungeon’s gloom,

The felon’s cell, the traitor’s doom,

And treacherous politicians league

With hireling priests, to crush and ban

All who expose their vile intrigue,

And vindicate the rights of man.

How long shall Afric’ raise to thee

Her fettered hand, O Lord! in vain,

And plead in fearful agony

For vengeance for her children slain?

I see the Gambia’s swelling flood,

And Niger’s darkly rolling wave,

Bear on their bosoms, stained with blood,

The bound and lacerated slave;

While numerous tribes spread near and far,

Fierce, devastating, barbarous war,

Earth’s fairest scenes in ruin laid,

To furnish victims for that trade,

Which breeds on earth such deeds of shame,

As fiends might blush to hear or name.

I see where Danube’s waters roll,

And where the Magyar vainly strove,

With valiant arm and faithful soul,

In battle for the land he loved,—

A perjured tyrant’s legions tread

The ground where Freedom’s heroes bled,

And still the voice of those who feel

Their country’s wrongs, with Austrian steel.

I see the “Rugged Russian Bear,”

Lead forth his slavish hordes, to war

Upon the right of every State

Its own affairs to regulate;

To help each despot bind the chain

Upon the people’s rights again,

And crush beneath his ponderous paw

All constitutions, rights, and law.

I see in France,—O burning shame!—

The shadow of a mighty name,

Wielding the power her patriot bands

Had boldly wrenched from kingly hands,

With more despotic pride of sway

Than ever monarch dared display.

The fisher too whose world-wide nets

Are spread to snare the souls of men,

By foreign tyrants’ bayonets

Established on his throne again,

Blesses the swords still reeking red

With the best blood his country bore,

And prays for blessings on the head

Of him who wades through Roman gore.

The same unholy sacrifice

Where’ere I turn bursts on mine eyes,

Of princely pomp, and priestly pride,

The people trampled in the dust,

Their dearest, holiest rights denied,

Their hopes destroyed, their spirit crushed:

But when I turn the land to view,

Which claims, par excellence, to be

The refuge of the brave and true,

The strongest bulwark of the free,

The grand asylum for the poor

And trodden down of every land,

Where they may rest in peace, secure,

Nor fear the oppressor’s iron hand,—

Worse scenes of rapine, lust, and shame,

Than e’er disgraced the Russian name,

Worse than the Austrian ever saw,

Are sanctioned here as righteous law.

Here might the Austrian butcher[13] make

Progress in shameful cruelty,

Where women-whippers proudly take

The meed and praise of chivalry.

Here might the cunning Jesuit learn,

Though skilled in subtle sophistry,

And trained to persevere in stern

Unsympathising cruelty,

And call that good, which, right or wrong,

Will tend to make his order strong:

He here might learn from those who stand

High in the gospel ministry,

The very magnates of the land

In evangelic piety,

That conscience must not only bend

To everything the church decrees,

But it must also condescend,

When drunken politicians please

To place their own inhuman acts

Above the “higher law” of God,

And on the hunted victim’s tracks

Cheer the malignant fiends of blood,

To help the man-thief bind the chain

Upon his Christian brother’s limb,

And bear to slavery’s hell again

The bound and suffering child of Him

Who died upon the cross, to save

Alike, the master and the slave.

While all the oppressed from every land

Are welcomed here with open hand,

And fulsome praises rend the heaven

For those who have the fetters riven

Of European tyranny,

And bravely struck for liberty;

And while from thirty thousand fanes

Mock prayers go up, and hymns are sung,

Three million drag their clanking chains,

“Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung;”

Doomed to a state of slavery,

Compared with which the darkest night

Of European tyranny,

Seems brilliant as the noonday light.

While politicians void of shame,

Cry this is law and liberty,

The clergy lend the awful name

And sanction of the Deity,

To help sustain the monstrous wrong,

And crush the weak beneath the strong.

Lord, thou hast said the tyrant’s ear

Shall not be always closed to thee,

But that thou wilt in wrath appear,

And set the trembling captive free.

And even now dark omens rise

To those who either see or hear,

And gather o’er the darkening skies

The threatening signs of fate and fear;

Not like the plagues which Egypt saw,

When rising in an evil hour,

A rebel ’gainst the “higher law,”

And glorying in her mighty power,—

Saw blasting fire, and blighting hail,

Sweep o’er her rich and fertile vale,

And heard on every rising gale

Ascend the bitter mourning wail;

And blighted herd, and blasted plain,

Through all the land the first-born slain,

Her priests and magi made to cower

In witness of a higher power,

And darkness like a sable pall

Shrouding the land in deepest gloom,

Sent sadly through the minds of all,

Forebodings of approaching doom.

What though no real shower of fire

Spreads o’er this land its withering blight,

Denouncing wide Jehovah’s ire

Like that which palsied Egypt’s might;

And though no literal darkness spreads

Upon the land its sable gloom,

And seems to fling around our heads

The awful terrors of the tomb;

Yet to the eye of him who reads

The fate of nations past and gone,

And marks with care the wrongful deeds

By which their power was overthrown,—

Worse plagues than Egypt ever felt

Are seen wide-spreading through the land,

Announcing that the heinous guilt

On which the nation proudly stands,

Has risen to Jehovah’s throne,

And kindled his Almighty ire,

And broadcast through the land has sown

The seeds of a devouring fire;

Blasting with foul pestiferous breath,

The fountain springs of moral life,

And planting deep the seeds of death,

And future germs of deadly strife;

And moral darkness spreads its gloom

Over the land in every part,

And buries in a living tomb

Each generous prompting of the heart.

Vice in its darkest, deadliest stains,

Here walks with brazen front abroad,

And foul corruption proudly reigns

Triumphant in the Church of God,

And sinks so low the Christian name,

In foul degrading vice and shame,

That Moslem, Heathen, Atheist, Jew,

And men of every faith and creed,

To their professions far more true,

More liberal both in word and deed,

May well reject with loathing scorn

The doctrines taught by those who sell

Their brethren in the Saviour born,

Down into slavery’s hateful hell;

And with the price of Christian blood

Build temples to the Christian’s God,

And offer up as sacrifice,

And incense to the God of heaven,

The mourning wail, and bitter cries,

Of mothers from their children riven;

Of virgin purity profaned

To sate some brutal ruffian’s lust,

Millions of godlike minds ordained

To grovel ever in the dust,

Shut out by Christian power and might

From every ray of Christian light.

How long, O Lord! shall such vile deeds

Be acted in thy holy name,

And senseless bigots o’er their creeds

Fill the whole world with war and flame?

How long shall ruthless tyrants claim

Thy sanction to their bloody laws,

And throw the mantle of thy name

Around their foul, unhallowed cause?

How long shall all the people bow

As vassals of the favoured few,

And shame the pride of manhood’s brow,—

Give what to God alone is due,

Homage, to wealth, and rank, and power,

Vain shadows of a passing hour?

Oh for a pen of living fire,

A tongue of flame, an arm of steel!

To rouse the people’s slumbering ire,

And teach the tyrants’ hearts to feel.

O Lord! in vengeance now appear,

And guide the battles for the right,

The spirits of the fainting cheer,

And nerve the patriot’s arm with might;

Till slavery, banished from the world,

And tyrants from their power hurled,

And all mankind from bondage free,

Exult in glorious liberty!

[Signature: J M Whitfield]

LETTER FROM MR. WILSON ARMISTEAD TO THE SECRETARY OF THE SOCIETY.

LEEDS, 7TH MO. 22, 1852.

MY DEAR FRIEND,—In responding to thy welcome communication, I may say

that I rejoice in the cause of the interruption of our correspondence,

so far as it concerns thyself; thy time and talents being so

increasingly occupied, in union with other of humanity’s advocates, in

assisting to overturn the monster iniquity of our age, that crowning

crime of Christendom,—_negro slavery_!

Go on in this good work! and may God’s blessing abundantly attend, till

the eternal overthrow be effected of a system so fraught with every

evil, so abhorrent to the rights of nature, and so contrary to the

spirit of the Gospel;—till the galling chain be broken off the necks of

America’s three million slaves; till its victims be raised from the

profoundest depths of ignorance and woe, to which they are now degraded.

’Tis a marvel to me, that a system like that of negro slavery, which

admits of such atrocities, can be tolerated for a single hour! Ought not

every one who has a spark of humanity, to say nothing of Christianity,

in his bosom,—ought not all the sound part of every community in which

slavery exists, to rise up _en masse_, and declare that this abomination

shall exist no longer?

Who gave to any man the right to enslave his fellow-man? Can any

enactment of human legislators so far sanction robbery, as lawfully to

make one man the property of another? Has God poured the tide of life

through the African’s breast, and animated it with a portion of his own

Divine spirit, and at the same time deprived him of all natural

affections, that _he_ alone is to be struck off the list of rational

beings, and placed on a level with the brute? Is his flesh marble, and

his sinews iron, or his immortal spirit of a class condemned, without

hope, to penal suffering, that he is called upon to endure incessant

toil, and to be subjected to degradation, bodily and mental, such as no

other portion of the family of Adam have ever been destined to endure,

without the vengeance of Heaven being signally displayed upon the

oppressors? Does the African mother feel less love to her offspring than

the white woman? or the African husband regard with less tenderness the

wife of his bosom? Is his heart dead to the ties of kindred,—his nature

so brutalized, that the sacred associations of home and country awaken

no emotions in his breast?

History unanswerably demonstrates that the negro does feel, keenly feel,

the wrongs inflicted upon him by his unrighteous enslavers, and that his

mind, barren as it has been rendered by hard usage, and desolated with

misery, is not unwatered by the pure and gentle streams of natural

affection. Yet the lordly oppressors remain unmoved by the sad condition

of the negro, contemplate with indifference his bodily and mental

sufferings, and still dare to postpone to an indefinite period the

termination of his oppression and of their own guilt.

But thanks be to God! there _is_ some counteracting influence to this

feeling, and that it is on the advance. The night has been long and

dark,—already the horizon brightens; the day of freedom dawns.

Go on, then, my friend; I say, go on! in the good cause thou hast

espoused. Labour, and faint not. “Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do

it with all thy might.” My kind regards to Frederick Douglass; may he,

and all others also, be strengthened and encouraged to labour in the

great work of human freedom; that so, by gradual increase, like the

mighty surge, they may become strong enough to overpower and drown the

oppressor, and be enabled to devise and execute measures of mercy and

justice, which may avert the judgments of the Almighty from their guilty

land. For surely some signal display of Divine displeasure must await

America unless she repent, and undo the heavy burdens of her THREE

MILLION SLAVES.

Are not the signs of the times calculated to remind us forcibly of this

language of Isaiah, “Behold, the Lord cometh out of his place to punish

the inhabitants of the earth for their iniquity: the earth also shall

disclose her blood, and no more cover her slain.” Do we not hear

already—

“——the wheels of an avenging God,

Groan heavily along the distant road?”

Assuredly, he comes to judge the earth. “Who shall abide the day of his

coming; who shall stand when he appeareth?”

Thy Friend, very truly,

[Signature: Wilson Armistead]

IMPROMPTU STANZAS,

SUGGESTED BY THE WORKING OF THE FUGITIVE SLAVE ACT, AS ILLUSTRATED IN

THE CASE OF REV. DOCTOR PENNINGTON.

BY THE WORKSHOP BARD.

Bring out the handcuffs, clank the rusted gyves;

Rain down your curses on the doomed race;

Hang out a terror that shall haunt their lives,

In every place.

Unloose the blood-hounds from oppression’s den;

Arm every brigand in the name of law,

And triple shield of pulpit, press and pen,

Around them draw.

Ho! politicians, orators, divines!

Ho! cotton-mongers of the North and South!

Strike now for slavery, or our Union’s shrines

Are gone forsooth!

Down from their glory into chaos hurled,

Your thirty States in shivered fragments go,

Like the seared leaves by autumn tempests whirled

To depths below.

Closed be each ear, let every tongue be dumb;

Nor one sad pitying tear o’er man be shed,

Though fainting at your threshold he should come,

And ask for bread.

Though woman, fleeing from the cruel grip

Of foul oppression, scarred and stained with blood,

Where from the severed veins the driver’s whip

Hath drank its flood.

Though helpless childhood ask—O pitying Heaven!—

The merest crumb which falls upon the floor,

Tho’ faint and famished, bread must not be given,

Bolt fast the door.

And must it be, thou just and holy God!

That in our midst thy peeled and stricken poor

Shall kneel and plead amid their tears and blood,

For evermore?

Shall those whom thou hast sent baptised from heaven,

To preach the Gospel the wide world around,

To teach the erring they may be forgiven,

Be seized and bound?

Placed on the auction-block, with chattels sold,

Driven like beasts of burden day by day,

The flock be scattered from the shepherd’s fold,

The spoiler’s prey?

How long—thy people cry—O Lord, how long!

Shall not thine arm “shake down the bolted fire!”

Can deeds like these of God-defying wrongs,

Escape His ire?

Must judgments,—such as swept with fearful tread

O’er Egypt when she made thy people slaves,

Where thy hand strewed with their unburied dead

The Red Sea waves?

Must fire and hail from heaven upon us fall,

Our first-born perish ’neath the Avenger’s brand,

And sevenfold darkness, like a funeral pall

O’erspread the land?

We kneel before thy footstool, gracious God,

Spare thou our nation, in thy mercy spare;

We perish quickly ’neath thy lifted rod

And arm made bare.

[Signature: J. M. Eells.]

WEST TROY, MARCH, 1851.

JOHN MURRAY (OF GLASGOW).

About a year ago, the newspapers announced the death of Mr. John Murray,

for many years the secretary of the Glasgow Emancipation Society, and I

would do violence to truth and humanity whose servant and soldier he

was, should I neglect to pen a few recollections of that most earnest

and efficient man.

He was related to the ancient and honourable family of the Oswalds of

Sheildhall, and received that excellent educational and religious

training which is given to the children of the middle and higher classes

in Scotland. At the age of twenty-two or three, in consequence of an

attack of pulmonary hemorrhage, he sailed for the West Indies and found

employment at his trade, house-building, in St. Kitts. Very soon,

however, he found other matters to engage, and almost engross his

attention and labours; in conjunction with an uncle of George Stephen of

London, and a Dr. Hamilton, resident in St. Kitts, he did manly and

successful fight in behalf of the wronged and bleeding slave.

After a residence in that island of some years, during which he obtained

a thorough knowledge of the workings of slavery, he returned to Glasgow,

poor in pocket, but rich in abolitionism. Soon after his return, he was

united in marriage to Miss Anna ——, a lady whose perfect harmony in

sentiment, softened by feminine delicacy, made a happy anti-slavery home

for the zealous and ardent abolitionism of John Murray. It was a union

of hearts attached in early youth, and which had remained “leal” during

a long separation.

Shortly after marriage, he commenced business as a _spirit-dealer_, then

and now a most reputable calling in the opinion of the good citizens of

Glasgow. Temperate himself, his calling gradually became unpleasant to

him. At first he refused to sell spirits to any person partly

inebriated; then he reasoned himself into a total abandonment of the

death-dealing traffic. With no other business prospect before him,

prevented by his long difficulty from working at his trade, with a young

wife and child dependent on him, he suddenly locked up his spirit-cellar

and never more sold rum!

In 1828 or 1829, through the influence of his kinsman, James Oswald,

Esq., of Sheildhall, Mr. Murray was appointed surveyor on a part of the

Forth and Clyde canal, an office requiring much labour for little pay.

His prospects of promotion depended on Mr. Oswald and other members of

the Kirk of Scotland. Mr. Murray was a full member of the Tron Church,

Glasgow, when, according to law, a minister was appointed there

regardless of the choice, and contrary to the wishes of the great

majority of its members. In consequence of this appointment, and again

unmindful of personal advancement, John Murray shook the dust from his

sandals and quit at once and for ever the Tron Church and the Kirk of

Scotland.

About the same time the Glasgow Emancipation Society was formed or

re-organised, on the doctrine of immediate emancipation so splendidly

announced by a secession minister of Edinburgh. The secretaries of this

association were John Murray the surveyor, and William Smead, of the

Gallowgate, grocer; the last a Friend. These two were the head and

front, the thinking and the locomotive power of this well-known

association which did notable fight, if not the principal labour, in

effecting emancipation in the British West Indies, and in assaulting

American slavery.

And, twenty odd years ago, it was no trifling matter to do anti-slavery

work in Glasgow, the very names of whose stateliest streets proclaimed

that they were built by money wrung out of the blood and sweat of the

negroes of Jamaica, St. Vincent, &c. The whole of the retired wealth,

nearly all the active business influence, the weight of the Established

Church, the rank and fashion of Glasgow, and though last not least, the

keen wit of the poet Motherwell,[14] and the great statistical learning

and industry of M‘Queen were arrayed on the side of the slave-holder.

Sugar and cotton and rum were lords of the ascendant! Yet the poor

surveyor and the humble grocer fought on; nor did they fight alone; the

silvery voice and keen acumen of Ralph Wardlow, the earnest and powerful

Hugh Heugh, the inexorable logic and burning sarcasm of swarthy Wully

Anderson, and the princely munificence of James Johnston, combined to

awaken the people to the enormity of slavery. And the Voluntary Church

movement, and the fight for the Reform Bill aroused a varied eloquence

in the orators who pleaded for, and a kindling enthusiasm in the people

who were struggling on the liberal side of all these questions; for the

people, battling for their own rights, had heart room to hear the prayer

for the rights of others more deeply oppressed. Thus ever will liberty

be expansive and expanding in the direction of human brotherhood.

Then KNIBB came along with his fiery eloquence, which swept over and

warmed the hearts of the people with indignation at the dishonour done

religion in the martyrdom of the missionary Smith; and then the grand

scene in the British emancipation drama, the overthrow of Bothwick by

George Thompson, and the monster petitions and the reluctant assent of

the ministry and the passage of the bill.

Those were stirring times in Glasgow, and it did one’s heart good to see

John Murray in their midst. The arrangements for nearly all those

movements originated with, and were carried out by him; he never made a

speech of one minute long, yet he most effectively arranged all the

speaking, drew up all resolutions and reports and addresses; and most of

the movements in England, the pressure upon the ministry, and the

advocacy in Parliament were the result of his wide and laborious

correspondence. He used more than one ream of paper for manuscripts upon

the great cause which he seemed born to carry out successfully. In

addition to his other correspondence, nearly every issue of two of the

Glasgow tri-weekly papers contained able articles from his pen in reply

to the elaborate defence of slavery carried on in the _Glasgow Courier_

by Mr. M‘Queen. And yet this man, doing this mighty work, was so

entirely unobtrusive, so quiet in his labours, that few beyond the

committee knew him other than the silent secretary of the Glasgow

Emancipation Society. And I shall not soon forget the perfect

consternation with which he heard a vote of thanks tendered him by

resolution at an annual meeting of the society.

In 1835 or 1836, Mr. Murray was promoted to the office of collector at

Bowling Bay, for the company he had so long and faithfully served. And

many an anti-slavery wayfarer can testify to the warm welcome and genial

hospitality of the snug little stone building so beautifully packed on

the Clyde entrance of the Forth and Clyde canal. A charming family,

consisting of a devoted wife, two most promising boys, and a retiring,

sweet tempered girl, made happy the declining years of this great friend

of the slave, and earnest pioneer in many reforms. Freedom for Ireland,

the Peace Question, Radical Reform, a Free Church, and Total Abstinence,

were questions to all of which Mr. Murray devoted his pen and his purse.

His soul received and advocated whatever looked towards human progress.

In person, Mr. Murray was tall and gaunt, and would strongly remind one

of Henry Clay. About a mile from Bowling Bay, within the enclosure that

surrounds the Relief Church, in a sweet quiet spot, the green turf now

covers what remains of the once active frame of John Murray; and as,

with moistened cheek, I fling this pebble upon his cairn, I cannot help

thinking how much more has been done for the cause of human progress by

this faithful servant to his own convictions of the truth, than by the

nation-wept sage of Ashland.

[Signature: James M’Cune Smith]

NEW YORK, SEPT. 25, 1852.

POWER OF AMERICAN EXAMPLE.

At the last anniversary of the American Home Missionary Society, Rev.

John P. Gulliver made an eloquent address on the duty of bringing the

American people under the full influence of Christian principle, in an

argument drawn from the bearings of our national example on the people

of other lands. _Christianity_, he said, _alone can make the nations

free_. We fully believe in this sentiment. In answer to the question,

_How is Christianity to effect this result?_—Mr. Gulliver’s answer was:

AMERICA IS TO BE THE AGENT.

Other nations, he thought, might do much in working out this great

result; but the chief hopes of the friends of freedom, he suggested, are

centered upon this country. The world needs _an example_; and he pointed

to what the example of this nation has already done, imperfect as it is.

“It is doing, at this moment, more to change the political condition of

man than all the armies and navies,—than all the diplomacy and kingcraft

of the world.” If it be so, if as the speaker declared, “the battle of

the world’s freedom is to be fought on our own soil,” it would be

interesting to look at the obstacles in the way. The United States must

present a very different example from that exhibited the last

twenty-five years, and now exhibited, before this country will be the

agent of Christianity in evangelising the world. Think of three millions

of our countrymen in chains! Think of the large numbers held by

ministers of the Gospel and members of churches! Think of the

countenance given to slave-holders by our ecclesiastical assemblies, by

Northern preachers, by Christian lawyers, merchants, and mechanics!

Think of the platforms, adopted by the two leading political parties of

the country, composed partly of religious men! Think of the dumbness of

those that minister at the altar, in view of the great national

iniquity, and then consider the effects of _such an example_ upon other

nations, Christian and Heathen!

Dr. Hawes is stated to have said at the last annual meeting of the A. B.

C. F. M., that Dr. John H. Rice said, in his hearing, more than twenty

years ago: “I do not believe the Lord will suffer the existing type or

character of the Christian world to be impressed on the heathen.” We

also heard the remark, and believe that Dr. Rice, in alluding to the

state of religion in this country, said, “It was so far short of what

Christianity required, that sanguine as many were that the United States

was speedily to be the agent of the world’s conversion, he did not

believe, for one, that God would suffer the Christianity of this

country, as it then was, to be impressed upon the heathen world.” If the

character of our religion was thus twenty years ago, what is it now? As

a religious people we have been boastful. We have acted as if we thought

God could not convert the world without the instrumentality of this

country. It is far more probable that the converted heathen will send

missionaries to the United States to teach us the first rudiments of

Christianity, than that this country, at the present low ebb of

religion, will be the agent of converting heathen nations to God.

Dr. Hawes believed “that if the piety of the church were corrected and

raised to the standard of Paul, God would soon give to the Son the

heathen for his inheritance.” No doubt of it. Such piety would do away

with chattel slavery, with caste, with slavery platforms, with ungodly

rulers, with Indian oppression, with divorcing Christianity from the

ballot-box, with heathenism at home. Let us pray for such piety; and

that hundreds of such men as RICE and HAWES may lift up their voices

like a trumpet, and put forth corresponding action, until the nation

shall be regenerated and become fit to enlighten, and, through the grace

of God, save a dying world.

“THE GOSPEL AS A REMEDY FOR SLAVERY.”

In one of the leading Congregational papers, a writer, W. C. J., has

commenced a series of communications under the above heading. It is well

to discuss the subject. The writer says, “There are, it is true, many

among our three millions of slaves who are acquainted with the rudiments

of religious truth, and are leading lives of sincere piety.” Dr. Nelson,

a native of a slave State, stated, as the result of experience for many

years, that he had never known more than three or four slaves who he had

reason to believe were truly and intelligently pious. The Synod of South

Carolina and Georgia published to the world, some years since, that the

great mass of slaves were heathen, as much so as the heathen of any

portion of the globe. What authority W. C. J. has for saying there are,

among the three millions of American slaves, “many” who are “leading

lives of sincere piety,” I do not know. It is probably the mere

conjecture of an ardent mind. He qualifies the expression by asking,

“What is the type of the religion that too generally appears among the

slaves?” And then replies to his own question, “It is sickly and weak,

like a plant growing in a cellar, or a cave; a compound of sincere piety

with much of superstition and fanaticism.” What sort of piety is that?

A sagacious observer has remarked, that there never can be, in our day,

intelligent piety where men are not possessed of property, especially

where they are mere serfs or slaves. How many American slaves have the

piety of “Uncle Tom,” we are unable to say. Probably very few. And it

must fill the heart of every one who loves the souls of men, with

anguish to contemplate the spiritual destitution of the slaves in this

country; kept in bondage by the religious and political apathy or acts

of professing Christians, of different denominations, in their

individual or associated capacity. But to the question: _Is the Gospel a

remedy for slavery?_ We answer, unhesitatingly, not such a Gospel as is

preached to them; for while it does very little to enlighten either

slave or master, it enjoins upon the former passive obedience, and

inculcates upon the latter the right and duty of holding their

fellow-men in bondage. Nor have we much hesitation in avowing it as our

belief, that the Gospel, as generally preached in the free States, is

quite inadequate to put an end to slavery. It does not reach the

conscience of the tens of thousands who are, in various ways, connected

with slave-holding by relationship, business correspondence, or

political or ecclesiastical ties. As proof of this, we need only

contemplate the action of the Northern divisions of the political and

religious national parties. Slavery is countenanced, strengthened,

increased, and extended by their connivance or direct agency. The truth

is, Christianity, as promulgated by the great mass of the preachers and

professors at this day even in the free States, is not a remedy for

slavery. It is a lamentable truth, one that might justly occasion in the

heart of every true Christian the lamentation of the prophet Jeremiah:

“Oh that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I

might weep, day and night, for the slain of the daughters of my people!”

And it is in view of this truth, that the friends of a pure and full

Gospel have great encouragement to persevere in their work of faith and

love. The missionaries connected with the American Missionary

Association, at home and abroad, inculcate, fearlessly and persistently,

a Gospel of freedom, and make no more apology or allowance for

slave-holding than for any other sin or crime. Such missionaries should

be sustained, their numbers augmented, and prayer ascend for them

continually.

[Signature: Lewis Tappan]

LETTER TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE SOCIETY.

DEAR MADAM,—Your request to transmit my name, with a short article, for

insertion in your contemplated publication, is before me. I have neither

time nor words in which to express my unalterable abhorrence of slavery,

with all the odious apologies and blasphemous claims of divine sanction

for it, that have been attempted. I regard all attempts, by legislation

or otherwise, to give the abominable system “aid and comfort” as

involving treason against the government of God, and as insulting the

consciences and common sense of men.

Yours truly,

[Signature: C. G. Finney]

OBERLIN, 24 SEPT., 1852.

THE SLAVE’S PRAYER.

The _first effort_ of my early life in narrative writing, was in behalf

of those who, in even darker days than these, were preeminently those

who, on earth, “had no helper.”

From this tale is selected these few lines—a song introduced into the

story—not because it has any poetic merit, but because to me and perhaps

to others, it seems interesting from the above circumstance.

[Signature: Catharine E. Beecher.]

SONG OF PRAISE.

Though man neglects my sighing,

And mocks the bitter tear,

Yet does not God my crying

With kindest pity hear?

And when with fierce heat panting

His hand can be my shade,

And when with weakness fainting

Support my aching head.

And when I felt my cares

For those his love can save,

Will he not hear the prayers

Of the poor negro slave?

Yes, for the poor and needy

He promises to save,

And who is poor and needy

Like the poor negro slave?

THE STRUGGLE.

Ours is a noble cause; nobler even than that of our fathers, inasmuch as

it is more exalted to struggle for the freedom of _others_, than for our

_own_. The love of right, which is the animating impulse of our

movement, is higher even than the love of freedom. But right, freedom,

and humanity, all concur in demanding the abolition of slavery.

[Signature: Charles Sumner]

BOSTON, OCT. 16, 1852.

WORK AND WAIT.

My Friend,—I have found no moment till the present that I could devote

to a compliance with your request, and I am now probably too late.

However, let me hastily proffer a few suggestions to opponents of

slavery, which I trust may not be found unprofitable. I would say, then:

1. Do not choose to separate and isolate yourselves from the general

movement of humanity, save as you may be constrained to oppose certain

eddies of that movement. Had WILBERFORCE, CLARKSON, and their associate

pioneers in the cause of British abolition, seen fit to cut themselves

loose from all pre-existing sects and parties, and form a special

anti-slavery church and party, I think the triumph of their cause would

have been still unattained.

2. Do not refuse to do a little good because you would much prefer to do

a greater which is now unattainable. The earth revolves in her vast

orbit gradually; and he who has done whatever good he can, need not

reproach himself for his inability to do more.

3. Be foremost in every good work that the community around you _will_

appreciate,—not _because_ they will appreciate it, but because their

appreciation and sympathy will enable you to do good in other spheres,

and do it more effectually.

4. Be pre-eminent in your consideration and regard for the rights and

wrongs of labour in your own circle, even the rudest and humblest. An

abolitionist who hires his linen made up at the lowest market rate, and

pays his wash-woman in proportion, will do little good to the

anti-slavery or any other philanthropic cause. The man of liberal

culture and generous heart who unostentatiously tries to elevate the

most depressed to his own level, is doing a good work against slavery,

however unconsciously.

5. Have faith, with a divine patience; man is privileged to labour for a

good cause, but the glory of its success must redound to his Maker. Next

to a great defeat, the most fatal event for slavery would be a great

triumph. Doubtless, the bolts are now forging in some celestial armoury

destined to strike the shackles from the limbs of the bond-man, and

cleanse the land from the foulest and blackest iniquity ever organised

and legalised in the Christian world. The shout of deliverance may come

when it is least expected,—nay, the very means employed to render its

coming impossible, will probably secure and hasten it. For that and

every other needed reform, let the humane and hopeful strive, not

despairing in the densest midnight, and realising that the darkest hour

is often that preceding the dawn. Let them, squandering no opportunity,

and sacrificing no principle,

“Learn to labour, and to wait.”

[Signature: Horace Greeley]

THE GREAT EMANCIPATION.

Beautiful and happy will this world be, when slavery and every other

form of oppression shall have ceased. But this change can be produced

only by the religion of Jesus Christ. Reliance on any other power to

overthrow slavery, or restore to order and happiness this sin-crazed and

sin-ruined world, will be vain.

[Signature: Gerrit Smith]

PETERBORO’, SEPT. 22, 1852.

ODE

Sung at the celebration of the First Anniversary of the kidnapping,

at Boston, of Thomas Sims, a fugitive slave:—the kidnapping done

under the forms of law, and by its officers, 12 June, 1851. The deed

_celebrated_ at the Melodeon, Boston, 12 June, 1852.

BY REV. JOHN PIERPONT.

Souls of the patriot dead,

On Bunker’s height who bled!

The pile, that stands

On your long-buried bones,—

Those monumental stones,—

Should not suppress the groans,

This day demands.

For Freedom there ye stood;

There gave the earth your blood;

There found your graves;

That men of every clime,

Faith, colour, tongue, and time,

Might, through your death sublime,

Never be slaves.

Over your bed, so low,

Heard ye not, long ago,

A voice of power[15]

Proclaim to earth and sea,

That where ye sleep, should be

A home for Liberty,

Till Time’s last hour?

Hear ye the chains of slaves,

Now clanking round your graves?

Hear ye the sound

Of that same voice, that calls

From out our Senate halls,[16]

“Hunt down those fleeing thralls,

With horse and hound!”

That voice your sons hath swayed!

’Tis heard, and is obeyed!

This gloomy day

Tells you of ermine stained,

Of Justice’ name profaned,

Of a poor bondman, chained

And borne away!

Over Virginia’s Springs,

Her eagles spread their wings,

Her Blue Ridge towers:—

That voice,[17]—once heard with awe,—

Now asks,—“Who ever saw,

Up there, a higher law

Than this of ours?”

Must _we_ obey that voice?

When God, or man’s the choice,

Must we postpone

HIM, who from Sinai spoke?

Must we wear slavery’s yoke?

Bear of her lash the stroke,

And prop her throne?

Lashed with her hounds, must we

Run down the poor, who flee

From Slavery’s hell?

Great God! when we _do_ this,

Exclude us from thy bliss;

At us let angels hiss,

From heaven that fell!

[Signature: J. Pierpoint]

PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF A SLAVE WOMAN.

BY ANNIE PARKER.

The slaves at Oak Grove did not mourn for poor Elsie when she died, said

Aunt Phillis, continuing her narrative. She was never a favourite, and

from the time her beauty attracted the notice of the young master, and

he began to pet her, she grew prouder and prouder, and treated the other

slaves as if she were their mistress, rather than their equal. They

hated her for her influence over the master, and she knew it, and that

made matters worse between them.

When she died in giving birth to her second child, her little boy and I

were the only ones who felt any sorrow. The master had grown tired of

her, though he had once been very fond of her. Besides, he was at this

time making arrangements for his marriage with a beautiful Northern

lady, so that whatever he might have felt, nobody knew anything about

it.

Elsie was my younger sister. I loved her dearly, and had been almost as

proud as she was of her remarkable beauty. Her little boy was very fond

of his mother, and she doated upon him. He mourned and mourned for her,

after her death, till I almost thought he would die too. He was a

beautiful boy, and at that time looked very much like his father, which

was probably the reason why the master sold him, before he brought his

bride to Oak Grove.

It was very hard for me to part with poor Elsie’s little boy. But the

master chose to sell him, and my tears availed nothing. Zilpha, Elsie’s

infant, was given me to take care of when her mother died, and with that

I was obliged to be content.

Marion Lee, the young mistress, was very beautiful, but as different

from poor Elsie as light from darkness. She had deep blue eyes, with

long silken lashes, and a profusion of soft brown hair. She always made

me think of a half-blown rosebud, she was so delicate and fair. She

proved a kind and gentle mistress. All the slaves loved her, as well

they might, for she did everything in her power to make them comfortable

and happy.

When she came to Oak Grove, she chose me to be her waiting-maid. Zilpha

and I occupied a large pleasant room next to her dressing-room.

She made a great pet of Zilpha. No one ever told her that she was her

husband’s child. No one would have dared to tell her, even if she had

not been too much beloved, for any one to be willing to grieve her, as

the knowledge of this fact must have done.

In due time she, too, had a little girl, beautiful like herself. Zilpha

was delighted with the baby. She never wearied of kissing its tiny

hands, and talking to it in her sweet coaxing tones. Mrs. Lee said

Zilpha should be Ida’s little maid. The children, accordingly, grew up

together, and when they were old enough to be taught from books,

everything that Ida learned Zilpha learned also.

When Zilpha was seventeen, she was more beautiful than her mother had

ever been, and she was as gentle and loving as Elsie had been passionate

and proud. There was a beautiful, pleading look in her large dark eyes,

when she lifted the long lashes so that you could see into their clear

depths. She was graceful as a young fawn, and playful as a kitten, and

she had read and studied so many books, that _I_ thought she knew almost

as much as the master himself.

Mr. Minturn lived at Lilybank, the estate joining Oak Grove. He was an

old friend of Mr. Lee, and the families were very intimate. About this

time a relative of Mrs. Minturn died at the far South, and left her a

large number of slaves. I don’t know how they were _all_ disposed of,

but one of the number, a very handsome young man, named Jerry, was

brought to Lilybank, and became Mr. Minturn’s coachman. He was

considered a great prize, for he had a large muscular frame, and was

capable of enduring a great amount of bodily fatigue. He was, also, for

a slave, very intelligent, and from being at first merely the coachman,

he soon became the confidential servant of his master.

Owing to the intimacy between the heads of the two families, the young

people of both were much together. Ida often spent whole days at

Lilybank, and as Zilpha always accompanied her, she had ample

opportunity to become acquainted with the new man Jerry.

It so happened that I, being more closely confined by my duties at home,

had never seen Jerry, when in the summer following his coming to

Lilybank, Mrs. Lee went to visit her friends at the North, and took me

with her. Ida and Zilpha remained at home. We were gone three months. A

few days after our return, Zilpha told me that she was soon to be

married to Jerry. The poor child was very happy. She had evidently given

him her whole heart. We talked long that day, for I wanted to know how

it had been brought about, and she told me all, with the simplicity and

artlessness of a child. They had felt great anxiety less their masters

should oppose the marriage. But the fear was removed. Mr. Lee had

himself proposed it, and Mr. Minturn gladly consented. I rejoiced to see

my darling so happy, and felt truly thankful to God that the warm love

of her heart had not been blighted.

That same evening Jerry came to see Zilpha. She called me immediately,

for I had never seen him, and she wished us to meet. The moment I looked

upon his face, I knew he was my poor Elsie’s son. I grew sick and faint,

and thought I should have fallen.

Zilpha made me sit down, and brought me a glass of water, wondering all

the time, poor thing, what had made me ill so suddenly. I soon recovered

sufficiently to remember that I must not betray the cause of my

agitation. I did not speak much, but watched Jerry’s face as closely as

I could, without arresting their attention. Every moment strengthened

the conviction that my suspicion was correct. There was the same proud

look that Elsie had, the same flashing eye, and slightly curled lip, and

when he carelessly brushed back the hair from his forehead, I saw a scar

upon it, which I knew was caused by a fall but a little while before his

mother died. O God! I thought, what will become of my darling child!

I soon left the room, on the pretence that my mistress wanted me, but

really that I might shut myself into my own room and think. I did not

close my eyes that night, and when the morning dawned, I was as far as

ever from knowing what I ought to do. At last I resolved to see the

master as early as I could, and tell him all.

After breakfast I went to the library to fetch a book for my mistress,

and found the master there. He was reading, but looked up as I entered,

and said kindly, “What do you wish for, Phillis?” I named the book my

mistress wanted. He told me where it was. I took it from the shelf, and

stood with it in my hand. The opportunity which I desired had come, but

I trembled from head to foot, and had no power to speak. I don’t know

how I ever found words to tell him that Jerry was his own child. I

tried, afterwards, to remember what I said, but I could not recall a

word. He turned deadly pale, and sat for some minutes silent. At length

in a low, husky voice, he said, “You will not be likely to speak of

this, and it is well, for it must not be known. I shall satisfy myself

if what you have told me is true. If I find that it is, I shall know

what to do. You may go.”

I took the book to my mistress, and was sent by her to find Zilpha. She

was in the garden with Ida, and when I called her, she came bounding

towards me with such a bright, happy face, that I could scarcely

restrain my tears. Zilpha was a beautiful reader. She often read aloud

to her mistress, by the hour together. I liked to take my sewing and sit

with them at such times, but that day I was glad to shut myself up alone

in my room.

The next day the master sent for me to the library. “It is true,

Phillis,” he said to me, “Jerry is without doubt poor Elsie’s child.” If

an arrow had pierced my heart at that moment, I could not have felt

worse, for though I had thought I was sure it was so, all the while a

hope was lingering in my heart that I was mistaken. I did not speak, and

the master seeing how I trembled, kindly told me to sit down, and went

on; “I did not see Jerry myself,” he said, “Mr. Minturn made all

necessary inquiries for me. Jerry remembers his mother, and describes

her in a way that admits of no mistake. He remembers, too, that a

gentleman used sometimes to visit his mother, who took a great deal of

notice of him, and would let him sit upon his lap and play with his

watch seals. His mother used to be very happy when this gentleman came,

and when he went away she would almost smother the little boy with

kisses, and talk to him of his papa. I offered to buy Jerry, but Mr.

Minturn would not part with him. If he would have consented, I might

easily have disposed of the whole matter.”

A horrible fear took possession of me at these words. Would he _dare_ to

sell my darling Zilpha? The thought almost maddened me. Scarce knowing

what I did, I threw myself on my knees before him, and begged him not to

think a second time of selling his own flesh and blood. He angrily bade

me rise, and not meddle with that in which I had no concern. That he had

a right, which he should exercise, to do what he would with his own. He

had thought it proper, he said, to tell me what I had just heard, but

charged me never again to name the subject to any living being, and not

to let any one suspect from my appearance that anything unusual had

occurred. With this he dismissed me.

What I suffered during that dreadful week, is known only to God. I could

neither eat nor sleep. It seemed to me I should lose my reason.

Jerry came once to Oak Grove, but I would not see him. Zilpha I avoided

as much as possible. I could not bear to look upon her innocent

happiness, knowing as I did that it would soon be changed into

unspeakable misery.

The first three days the master was away from home. On Thursday he

returned. When I chanced to meet him, he looked uneasy; and if he came

to his wife’s room and found me with her, he would make some excuse for

sending me away.

Saturday was a beautiful bright October day, and Ida proposed to Zilpha

that they should take their books and spend the forenoon in the woods.

They went off in high spirits. I thought I had never seen my Zilpha look

so lovely. Love and happiness had added a softer grace to her whole

being. I followed them to the door, and she kissed me twice before

leaving me; then looking back, when she had gone a little way, and

seeing me still standing there, she threw a kiss to me with her little

hand, and looked so bright and joyous, that my aching heart felt a new

pang of sorrow. What was it whispered to me then that I should never see

her again?

I went back to my work, and presently the master came and asked for Ida.

He wished her to ride with him. I told him where she was, and he went in

search of her. Zilpha did not come back with them. “We told her to stay

if she wished,” Ida said. But my heart misgave me. I should at once have

gone in search of her, but Mrs. Lee wanted me, and I could not go.

I cannot bear, even now, to recall the events of that day. My worst

fears were realized. During my master’s absence, he had sold my darling

to a Southern trader, who only waited a favorable opportunity to take

her away without the knowledge of the family. He had been that morning

with Mr. Lee, and was in the house when Mr. Lee returned with Ida from

the woods.

I don’t know how the master ever satisfied his wife and Ida about

Zilpha’s disappearance. There was a report that she had run away. But I

don’t think they believed it. Certainly _I_ never did.

I almost forgot my own sorrow when I saw how poor Jerry felt when he

knew what had happened. Of course he did not know what I did. He _never_

knew why Zilpha was sent away, but he knew she was sold, and that there

was little reason to hope he should ever see her again. He went about

his work as usual, but there was a look in his eye which made one

tremble.

Before many days he was missing, and though his master searched the

country, and took every possible means to find him, he could discover no

trace of the fugitive. I felt satisfied he had followed the North Star,

but I said nothing, and was glad the poor fellow had gone from what

would constantly remind him of Zilpha.

During the following winter, Mrs. Lee had a dangerous illness. I watched

over her night and day, and when she recovered, my master was so

grateful for what I had done, that he gave me my freedom, and money

enough to bring me to the North.

Of Zilpha’s fate I have been able to learn nothing. I can only leave her

with God, who, though his vengeance is long delayed, hears and treasures

up every sigh and tear of his poor slave-children.

I saw, a few days since, a man who knows Jerry. He is living not many

miles from me, and I shall try to see him before I die. But I shall

never tell him the whole extent of the wrongs he suffered in slavery.

[Signature: Annie Parker.]

STORY TELLING.

BY ANNIE PARKER.

The winter wind blew cold, and the snow was falling fast,

But within the cheerful parlour none listened to the blast;

The fire was blazing brightly, and soft lamps their radiance shed

On rare and costly pictures, and many a fair young head.

The father in the easy chair, to his youngest nestling dove,

Whispered a wondrous fairy tale, such as all children love;

Brothers and sisters gathered round, and the eye might clearly trace

A happiness too deep for words, on the mother’s lovely face.

And when the fairy tale was done, the blue-eyed Ella said,

“Mama, please tell a story, too, before we go to bed,

And let it be a funny one, such as I like to hear,

‘Red Riding Hood,’ or ‘The Three Bears,’ or ‘Chicken Little-dear.’”

A smile beamed on the mother’s face, as the little prattler spoke,

And kissing her soft, rosy cheek, she thus the silence broke,

“I will tell you my own darlings, a story that is true,

Of a little Southern maiden, with a skin of sable hue.

“Xariffe, her mother called her, a child of beauty rare,

With soft gazelle-like eyes, and curls of dark and shining hair,

A fairy form of perfect grace, and such artless winning ways

That none who saw her, e’er could fail her loveliness to praise.

“She sported mid the orange-groves in gleeful, careless play,

And her mother, as she gazed on her, in agony would pray,

‘My Father, God! be merciful! my cherished darling save

From the curse whose sum of bitterness is to be a female slave.’”

“God heard her prayer, but often he in wisdom doth withhold

The boon we crave, that we may be pure and refined like gold;

And the mother saw Xariffe grow in loveliness and grace,

Till the roses of five summers blushed in beauty on her face.

“At length, one day, one sunny day, when earth and heaven were bright,

The mother to her daily toil went forth at morning light;

At evening, when her task was done—how can the tale be told?

She came back to her empty hut, to find her darling sold.

“Come nearer, my own precious ones, your soft white arms entwine

Around my neck, and kiss me close, sweet Ella, daughter mine;

Five years in beauty _thou_ hast bloomed, of my happy life a part,

Oh, God! I guess the anguish of that lone slave-mother’s heart.

“Now, darlings, go and kiss papa, and whisper your good night,

Then hasten to your little beds, and sleep till morning light;

But, oh! before you close your eyes, God’s care and blessing crave,

On the saddest of His children, that poor heart-broken slave.”

THE MAN-OWNER.

A friend of mine, on the —— day of ——, 18—, (the dates it is unnecessary

to specify,) became the owner of a man. He had never owned one before;

and he has had so much trouble with him, that I doubt if he will ever

allow himself to become owner of one again. My friend is not a

Southerner; yet the circumstances by which so singular a dispensation

fell to him, it is unnecessary for me to recount. I will briefly

describe the master and the man, and show how they succeeded in their

relationship.

The master was wholly respectable in his life and character; endowed

with good sense; well enough off in the world, able to hire service, if

he needed, and to pay for it: his temper not bad, though sometimes

irritable;—he could be provoked as others can. He had strong passions,

and sometimes in the course of his life they had got the better of him,

and had led him to conduct which, in the coolness of his mind, he

bitterly repented. Circumstances might have made a bad man of him. The

instructions which he received in his childhood, the example of his

parents, the respectable neighbourhood in which he resided, the church

which he attended, all had a favourable influence upon him. So he became

a man of principle. He had not, indeed, the highest principles; he was

no hero; he was not disposed to make himself a martyr. His religion was

no other than the common religion of the church to which he was

attached, and it demanded no peculiar sacrifice of him. He was a member

of one of the leading political parties, and did his full duty in

maintaining its cause. He called himself a patriot, however, not a

partizan; and talked ever of his country, as the highest exemplification

of the great principles of liberty, and considered the success of our

institutions as the hope of humanity. Yet he loved his country,—not his

race. He was not without charity to the poor; and was not unwilling to

see them, individually, rising above destitution. Yet he did not like to

associate with men lower in the social scale than himself; but had an

ambition that impelled him to court the society of those whose station

and influence were superior to his own. Nor did he care for, or believe

in, any suggestions or plans, the object of which was the elevation of

the poor as a class, and the levelling upwards of the human race. He

thought that as a divine authority has declared to us, “ye have the poor

with you always,” it was ordained that we should always have them,—that

they were an exceedingly useful class, as a foundation in society, that

the prosperous men of the world could not do without them, and that it

was not best to give them too much hope of rising.

Perhaps you will say I have given you no very definite description of

him. You will think, perhaps, were I called to write of him again, I

might, at once, better make use of the words of the poet,—

The annals of the human race,

Their ruins, since the world began,

Of him afford no other trace,

Than this,—THERE LIVED A MAN!

I fear, however, that I shall be unable to be more particular in my

description of the servant. It is said, “like master, like man,” and,

indeed, leaving out the expressions above, which show the relationship

of the master to the community and the church, the description of

temper, and of general, moral, and religious principle, would answer to

be repeated now. Suffice it to say, the man was not bad; that is, not

thoroughly bad. He cherished no secret desire for liberty. His master

had no real fear of his attempting to escape. He loved his master; and

some thought, who did not wholly know him, that never slave loved a

master with more fondness and devotion. Yet I know that he was often

disobedient. Passages,—not of arms,—but of ill-temper, of reproach, and

of insolence, not unfrequently occurred between them. High words were

used, hard looks and moody oftener still, perhaps, yet the master never

struck his servant, nor did the servant ever offer violence towards his

master. But at times they would have been very glad to part company, if

the one could have easily escaped, or the other could have made out to

do without him. Much of the disobedience which gave serious offence to

the master, was the result of inadvertence. Lessons, the most frequently

enjoined, were forgotten; they were not always listened to with an

obedient mind. Years long the master required this or that service from

day to day, and yet the command was not once a year, I may say, attended

to. Always the master was saying,—“to-morrow I shall turn over a new

leaf with him;” but he had not energy enough to carry his purpose into

effect. He intended to give his servant at least some moral education,

to teach him self-control, to prevent his bursts of passion, not by the

infliction of punishment, but by a true moral discipline; yet the work

was always delayed, and never accomplished. You will say, the master had

himself some idle fancies that he ought not to have indulged, and that a

severer course would have been more successful. But he was one of those

who doubt the advantages and shrink from the application of severity,

and he would have been no more prompt and resolute and persevering with

his servant than with himself.

At the commencement, I seemed to promise a story. But all my narrative

is closed with a word more. The master was at the age of twenty-one,

when he came into possession of his man. The connection will never be

dissolved, except, at least, by death. Indeed, reader, if you have not

already seen it, master and man were but one and the same person.

And this is the moral of my little fiction. Who will believe that any

man ought to have the ownership of another, when it is so rare to find

one of us wholly competent to govern and to own himself? Nay, the better

a man is, and the more qualified to direct and to govern others with

absolute sway, the less is he willing to take the responsibility of the

disposal of them,—but seeing his own unfitness for the office of lord,

even of himself, he prays, not that he may be a master of others, but

himself a servant of God.

[Signature: E. Buckingham]

CAMBRIDGE, MASS.,

OCT., 1852.

DAMASCUS IN 1851.

No city has been more variously described than Damascus, because none

has more contrasted features. A spruce Yankee, hearing “Silk

Buckingham’s” description of his “Paradise,” and seeing merely narrow,

half-paved, mat-covered streets, and dirty, mud-walled buildings, would

prefer his native “Slabtown” to the “most refreshing scene in all our

travels.” And yet Damascus is one of the wonders of the world,

unrivalled in what is peculiarly its own, admitting no comparison with

any existing city, revelling in a beauty and a splendour belonging to

Islamism more than Christianity, characterising the age of the Caliphs

rather than of the Crystal Palace.

In antiquity it has no rival. Nineveh, Babylon, Palmyra, its

contemporaries, have wholly perished; while this oldest inhabited place

has lost none of its population, yielded none of its local pre-eminence,

abandoned but one of the arts for which it was so renowned, and taken

not a tinge of European thought, worship, life. It numbers not far from

one hundred and fifty thousand souls, of whom twenty thousand may be

Greek and Armenian Christians. It lies in an exquisite garden at the

foot of Anti-Lebanon, in a plain of inexhaustible fertility, watered by

innumerable brooklets from those ancient streams, “Abana and Pharphar,”

and shut in by vast groves of walnut and poplar, a “verdurous wall of

Paradise,” which are all that the traveller sees for hours as he draws

near the city of “Abraham’s steward.”

Originally the seat of a renowned kingdom, and once the capital of the

Saracen empire, it is now the centre of an Ottoman Pashalik, but

virtually the metropolis of Syria, as it was in the earliest time. Miss

Martineau and some others carelessly give it a length of seven miles;

but the real extent of the city walls in any one direction is not more

than two. The gardens and groves around, however, take the same name,

and are over twenty miles in circuit, of a studied, picturesque

wildness, shaded lanes, running side by side with merry brooks, the

whole overshadowed by the deepest forest, and forming delicious relief

from the sunburnt plains of Syria. Besides the walnut, so much prized

for its fruit all through the East, and the poplar, the main dependence

for building, the famous damson, or Damascene plum, abounds, the citron,

orange and pomegranate spread their fruit around, the vine is everywhere

seen, and only three miles off stands the forest of damask rose-trees

whence the most delicious attar is made. But a genuine American will

prefer the walnut-tree to all others, because of its freedom of growth,

massiveness of trunk, depth of shade, and impressive reminiscence of

home. These trees, together with the mulberry, do very much for the

commerce of the city. But, indeed, Damascus is the chief depôt of

manufactures for Syria. Silk goods cannot be bought to such advantage

elsewhere, nor of such antique patterns, nor of genuine “damask”

colours. The business has suffered somewhat of late, because Turkish

husbands discovering that English prints are so much cheaper, and their

wives fancying the flowing calicoes to be so much prettier than the

patterns which their grandmothers wore, foreign goods are supplanting

the domestic; and a macadamized road is contemplated from the city to

its seaport Beiroot, whose effect would be to make British and French

manufactures still more common, but, at the same time, to give free

circulation to the handicraft of Damascus. As at Constantinople, Cairo,

and elsewhere, each trade occupies its own quarter,—the jewellers,

pipe-makers, silk-dealers, grocers, saddlers, having each their

exclusive neighbourhood; none of the Bazaars are such noble edifices as

cluster around the mosque of St. Sophia; and in the rainy season (that

is, during their winter) the pavement is so wretched and slippery, and

such a mass of mud and water oozes down from the rotten awnings, that

one does no justice to the unequalled richness of some of the fabrics

and the grandeur of some of the khans. One traveller informs the public

that there is a grand “Bazaar for wholesale business” of variegated

black and white marble, “surmounted by an ample dome,” with a lively

fountain in the centre. There are _thirty-one_ such buildings, which

_we_ should call Exchanges, bearing each the name of the Sultan who

erected them. Those that I visited were contiguous to the only street

which wears a name in the East, and that name, familiar to us in the

book of Acts, “Strait,” Dritto, as your guide mumbles the word,—a long

avenue, containing the only hotel in the city.

An oriental peculiarity which makes the large towns exceedingly

interesting is, that every occupation is carried on out of doors, and

right under your eyes as you stroll along. Here the silk web is

stretched upon the outside wall of some extended building; here the

butcher is dressing the meat, perhaps for your dinner, right upon the

side-walk; and here a sort of extempore sausage is cooking, so that one

might almost eat it as he walks,—a capital idea for hasty eaters, and a

very nice article in its way. There is no other part of the world where

so much cooking is to be seen all the while, and such loads of

sweetmeats gladden the eyes of childhood, and such luscious compounds,

scented with attar, spread temptation before every sense. The business

of “El-Shans” might almost be headed by the five hundred public bakers,

though the silk is still the principal manufacture, and there are

reported to be seven hundred and forty-eight dealers in damask,

thirty-four silk-winders, one hundred silk dyers, and one hundred and

forty-three weavers of the same article.

The famous Damascus blades are nothing but an “antiquity” now; they are

uniformly called so by the people, were offered to our purchase in very

small quantities by persons who knew nothing of their manufacture, at

exorbitant prices, and in very uncouth forms. They appeared to be

curiosities to them, as they certainly were to us, and are said to be

sometimes manufactured in England. A mace, offered for sale among these

scimetars of wavy steel, smacked of the Crusaders’ time, and was richly

inlaid with gold; the fire-arms, or blunderbusses, were grotesque and

unwieldy, richly mounted, and gorgeously ornamented.

An attempt is making in certain quarters to persuade the civilised world

that Turkey has still some military power. Of this almost imperial city

the citadel is but a mass of ruins. Count Guyon, a confederate general

with Kossuth, and now a Turkish Pasha and drill-officer, assured us it

would be repaired and strengthened; but the city walls offer no defence

against a modern army; and the Turkish soldier, notwithstanding his

courage and endurance, cannot be bastinadoed into military science;

neither have educated Christian officers, like Guyon, any real

influence. I frequently saw the sentinels asleep while upon duty, and

recent experience has proved them incapable of standing before a far

smaller amount of really trained troops. Some of the barracks at

Damascus are rather the finest which the Sultan possesses, and among the

best in the world,—some, too, of the military exercises are pursued with

a creditable zeal,—but, on the whole, a more slatternly corps of men was

never seen, nor one less confident in themselves.

The Christian curiosities of this oldest of inhabited cities begin with

the mosque of peculiar sanctity, once the site of St. John’s Cathedral,

whose chamber of relics, containing a pretended head of the Baptist, is

inaccessible even to Mussulmen, the priesthood excepted. Six huge

Corinthian columns, once a part of its proud portico, are built into

houses and stores, so that you get but faint glimpses of their beauty

and size until you mount the flat mud roof of the modern buildings, and

look down into the vast area of the temple, six hundred and fifty feet

by one hundred and fifty; and there find towering above you these

massive, blackened remains of Christian architecture,—significant

emblems of the triumph of the Crescent over the Cross, and yet, by their

imperishableness, a promise of renewed glory in some brighter future.

That Islamism is hastening to decay, is shown impressively enough in the

grand dervish mosque and khan, once quite celebrated as the Syrian

enthronement of this advance guard of Mahommed; now nothing could seem

more deserted! one minaret is threatening to fall, the spacious garden

is all weed-grown, and few are left to mourn over the reverse. These

banner-men of the prophet, no longer warriors, students, and apostles,

do but beg their bread and drone their prayers, and exchange the

reputation of fanatics for that of hypocrites; they are, in fact, monks

of the mosque, like their brothers in celibacy, changing sadly enough

from enthusiasm to formality—from the fervour of first love to the

grave-like chillness of an exhausted ritual.

St. Paul is of course the great name at Damascus; and your dragoman is

very certain always as to the place where he was lowered down the city

wall; then he takes you to the tomb of the soldier who befriended him,

close at hand, and to the little underground chapel where the apostle’s

sight was restored. But, having passed in turn under the sceptre of

Assyrian, Babylonian, Persian, Jew, Roman, Arabian, Turk, every stone of

these buildings could tell a most interesting tale, and every timber of

the wall could answer with an experience corresponding to the out-door

revolution.

But the grand attractions in this “Flower of the Levant and Florence of

Turkey” are the coffee-houses and the palaces of the rich. The writer of

Eothen, I think it is, says, “there is one coffee-house at Damascus

capable of containing a hundred persons.” A Damascus friend, a resident

clergyman, carried me into one where he had himself seen three thousand

people on a gala-day, and several where hundreds of visitors would not

make a crowd. This great necessity of Turkish life,—this deliverance

from the loneliness of an oriental home,—this luxurious substitute for

the daily newspaper, is carried to perfection here. First of all comes

the lofty, dome-covered hall, surrounded by couches like beds, enlivened

on all festivals by the Arabian improvisator with his song and his tale;

back of this are a number of rude arbours, interlaced with noble

shade-trees, and watered profusely by nimble brooks, the whole lighted

every night by little pale lamps. These are the gossiping-places for the

Damascene gentlemen; where the fragrant tchébouque, the coal narghilch,

or water-pipe, the delicious coffee, the indolent game at dominoes (I

never saw chess played at the east), is relieved by such domestic

anecdotes as, according to my American friend, brand the domestic life

of the city with beastly sensuality.

One would fain hope that these are the prejudices of an earnest

missionary; but, until the residence of years had given familiarity with

the language, any opinions of a visitor would be erroneous, as well as

presuming. Nothing, however, can bring back so powerfully the Arabian

tales of enchantment as the interior of the wealthier Damascus houses.

The outside is always mean and forbidding. You have sometimes to stoop

under the rude, low gate; and the first court, surrounded only by

servants’ rooms, has nothing of interest. But the second and third

quadrangles become more and more spacious, and are always of variegated

marble, containing a perpetually playing fountain, overhung by the

orange, the citron, and the vine, whose fragrance floats dreamily on the

moist air, lulling the senses to repose. The grand saloon I found to be

always arranged pretty much the same. A lower part of the pavement near

the door is the place of deposit for slippers, shoes, and the pattens

which Damascus women use so much in the winter—articles, all of them,

never intended for ornament, and never fitted to the foot, but worn as

loose as possible, and never within the sitting-room, but simply as a

protection from out-door wet and soil. The lower portion of the room and

its rug-strewn floor are of variegated marbles; then comes

curiously-carved woods, then painted stucco, decorated with mirrors

rising to the distant, gay-coloured roof. The immense loftiness, the

moist coolness, the gorgeous hues, the emblazoned texts from the Koran,

the sweet murmur of the various fountains, the fragrance of the

orange-groves, succeed to the out-door dreariness like a dream of Haroun

Al Raschid to the wearied pilgrim on desert sands. The divan, or wide

sofa, on three sides of this hall, is far more agreeable in this

enervating climate than any European furniture; only in winter, as the

ground underneath is permeated by leaky clay tubes bearing the waters of

the Barrady, and there is no other heating apparatus save a brazer of

charcoal, one is sometimes very chilly, and is tempted to exchange this

tomb-like dampness for a cozy corner near some friendly stove or

familiar fire-place.

But the general impression which unintelligent strangers carry from

Damascus is, that the people have what they want, and have gone wisely

to work to realise their idea of earthly blessedness—an indolent,

sensual, dreamy one to you, but in their eyes no faint type of the

Mussulman’s heaven.

[Signature: F W Holland]

CAMBRIDGE, MASS.

RELIGIOUS, MORAL, AND POLITICAL DUTIES.

What is morally wrong cannot be made practically right. The laws of

morality are taught in the Bible; they are unchangeable truths; no

sophistry, no expediency, no compromise can set them aside.

If politics are the science of government, and if civil government is a

divine institution, intended to protect the rights of all; if “an injury

done to the meanest subject is an injury done to the whole body;” and if

“rulers must be just, ruling in the fear of God,” all legislation should

be based on moral duty. Any enactments that have not this basis are, in

the Divine sight, null and void. If man is endowed by nature with

inalienable rights, no legislation can rightfully wrest them from him.

Any attempt to do it is an infraction of the moral law. Our religious,

moral, and political duties are identical and inseparable. It is the

duty of all Christian legislators so to act _now_, as they know all must

act when truth and righteousness shall have a universal prevalence on

the earth.

[Signature: Lindley Murray Moore]

WHY SLAVERY IS IN THE CONSTITUTION.

That the constitution of a country should guide its actions is a

_truism_ which none, perhaps, will be inclined to controvert. Indeed, so

thoroughly is this sentiment inwrought into us, that we generally expect

_practice_ will conform to the constitution. But does not this subject

States or nations to misapprehension by others? South Carolina, for

instance, abolishes the writ of _habeas corpus_ with regard to the

coloured people, and imprisons them, although citizens of the other

States, when they enter her borders in any way. Now these are direct

violations of the constitution of the United States, so direct that they

cannot be explained away. Nor do we think that South Carolina even

attempts it. She openly says, that it is owing to the existence of

slavery among them, that the _free_ coloured man, coming into contact

with the slaves, will taint them with notions of liberty which will make

them discontented—that therefore her own preservation, the first law of

nature, requires her to do everything she can to keep the disturbing

force out of her limits, even if she have to violate the constitution of

the United States. This she asserts, too, when, at the formation of the

constitution, she was one of the large slave-holding States—when she had

before her the example of every nation that had practised slavery, and

when now her senators and representatives in Congress are sworn to

support the Constitution of the Union. Thus we see that it would be

doing injustice to the constitution, were we to judge of it by the

practice of South Carolina.

But the inquirer will not be satisfied with the South Carolina reason.

He wants something more and better. He says, too, that these give good

occasion to those exercising the powers of the government to confirm all

law-abiding citizens in the belief that they are well protected by the

constitution, and to let the world see how much the United States prize

it. But supposing he were told that those who control the government

feel, in this matter with South Carolina,—that those who had the control

of the government had no power to coerce South Carolina to perform her

duty,—indeed, in a partizan view, that the person injured were _no_

party,—that, as a general thing, they could not even vote,—were

unimportant, nay, insignificant. If those reasons will not satisfy him,

he must be content with them, for it is not likely that he will get any

other. We further see that injustice would be done by considering the

_practice_ of a people as fairly representing their constitution.

A constitution—the organic law—in truth, all other law is, in some

degree, a restraint on men. It makes an umpire of right, of reason,

which, if not the same in degree in all of us, is the same in nature.

Yet it must be, to some extent, a restraint on the desires or selfish

passions of men. In fact, it is only carrying out the rule of doing to

others what they should do to us, and tends not only to preserve, but

advance society. If no constitution or law agreeing with it existed, men

would be left to the sway of their own passions—nearly always

selfish—and they being many, and very different in different persons,

sometimes, indeed, altogether opposite, and of various intensity—would,

by their indulgence, tend to confusion, to the deterioration of society,

and to its ultimate dissolution.

Now the people of the United States, without the least hesitation,

declare—and they fully believe it—that we are the freest nation on

earth. Other nations, doubtless, with equal sincerity, say of themselves

the same thing. In England where, as in other countries of the old

world, there is a crowded population, raising to a high price everything

eatable, the _operatives_, as they are called, find it difficult to

sustain life. They work all the time they can, and, even after doing

this, they sometimes perish for want of such food as a human being ought

to eat. No one will say that affairs are well ordered here. Having no

such state of things ourselves—for except in some of our large cities,

no one starves to death—we think that to suffer one to die in this way

is cruel and heartless. And we greatly upbraid them for it.

But here we have slavery—a vicious usage which European nations,

excepting one, have long since laid aside. This they have done not only

because it was productive of innumerable visible evils, but because it

greatly and injuriously affected the character of all concerned in it,

and in this way the character of the whole community—making one part of

it proud and imperious—another suppliant and servile. They upbraid us

with it, as being more inconsistent with the high principles we profess,

than any act tolerated among them is or can be with the principles they

profess. Then whilst we wonder that with so much wealth as England

unquestionably has, she should suffer her operatives to die for

something to eat, she wonders that slavery—the worst thing known among

men—should be permitted to raise its head, not only as high as the many

good things and exalted things we possess, but above them, making them,

when necessary, give way to it, and even contribute to its support.

Indeed, it appears to them like Satan appearing in company with the sons

of God, to accuse and try one of his children.

But all this is of no avail. It produces no satisfying results—in fact,

nothing but mutual ill-will and irritation. It is no difficult thing to

select from the _practices_ of many people such as are not what they

ought to be—still the theory, the foundation of the government may be

opposed to them, but may be unable to put them down. They may exist in

spite of it, and in entire opposition to its _main_ object. Indeed, it

appears to be much like reasoning in a circle. We come to no end—no

conclusion. To come to any satisfactory end, any useful conclusion, we

must take something permanent—something believed by both to be

unchangeably right and moral, and compare our governments with it.

Whichever comes nearest to the standard agreed on by both, must of

course be nearest right. But what shall this be? Now as it is utterly in

vain for one to be happy unless he conform to the laws of his being, so

it is in vain that governments are instituted, unless they aim to secure

the happiness and safety of the governed—the people. The peculiar

benefit or enrichment of those that administer the laws, has nothing to

do with good government. Then it ought, by all means, to resemble the

Divine government. We do not mean a _theocracy_ as it has been

administered, the worst, perhaps, of all governments—but it should be

remarkable for its sacred regard to justice and right.

But it is objected, this deals with persons as individuals, and not as

members of the body politic, and that all Christ’s exhortations were of

this kind. Well, be it so—what of that? There is not the least danger,

if one will acquit himself well in his various relations as an

individual—a MAN—but what he will make a good citizen.

Taking this as our standard, and recurring for a moment to the assertion

of our superior happiness as a people—an assertion sometimes regarded as

the boastful grandiloquence of our people—is it not true that our

government, _our constitution of government we mean_, more nearly

resembles the Divine government than any other does, and _therefore_,

that those under it _are_ more happy? Some, while they are inclined to

admit the fact of our superior happiness, yet seem rather to attribute

it to our great abundance of land than to the nature of the government.

We do not wish in any way to deny, or even to neutralize this statement

about the abundance of our land, but still it is one of the _facts_ of

the government—the government was made with this in view—it constitutes

a subject for its action, and it makes of it a strong auxiliary. This,

though undeniably a _great_ cause, is not, in our judgment, the _chief_

one. It is intellect—mind united to such feelings and desires that most

advance others to be like God in intelligence and worth—that makes the

chief cause. Where this _is_ not—or is not called forth and put into

activity, nothing to purpose can be done. Indeed it is the most powerful

agent for good anywhere to be found—for it is behind all others, and

sets all others to work.

We have among us here no form of religion, as they have in other

countries, to which one must conform before he can have any share in the

government—no religion that is made part of the government, and which

is, therefore, _national_ Religion—how we shall serve or worship a Being

or beings superior to ourselves, and who are thought to influence our

destiny for ever—is, certainly, the highest concern of man. As no church

or nation can answer for him at the judgment-seat, he ought to be left

free on this matter. On this point he is free in this country, he is

under no necessity to think in a particular channel. In his inquiries

after truth, he has nothing to fear from the government about the

changes through which his mind may pass, or the conclusions to which it

may be led; although he may draw on him the prejudice and hatred of the

sects from whom he feels compelled to differ.[18] We may truly say, that

in this country, however far we may go in imitating foreign forms, we

have nothing higher than the preacher of the truth.

We have no monarch _born_ to rule over us, whether we will or not; nor

are we obliged to support this costly leech according to _his_ dignity

by money wrung from the labour of the country, nor a host of relatives

according to _their_ dignity, as connected with the monarch.

Nor have we a class _born_ to be our legislators. We have no legislative

castes, nor social castes, but we may truly say, that any native-born

citizen of the United States may aspire to any position, be it

governmental or social.

Nor have we fought so long—though it must be confessed we are ready

pupils here—as most of the countries of the old world have; still we

begin to make fighting almost a part of the government, and a part of

the religion of the land. But all this does not answer the question that

many have asked, and that our intelligence and exemption from bias in

many things make more remarkable—why did we suffer slavery to find a

place in a constitution in which there are so many good things—why did

we make a garden of healthful fruits and enchanting flowers, and place

this serpent in it?

The answer to this question may be easily given by one that well knows

the condition of the country that soon followed on the treaty of 1783.

Till we were governed by the present constitution we were governed by

the Articles of Confederation. The United States, though nominally a

nation, had no power to enforce any stipulations she might make. For

instance, if she should promise by a treaty to pay interest on the debt

that we had contracted to secure our national independence, each State,

by its _own_ power and authority, were to raise its quota of the whole

amount. If a State failed to raise it, the _United States_ had no

redress. It had no authority to coerce any State, no matter what was the

cause of failure. This is given as only an instance, and did we not

think it made our position very plain, others might be given in manifold

abundance—all tending to show the unfaithfulness of the States to the

engagements of the United States, and the utter powerlessness of the

latter to keep her word. It was owing to this that the _main_ object of

the Convention was the more perfect union of the States, and that in

this way there might be conferred on the United States the same plenary

power to carry out her engagements that a State had to carry out hers.

The Convention did not meet to do away with slavery, but chiefly to form

such an union as would obviate the difficulty already mentioned, and so

keenly felt by some of the most earnest friends of the country. Although

slavery was pretty well understood then, and seemed to be opposed to all

the principles of freedom asserted, yet as it had been embraced by so

many, that if they should be united against the constitution its

adoption would be endangered, it was thought best not to insist on its

instant abolition. Men as yet had too much selfishness in them, and,

although reasonable beings, they have too much of the animal in them to

see that, in the long run, honesty is the best policy. Many of the

opponents of slavery, even from the slave States themselves, took this

opportunity of showing the baseness and turpitude of the whole

system—its advocates from the far South defending it as well as they

could. These advocates gave it as their opinion that, owing to the

Declaration of 1776, one which had already done wonders at the

North—owing to the influence of the principles of liberty inserted into

the constitution, and to the feeling of justice pervading all classes of

persons, and to the progress of refinement and true civilization,

slavery would ultimately disappear.[19]

At the time this opinion was expressed by the conventionists from the

South, although we cultivated cotton to a small extent, it could not be

regarded as staple. Soon after making the constitution it began to be

important. It could be produced only at the South. As it grew in value

the notion of abolishing slavery began to wane, till now some of the

leading men of that part of the country say it is not only a good thing,

but an indispensable one to the highest perfection of the social system.

[Signature: James G. Birney.]

THE TWO ALTARS;

OR, TWO PICTURES IN ONE.

BY MRS. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

I.—THE ALTAR OF LIBERTY, OR 1776.

The well-sweep of the old house on the hill was relieved, dark and

clear, against the reddening sky, as the early winter sun was going down

in the west. It was a brisk, clear, metallic evening; the long drifts of

snow blushed crimson red on their tops, and lay in shades of purple and

lilac in the hollows; and the old wintry wind brushed shrewdly along the

plain, tingling people’s noses, blowing open their cloaks, puffing in

the back of their necks, and showing other unmistakable indications that

he was getting up steam for a real roystering night.

“Hurra! how it blows!” said little Dick Ward, from the top of the mossy

wood-pile.

Now Dick had been sent to said wood-pile, in company with his little

sister Grace, to pick up chips, which everybody knows was in the olden

time considered a wholesome and gracious employment, and the peculiar

duty of the rising generation. But said Dick, being a boy, had mounted

the wood-pile, and erected there a flag-staff, on which he was busily

tying a little red pocket handkerchief, occasionally exhorting Gracie

“to be sure and pick up fast.” “O, yes, I will,” said Grace; “but you

see the chips have got ice on ’em, and make my hands so cold?”

“O! don’t stop to suck your thumbs!—who cares for ice? Pick away, I say,

while I set up the flag of Liberty.”

So Grace picked away as fast as she could, nothing doubting but that her

cold thumbs were in some mysterious sense an offering on the shrine of

Liberty; while soon the red handkerchief, duly secured, fluttered and

snapped in the brisk evening wind.

“Now you must hurra, Gracie, and throw up your bonnet,” said Dicky, as

he descended from the pile.

“But won’t it lodge down in some place in the wood-pile?” suggested

Gracie, thoughtfully.

“O, never fear; give it to me, and just holler now, Gracie, ‘Hurra for

Liberty!’ and we’ll throw up your bonnet and my cap; and we’ll play, you

know, that we were a whole army, and I’m General Washington.”

So Gracie gave up her little red hood, and Dick swung his cap, and up

they both went into the air; and the children shouted, and the flag

snapped and fluttered, and altogether they had a merry time of it. But

then the wind—good-for-nothing, roguish fellow!—made an ungenerous

plunge at poor Gracie’s little hood, and snipped it up in a twinkling,

and whisked it off, off, off—fluttering and bobbing up and down, quite

across a wide, waste, snowy field, and finally lodged it on the top of a

tall strutting rail, that was leaning very independently, quite another

way from all the other rails of the fence.

“Now, see; do see!” said Gracie; “there goes my bonnet! What will Aunt

Hitty say?” and Gracie began to cry.

“Don’t you cry, Gracie; you offered it up to Liberty, you know; it’s

glorious to give up everything for Liberty.”

“O! but Aunt Hitty won’t think so.”

“Well, don’t cry, Gracie, you foolish girl! Do you think I can’t get it?

Now, only play that that great rail was a fort, and your bonnet was a

prisoner in it, and see how quick I’ll take the fort, and get it!” and

Dick shouldered a stick, and started off.

“What upon ’arth keeps those children so long? I should think they were

making chips!” said Aunt Mehetabel; “the fire’s just a-going out under

the tea-kettle.”

By this time Gracie had lugged her heavy basket to the door, and was

stamping the snow off her little feet, which were so numb that she

needed to stamp to be quite sure that they were yet there. Aunt

Mehetabel’s shrewd face was the first who greeted her as the door

opened.

“Gracie—what upon ’arth!—wipe your nose, child; your hands are frozen.

Where alive is Dick? and what’s kept you out all this time? and where is

your bonnet?”

Poor Gracie, stunned by this cataract of questions, neither wiped her

nose nor gave any answer; but sidled up into the warm corner, where

grandmamma was knitting, and began quietly rubbing and blowing her

fingers, while the tears silently rolled down her cheeks, as the fire

made their former ache intolerable.

“Poor little dear!” said grandmamma, taking her hands in hers; “Hitty

shan’t scold you. Grandma knows you’ve been a good girl; the wind blew

poor Gracie’s bonnet away;” and grandmamma wiped both eyes and nose, and

gave her, moreover, a stalk of dried fennel out of her pocket, whereat

Gracie took heart once more.

“Mother always makes fools of Roxy’s children,” said Mehetabel, puffing

zealously under the tea-kettle. “There’s a little maple sugar in that

saucer up there, mother, if you will keep giving it to her,” she said,

still vigorously puffing. “And now, Gracie,” she said, when, after a

while, the fire seemed in tolerable order, “will you answer my

question?—Where is Dick?”

“Gone over in the lot to get my bonnet.”

“How came your bonnet off?” said Aunt Mehetabel. “I tied it on firm

enough.”

“Dick wanted me to take it off for him to throw up for Liberty,” said

Grace.

“Throw up for fiddlestick! Just one of Dick’s cut-ups, and you were

silly enough to mind him!”

“Why, he put up a flag-staff on the wood-pile, and a flag to Liberty,

you know, that papa’s fighting for,” said Grace more confidently, as she

saw her quiet, blue-eyed mother, who had silently walked into the room

during the conversation.

Grace’s mother smiled, and said encouragingly, “And what then?”

“Why, he wanted me to throw up my bonnet and he his cap, and shout for

Liberty; and then the wind took it and carried it off, and he said I

ought not to be sorry if I did lose it; it was an offering to Liberty.”

“And so I did,” said Dick, who was standing as straight as a poplar

behind the group; “and I heard it in one of father’s letters to mother,

that we ought to offer up everything on the altar of Liberty! And so I

made an altar of the wood-pile.”

“Good boy!” said his mother; “always remember everything your father

writes. He has offered up everything on the altar of Liberty, true

enough; and I hope you, son, will live to do the same.”

“Only, if I have the hoods and caps to make,” said Aunt Hitty, “I hope

he won’t offer them up every week—that’s all!”

“O! well, Aunt Hitty, I’ve got the hood; let me alone for that. It blew

clear over into the Daddy-ward pasture-lot, and there stuck on the top

of the great rail; and I played that the rail was a fort, and besieged

it, and took it.”

“O! yes, you’re always up to taking forts, and anything else that nobody

wants done. I’ll warrant, now, you left Gracie to pick up every blessed

one of them chips!”

“Picking up chips is girl’s work,” said Dick; “and taking forts and

defending the country is men’s work.”

“And pray, Mister Pomp, how long have you been a man?” said Aunt Hitty.

“If I an’t a man, I soon shall be; my head is ’most up to my mother’s

shoulder, and I can fire off a gun too. I tried the other day, when I

was up to the store. Mother, I wish you’d let me clean and load the old

gun; so that, if the British should come!”—

“Well, if you are so big and grand, just lift me out that table, sir,”

said Aunt Hitty, “for it’s past supper-time.”

Dick sprung, and had the table out in a trice, with an abundant clatter,

and put up the leaves with quite an air. His mother, with the silent and

gliding motion characteristic of her, quietly took out the table-cloth

and spread it, and began to set the cups and saucers in order, and to

put on the plates and knives, while Aunt Hitty bustled about the tea.

“I’ll be glad when the war’s over, for one reason,” said she. “I’m

pretty much tired of drinking sage-tea, for one, I know.”

“Well, Aunt Hitty, how you scolded that pedlar, last week, that brought

along that real tea.”

“To be sure I did! S’pose I’d be taking any of his old tea, bought of

the British? Fling every teacup in his face first!”

“Well, mother,” said Dick, “I never exactly understood what it was about

the tea, and why the Boston folks threw it all overboard.”

“Because there was an unlawful tax laid upon it, that the Government had

no right to lay. It wasn’t much in itself; but it was a part of a whole

system of oppressive meanness, designed to take away our rights, and

make us slaves of a foreign power!”

“Slaves!” said Dicky, straightening himself proudly. “Father a slave!”

“But they would not be slaves! They saw clearly where it would all end,

and they would not begin to submit to it in ever so little,” said the

mother.

“I wouldn’t, if I was they,” said Dicky.

“Besides,” said his mother, drawing him towards her, “it wasn’t for

themselves alone they did it. This is a great country, and it will be

greater and greater; and it’s very important that it should have free

and equal laws, because it will by-and-by be so great. This country, if

it is a free one, will be a light of the world—a city set on a hill,

that cannot be hid; and all the oppressed and distressed from other

countries shall come here to enjoy equal rights and freedom. This, dear

boy, is why your father and uncles have gone to fight, and why they do

stay and fight, though God knows what they suffer, and” —and the large

blue eyes of the mother were full of tears; yet a strong, bright beam of

pride and exultation shone through those tears.

“Well, well, Roxy, you can alway talk, everybody knows,” said Aunt

Hitty, who had been not the least attentive listener of this little

patriotic harangue; “but, you see, the tea is getting cold, and yonder I

see the sleigh is at the door, and John’s come; so let’s set up our

chairs for supper.”

The chairs were soon set up, when John, the eldest son, a lad of about

fifteen, entered with a letter. There was one general exclamation, and

stretching out of hands towards it. John threw it into his mother’s lap;

the tea-table was forgotten, and the tea-kettle sang unnoticed by the

fire, as all hands piled themselves up by mother’s chair to hear the

news. It was from Captain Ward, then in the American army, at Valley

Forge. Mrs. Ward ran it over hastily, and then read it aloud. A few

words we may extract:—“There is still,” it said, “much suffering. I have

given away every pair of stockings you sent me, reserving to myself only

one; for I will not be one whit better off than the poorest soldier that

fights for his country. Poor fellows! it makes my heart ache sometimes

to go round among them, and see them with their worn clothes and torn

shoes, and often bleeding feet, yet cheerful and hopeful, and every one

willing to do his very best. Often the spirit of discouragement comes

over them, particularly at night, when, weary, cold, and hungry, they

turn into their comfortless huts on the snowy ground. Then sometimes

there is a thought of home and warm fires, and some speak of giving up;

but next morning out comes Washington’s general orders—little short

note; but it’s wonderful the good it does! and then they all resolve to

hold on, come what may. There are commissioners going all through the

country to pick up supplies. If they come to you, I need not tell you

what to do. I know all that will be in your hearts.”

“There, children, see what your father suffers,” said the mother, “and

what it costs these poor soldiers to gain our liberty.”

“Ephraim Scranton told me that the commissioners had come as far as the

Three-mile Tavern, and that he rather ’spected they’d be along here

to-night,” said John, as he was helping round the baked beans to the

silent company at the tea-table.

“To-night?—Do tell, now!” said Aunt Hitty. “Then it’s time we were awake

and stirring. Let’s see what can be got.”

“I’ll send my new over-coat, for one,” said John. “That old one an’t cut

up yet, is it, Aunt Hitty?”

“No,” said Aunt Hitty; “I was laying out to cut it over, next Wednesday,

when Desire Smith could be here to do the tailoring.”

“There’s the south room,” said Aunt Hitty, musing; “that bed has the two

old Aunt Ward blankets on it, and the great blue quilt, and two

comforters. Then mother’s and my room, two pair—four comforters—two

quilts—the best chamber has got——”

“O! Aunt Hitty, send all that’s in the best chamber. If any company

comes, we can make it up off from our beds!” said John. “I can send a

blanket or two off from my bed, I know;—can’t but just turn over in it,

so many clothes on, now.”

“Aunt Hitty, take a blanket off from our bed,” said Grace and Dicky at

once.

“Well, well, we’ll see,” said Aunt Hitty, bustling up.

Up rose grandmamma, with great earnestness, now, and going into the next

room, and opening a large cedar-wood chest, returned, bearing in her

arms two large snow-white blankets, which she deposited flat on the

table, just as Aunt Hitty was whisking off the table-cloth.

“Mortal! mother, what are you going to do?” said Aunt Hitty.

“There,” she said, “I spun those, every thread of ’em, when my name was

Mary Evans. Those were my wedding blankets, made of real nice wool, and

worked with roses in all the corners. I’ve got them to give!” and

grandmamma stroked and smoothed the blankets, and patted them down, with

great pride and tenderness. It was evident she was giving something that

lay very near her heart; but she never faltered.

“La! mother, there’s no need of that,” said Aunt Hitty. “Use them on

your own bed, and send the blankets off from that;—they are just as good

for the soldiers.”

“No, I shan’t!” said the old lady, waxing warm; “’t an’t a bit too good

for ’em. I’ll send the very best I’ve got, before they shall suffer.

Send ’em the _best_!” and the old lady gestured oratorically!

They were interrupted by a rap at the door, and two men entered, and

announced themselves as commissioned by Congress to search out supplies

for the army. Now the plot thickens. Aunt Hitty flew in every

direction,—through entry-passages, meal-room, milk-room, down cellar, up

chamber,—her cap-border on end with patriotic zeal; and followed by

John, Dick, and Gracie, who eagerly bore to the kitchen the supplies

that she turned out, while Mrs. Ward busied herself in quietly sorting,

bundling, and arranging in the best possible travelling order, the

various contributions that were precipitately launched on the kitchen

floor.

Aunt Hitty soon appeared in the kitchen with an armful of stockings,

which, kneeling on the floor, she began counting and laying out.

“There,” she said, laying down a large bundle on some blankets, “that

leaves just two pair apiece all round.”

“La!” said John, “what’s the use of saving two pair for me? I can do

with one pair, as well as father.”

“Sure enough,” said his mother; “besides, I can knit you another pair in

a day.”

“And I can do with one pair,” said Dickey.

“Yours will be too small, young master, I guess,” said one of the

commissioners.

“No,” said Dicky; “I’ve got a pretty good foot of my own, and Aunt Hitty

will always knit my stockings an inch too long, ’cause she says I grow

so. See here,—these will do;” and the boy shook his, triumphantly.

“And mine, too,” said Gracie, nothing doubting, having been busy all the

time in pulling off her little stockings.

“Here,” she said to the man who was packing the things into a

wide-mouthed sack; “here’s mine,” and her large blue eyes looked

earnestly through her tears.

Aunt Hitty flew at her.—“Good land! the child’s crazy. Don’t think the

men could wear your stockings,—take ’em away!”

Gracie looked around with an air of utter desolation, and began to cry,

“I wanted to give them something,” said she. “I’d rather go barefoot on

the snow all day, than not send ’em anything.”

“Give me the stocking’s, my child,” said the old soldier tenderly.

“There, I’ll take ’em, and show ’em to the soldiers, and tell them what

the little girl said that sent them. And it will do them as much good as

if they could wear them. They’ve got little girls at home, too.” Gracie

fell on her mother’s bosom, completely happy, and Aunt Hitty only

muttered, “Everybody does spile that child; and no wonder, neither!”

Soon the old sleigh drove off from the brown house, tightly packed and

heavily loaded. And Gracie and Dicky were creeping up to their little

beds.

“There’s been something put on the altar of Liberty to-night, hasn’t

there, Dick?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Dick; and, looking up to his mother, he said, “But,

mother, what did you give?”

“I?” said the mother, musingly.

“Yes, you, mother; what have you given to the country?”

“All that I have, dears,” said she, laying her hands gently on their

heads,—“my husband and my children!”

II.—THE ALTAR OF ——, OR 1850.

The setting sun of chill December lighted up the solitary front window

of a small tenement on —— street, which we now have occasion to visit.

As we push gently aside the open door, we gain sight of a small room,

clean as busy hands can make it, where a neat, cheerful young mulatto

woman is busy at an ironing-table. A basket full of glossy-bosomed

shirts, and faultless collars and wristbands, is beside her, into which

she is placing the last few items with evident pride and satisfaction. A

bright, black-eyed boy, just come in from school, with his satchel of

books over his shoulder, stands, cap in hand, relating to his mother how

he has been at the head of his class, and showing his school-tickets,

which his mother, with untiring admiration, deposits in the little real

china tea-pot, which, as being their most reliable article of gentility,

is made the deposit of all the money and most especial valuables of the

family.

“Now, Henry,” says the mother, “look out and see if father is coming

along the street;” and she begins filling the little black tea-kettle,

which is soon set singing on the stove.

From the inner room now daughter Mary, a well-grown girl of thirteen,

brings the baby, just roused from a nap, and very impatient to renew his

acquaintance with his mamma.

“Bless his bright eyes!—mother will take him,” ejaculates the busy

little woman, whose hands are by this time in a very floury condition,

in the incipient stages of wetting up biscuit, “in a minute;” and she

quickly frees herself from the flour and paste, and, deputing Mary to

roll out her biscuit, proceeds to the consolation and succour of young

master.

“Now, Henry,” says the mother, “you’ll have time, before supper, to take

that basket of clothes up to Mr. Sheldin’s;—put in that nice bill that

you made out last night. I shall give you a cent for every bill you

write out for me. What a comfort it is, now, for one’s children to be

gettin’ learnin’ so!”

Henry shouldered the basket, and passed out the door, just as a

neatly-dressed coloured man walked up, with his pail and white-wash

brushes.

“O, you’ve come, father, have you?— Mary, are the biscuits in? —you may

as well set the table, now. Well, George, what’s the news?”

“Nothing, only a pretty smart day’s work. I’ve brought home five

dollars, and shall have as much as I can do these two weeks!” and the

man, having washed his hands, proceeded to count out his change on the

ironing-table.

“Well, it takes you to bring in the money,” said the delighted wife;

“nobody but you could turn off that much in a day!”

“Well, they do say—those that’s had me once—that they never want any

other hand to take hold in their rooms. I s’pose its a kinder practice

I’ve got, and kinder natural!”

“Tell ye what,” said the little woman, taking down the family strong

box—to wit, the china tea-pot aforenamed—and pouring the contents on the

table, “we’re getting mighty rich now! We can afford to get Henry his

new Sunday cap, and Mary her muslin-de-laine dress;—take care, baby, you

rogue!” she hastily interposed, as young master made a dive at a dollar

bill, for his share in the proceeds.

“He wants something, too, I suppose,” said the father; “let him get his

hand in while he’s young.”

The baby gazed with round, astonished eyes, while mother with some

difficulty, rescued the bill from his grasp; but, before any one could

at all anticipate his purpose, he dashed in among the small change with

such zeal as to send it flying all over the table.

“Hurra!—Bob’s a smasher!” said the father, delighted; “he’ll make it

fly, he thinks;” and, taking the baby on his knee, he laughed merrily,

as Mary and her mother pursued the rolling coin all over the room.

“He knows now, as well as can be, that he’s been doing mischief,” said

the delighted mother, as the baby kicked and crowed uproariously;—“he’s

such a forward child, now, to be only six months old!—O, you’ve no idea,

father, how mischievous he grows;” and therewith the little woman began

to roll and tumble the little mischief-maker about, uttering divers

frightful threats, which appeared to contribute, in no small degree, to

the general hilarity.

“Come, come, Mary,” said the mother, at last, with a sudden burst of

recollection; “you mustn’t be always on your knees fooling with this

child!—Look in the oven at them biscuits.”

“They’re done exactly, mother,—just the brown!”—and, with the word, the

mother dumped baby on to his father’s knee, where he sat contentedly

munching a very ancient crust of bread, occasionally improving the

flavour thereof by rubbing it on his father’s coat-sleeve.

“What have you got in that blue dish, there?” said George, when the

whole little circle were seated around the table.

“Well, now, what _do_ you suppose?” said the little woman, delighted;—“a

quart of nice oysters,—just for a treat, you know. I wouldn’t tell you

till this minute,” said she, raising the cover.

“Well,” said George, “we both work hard for our money, and we don’t owe

anybody a cent; and why shouldn’t we have our treats, now and then, as

well as rich folks?”

And gaily passed the supper hour; the tea-kettle sung, the baby crowed,

and all chatted and laughed abundantly.

“I’ll tell you,” said George, wiping his mouth, “wife, these times are

quite another thing from what it used to be down in Georgia. I remember

then old Mas’r used to hire me out by the year; and one time, I

remember, I came and paid him in two hundred dollars,—every cent I’d

taken. He just looked it over, counted it, and put it in his

pocket-book, and said, ‘You are a good boy, George,’—and he gave me

_half-a-dollar_!”

“I want to know, now!” said his wife.

“Yes, he did, and that was every cent I ever got of it; and, I tell you,

I was mighty bad off for clothes, them times.”

“Well, well, the Lord be praised, they’re over, and you are in a free

country now!” said the wife, as she rose thoughtfully from the table,

and brought her husband the great Bible. The little circle were ranged

around the stove for evening prayers.

“Henry, my boy, you must read,—you are a better reader than your

father,—thank God, that let you learn early!”

The boy, with a cheerful readiness, read, “The Lord is my Shepherd,” and

the mother gently stilled the noisy baby, to listen to the holy words.

Then all kneeled, while the father, with simple earnestness, poured out

his soul to God.

They had but just risen,—the words of Christian hope and trust scarce

died on their lips,—when, lo! the door was burst open, and two men

entered; and one of them advancing, laid his hand on the father’s

shoulder. “This is the fellow,” said he.

“You are arrested in the name of the United States!” said the other.

“Gentlemen, what is this?” said the poor man, trembling.

“Are you not the property of _Mr. B._, of Georgia?” said the officer.

“Gentlemen, I’ve been a free, hard-working man, these ten years.”

“Yes, but you are arrested on suit of Mr. B., as his slave.”

Shall we describe the leave-taking?—the sorrowing wife, the dismayed

children, the tears, the anguish,—that simple, honest, kindly home, in a

moment so desolated! Ah, ye who defend this because it is law, think,

for one hour, what if this that happens to your poor brother should

happen to you!

* * * * *

It was a crowded court-room, and the man stood there to be tried—for

life?—no; but for the life of life—for liberty!

Lawyers hurried to and fro, buzzing, consulting, bringing

authorities,—all anxious, zealous, engaged,—for what?—to save a

fellow-man from bondage?—no; anxious and zealous lest he might

escape,—full of zeal to deliver him over to slavery. The poor man’s

anxious eyes follow vainly the busy course of affairs, from which he

dimly learns that he is to be sacrificed—on the altar of the Union; and

that his heart-break and anguish, and the tears of his wife, and the

desolation of his children, are, in the eyes of these well-informed men,

only the bleat of a sacrifice, bound to the horns of the glorious

American altar!

* * * * *

Again it is a bright day, and business walks brisk in this market.

Senator and statesman, the learned and patriotic, are out this day, to

give their countenance to an edifying and impressive, and truly American

spectacle,—the sale of a man! All the preliminaries of the scene are

there; dusky-browed mothers, looking with sad eyes while speculators are

turning round their children,—looking at their teeth, and feeling of

their arms; a poor, old, trembling woman, helpless, half-blind, whose

last child is to be sold, holds on to her bright boy with trembling

hands. Husbands and wives, sisters and friends, all soon to be scattered

like the chaff of the threshing-floor, look sadly on each other with

poor nature’s last tears; and among them walk briskly glib, oily

politicians, and thriving men of law, letters, and religion, exceedingly

sprightly and in good spirits,—for why?—it isn’t _they_ that are going

to be sold; it’s only somebody else. And so they are very comfortable,

and look on the whole thing as quite a matter-of-course affair; and, as

it is to be conducted to-day, a decidedly valuable, and judicious

exhibition.

And now, after so many hearts and souls have been knocked and thumped

this way and that way by the auctioneer’s hammer, comes the

_instructive_ part of the whole; and the husband and father, whom we saw

in his simple home, reading and praying with his children, and

rejoicing, in the joy of his poor ignorant heart, that he lived in a

free country, is now set up to be admonished of his mistake.

Now there is great excitement, and pressing to see, and exultation and

approbation; for it is important and interesting to see a man put down

that has tried to be a _free man_.

“That’s he, is it?—Couldn’t come it, could he?” says one.

“No, and he will never come it, that’s more,” says another,

triumphantly.

“I don’t generally take much interest in scenes of this nature,” says a

grave representative;—“but I came here to-day for the sake of the

_principle_!”

“Gentlemen,” says the auctioneer, “we’ve got a specimen here that some

of your Northern abolitionists would give any price for; but they shan’t

have him!—no! we’ve looked out for that. The man that buys him must give

bonds never to sell him to go North again!”

“Go it!” shout the crowd, “good!—good!—hurra!” “An impressive idea!”

says a senator; “a noble maintaining of principle!” and the man is bid

off, and the hammer falls with a last crash on his hearth, and hopes,

and manhood, and he lies a bleeding wreck on the altar of Liberty!

Such was the altar in 1776;—such is the altar in 1850.

OUTLINE OF A MAN.

In some of those castle building day-dreams, in which, like all youth of

an imaginative turn, I was wont, in my early days, to indulge; a

favourite image of my creation was an _Africo-American for the time_,—a

coloured man, who had known by experience the bitterness of slavery, and

now by some process free, so endowed with natural powers, and a certain

degree of attainments, all the more rare and effective for being

acquired under great disadvantages,—as to be a sort of Moses to his

oppressed and degraded tribe. He was to be gifted with a noble person,

of course, and refinement of manners, and some elegance of thought and

expression; by what unprecedented miracle such a paragon was to be

graduated through the educational appliances of American slavery,

imagination did not trouble herself to inquire. She was painting

fancy-pieces, not portraits.

Having thus irresponsibly struck out upon the canvas her central figure,

she would not be slow to complete the picture with many a rose-coloured

vision of brilliant successes and magic triumphs won by her hero, in his

great enterprise of the redemption of his people. A burning sense of

their wrongs fired his eloquence with an undying, passionate

earnestness, and as he alternately reproached the injustice, and

appealed to the generosity of his oppressors, all opposition gave way

before him; the masses, as one man, demanded the emancipation of his

long-degraded, deeply-injured race; and millions of regenerated men rose

up, upon their broken chains, and called him blessed.

Years rolled away, and these poetic fancies faded “into the light of

common day.” The cold, stern, pitiless reality remained. The dark

incubus of slavery yet rested down upon more than three millions of the

victims of democratic despotism. But the triumphant champion of the

devoted race had melted away, with the morning mists of my boyish

conjuring.

One morning in the summer of 1844, walking up Main-street in the city of

Hartford, I was attracted by the movements of a group of some

twenty-five or thirty men and women, in a small recess, or court, by the

side of the old Centre Church. They appeared to be organized into an

assembly, and a tall mulatto was addressing them. I drew near to listen.

The speaker was recounting the oft-enacted history of a flight from

slavery. With his eye upon the cold, but true north star, and his ear

ever and anon bent to the ground, listening for the “blood-hound’s

savage bay,” sure-footed and panting, the fugitive was before me! My

attention had been arrested; I was profoundly interested. The audience

was the American Anti-slavery Society, then just excluded from some of

the public halls of the city, and fain to content themselves, after an

apostolic sort, with the _next best_ accommodations. The orator was

FREDERICK DOUGLASS, the most remarkable man of this country, and of this

age; and—may I not dare to add—the almost complete fulfilment of my

early dream!

Since that day, through assiduous application, and a varied experience,

he has continued to develop in the same wonderful ratio of improvement,

which even then distinguished him as a prodigy in self-education.

Unusually favored in personal appearance and address, full of generous

impulse and delicate sensibility, exuberant in playful wit, or biting

sarcasm, or stern denunciation, ever commanding in his moral attitude,

earnest and impressive in manner, with a voice eminently sonorous and

flexible, and gesture full of dramatic vivacity, I have many times seen

large audiences swayed at his will; at one moment convulsed with

laughter, and the next bathed in tears; now lured with admiration of the

orator, and now with indignation at the oppressor, against whom he

hurled his invective. But in my boyhood’s quasi-prophetic fancy of such

a man and his inimitable success, I had not counted upon one antagonist,

whose reality and potency, the observation of every day now forces

painfully upon me. I mean the strange and unnatural _prejudice against

mere colour_, which is so all-prevalent in the American breast, as

almost to nullify the influence of _such_ a man, _so_ pleading; while

his dignity, his urbanity, his imperturbable serenity and good nature,

his genuine purity and worth all fail, at times, to secure him from the

grossest indignities, at the hands of the coarse and brutal. Nobody who

knows him will be inclined to question our estimate of his character,

but it still comports with the intelligence and refinement and piety of

a large proportion of American society to label him “nigger,” and the

name itself invites to safe contumely, and irresponsible violence.

I have spoken of Frederick Douglass as an interesting man—a wonderful

man. Look at him as he stands to-day before this nation, and then

contemplate his history.

Begin with him when, a little slave-child, he lay down on his rude

pallet, and that slave-mother, from a plantation twelve miles away,

availed herself of the privilege granted grudgingly, of travelling the

whole distance, after the day’s work, (on peril of the lash, unless back

again by sunrise to her task,) that she might lie there by his side, and

sing him with her low sweet song to sleep. “I do not recollect,” says

he, “of ever seeing my mother by the light of day. She was with me in

the night. She would lie down with me, and get me to sleep, but long

before I awaked she was gone.” How touching the love of that dark-browed

bondwoman for her boy! How precious must the memory of that dim but

sweet remembrance be to him, who though once a vassal, bound and

scourged, and still a Helot, proscribed and wronged, may not be robbed

of this dear token that he, too, _had once a mother_! Her low sad

lullaby yet warps his life’s dark woof—for she watches over his pathway

now with spirit-eyes, and still keeps singing on in his heart, and

nursing his courage and his patience.

Follow him through all the tempestuous experience of his bondage. His

lashings, his longings, his perseverance in possessing himself of the

key of knowledge, which, after all, only unlocked to him the fatal

secret that he was a slave, a thing to be bought and sold like oxen.

Imagine the tumult of his soul, as standing by the broad Chesapeake, he

watched the receding vessels, “while they flew on their white wings

before the breeze, and apostrophized them as animated by the living

spirit of freedom;”[20] or when reading in a stray copy of the old

“Columbian Orator,” (verily, all our school-books must be expurgated of

the incendiary ‘perilous stuff’ in which they abound,) the “Dialogue

between a Master and his Slave,” and Sheridan’s great speech on Catholic

Emancipation.[21] See to what heroic resistance his proud heart had

swollen, when he turned outright upon his tormentor—pious Mr. Corey, the

“nigger-breaker”—and inflicted condign retribution on his heartless

ribs; “after which,” says he, significantly, “I was never whipped again;

_I had several fights_, but was never whipped.” Attend him in his exodus

from our republican Egypt. Witness his struggles with poverty; his vain

attempts to find employment at his trade, as a coloured man, in the

_free_ North. Behold him at last emerging from his obscurity at the

Anti-slavery Convention in Nantucket. Somebody, who is aware of his

extraordinary natural intelligence, invites him to speak. Tremblingly he

consents. “As soon as he had taken his seat,” said Mr. Garrison, after

describing the tremendous effect of his remarks upon the audience,

“filled with hope and admiration, I rose and declared that Patrick

Henry, of revolutionary fame, never made a speech more eloquent in the

cause of liberty, than the one we had just listened to from the hunted

fugitive.”

That was just _eleven years_ ago,—and what is Frederick Douglass now? I

would fain avoid the language of exaggeration. It is ever a cruel

kindness which over-praises, exciting expectations, which cannot but be

disappointed. But when, in view of the fact that the subject of this

sketch was but thirteen years ago A SLAVE, in all the darkness and

disability of Southern bondage, I affirm that his present character,

attainments, and position constitute a phenomenon hitherto perhaps

unprecedented in the history of intellectual and moral achievement, none

who know and are competent to weigh the facts, will account the terms

extravagant. It is not to be expected but that his mental condition

should betray his early disadvantages. His information, though amazing,

under the circumstances, will not of course bear comparison, in fulness

and accuracy, with that of men who have been accumulating their

resources from childhood. In his writings, the deficiency of early

discipline is most manifest, rendering them diffuse and unequal, though

always interesting, and often exceedingly effective. He is properly an

_orator_. His addresses, like those of Whitfield, and many other popular

speakers, lose a large proportion of their effect in reading. They

require the living voice, and the magnetic presence of the orator. But

even in this respect, Douglass is not uniform in his performance, but is

quite dependent on his _surroundings_, and the inspiration of the

moment. But when, all these consenting, he becomes thoroughly possessed

of his theme, and his tall form—six feet high and straight as an

arrow,—his bearing dignified and graceful,—self-possessed, yet

modest,—his countenance flexible, and wonderful in power of expression,

and his voice, with its rich and varied modulation, are all summoned to

the work of enchantment, many a rapt assembly, insignificant in neither

numbers nor intelligence, can testify to the witchery of his eloquence.

And, after all, the _moral_ features of this interesting character

constitute its principal charm. The integrity and manliness of Frederick

Douglass, potent and acknowledged where he is at all known, have much to

do with his influence as a popular orator. It has been customary, with a

certain class of Shibboleth-pronouncers to class him with infidels, but

this is only the appropriate and characteristic retort of a certain sort

of “highly respectable” Christianity to his uncompromising denunciations

of its hollow and selfish character. _I_ think Frederick Douglass is a

Christian; he is a gentleman, I _know_. There are few white men of my

acquaintance, who could have borne so much adulation, without losing the

balance of their self-appreciation. Nobody ever knew Frederick Douglass

to over-rate himself, or to thrust himself anywhere where he did not

belong, or upon anybody who might by any possibility object to his

companionship,—unless, in the latter case, when he deemed necessary the

assertion of a simple right. Whence he got his retiring and graceful

modesty, and his nice sense of the minute proprieties,—unless it be

somehow in his _blood_,—is a mystery to me. Can it be possible that such

refinements are _scourged_ into men “down South?” An illustration of

this may be seen in his response to those gentlemen of Rochester, who,

by way of gratifying a grudge against the Anti-slavery faction of their

party, nominated Douglass for Congress in derision.

“GENTLEMEN:—I have learned with some surprise, that in the Whig

Convention held in this city on Saturday last, you signified, by

your votes, a desire to make me your representative in the

Legislature of this State. Never having, at any time that I

recollect, thought, spoken, or acted, in any way, to commit myself

to either the principles or the policy of the Whig party; but on the

contrary, having always held, and publicly expressed opinions

diametrically opposed to those held by that part of the Whig party

which you are supposed to represent, your voting for me, I am bound

in courtesy to suppose, is founded in a misapprehension of my

political sentiments.

“Lest you should, at any other time, commit a similar blunder, I beg

to state, once for all, that I do not believe that the slavery

question is settled, and settled for ever. I do not believe that

slave-catching is either a Christian duty, or an innocent amusement.

I do not believe that he who breaks the arm of a kidnapper, or

wrests the trembling captive from his grasp, is ‘a traitor.’ I do

not believe that Daniel Webster is the saviour of the Union, nor

that the Union stands in need of such a saviour. I do not believe

that human enactments are to be obeyed when they are point-blank

against the law of the living God. And believing most fully, as I

do, the reverse of all this, you will easily believe me to be a

person wholly unfit to receive the suffrages of gentlemen holding

the opinion and favouring the policy of that wing of the Whig party

denominated ‘the _Silver Grays_.’

“With all the respect which your derision permits me to entertain

for you,

“I am, gentlemen,

“Your faithful fellow-citizen,

“FREDERICK DOUGLASS.”

The perpetrators of the wanton and gratuitous insult which elicited this

beautiful rebuke, would be sadly outraged were we to insist on

withholding the title of “gentlemen” from those who could, on any

pretence, trample on the feelings of such as they esteem their

inferiors. If they half begin to comprehend the meaning of the term,

much more to feel its power, their cheeks must have crimsoned with

shame, when they saw their own unprovoked assault, contrasted with, the

calm and self-respectful serenity of this reply.

Another instance of this dignity under circumstances of peculiar trial,

may be found in his own account—in the columns of “Frederick Douglass’

Paper”—of a rencontre with a hotel clerk in Cleveland. It is as

follows:—

“At the ringing of the morning bell for breakfast, I made my way to the

table, supposing myself included in the call; but I was scarcely seated,

when there stepped up to me a young man, apparently much agitated,

saying: ‘Sir, you must leave this table.’ ‘And why,’ said I, ‘must I

leave this table?’ ‘I want no controversy with you. You must leave this

table.’ I replied, ‘that I had regularly enrolled myself as a boarder in

that house; I expected to pay the same charges imposed upon others; and

I came to the table in obedience to the call of the bell; and if I left

the table I must know the reason.’ ‘We will serve you in your room. It

is against our rules.’ ‘You should have informed me of _your rules_

earlier. Where are your rules? Let me see them.’ ‘I don’t want any

altercation with you. You must leave this table.’ ‘But have I not

deported myself as a gentleman? What have I done? Is there any gentleman

who objects to my being seated here?’ (There was silence round the

table.) ‘Come, sir, come, sir, you must leave this table at once.’

‘Well, sir, I cannot leave it unless you will give me a better reason

than you have done for my removal.’ ‘Well, I’ll give you a reason if

you’ll leave the table and go to another room.’ ‘That, sir, I will not

do. You have invidiously selected me out of all this company, to be

dragged from this table, and have thereby reflected upon me as a man and

a gentleman; and the reason for this treatment shall be as public as the

insult you have offered.’ At these remarks, my carrot-headed assailant

left me, _as he said_, to get help to remove me from the table.

Meanwhile I called upon one of the servants (who appeared to wait upon

me with alacrity), to help me to a cup of coffee, and assisting myself

to some of the good things before me, I quietly and thankfully partook

of my morning meal without further annoyance.”

Whatever may have been the duty of Mr. Douglass, (and none who know him

can for a moment doubt what his inclination would have been,) in case

the proscriptive “rules of the house” had been previously made known to

him, the justice, as well as the gentlemanly self-possession of his

bearing, in relation to this public outrage, must, I think, be

sufficiently obvious.

* * * * *

[Signature: Rob R. Raymond]

THE HEROIC SLAVE-WOMAN.

It was my privilege to see much of Edward S. Abdy, Esq., of England,

during his visit to our country, in 1833 and 1834. The first time I met

him was at the house of Mr. James Forten, of Philadelphia, in company

with two other English gentlemen, who had come to the United States,

commissioned by the British Parliament to examine our systems of prison

and penitentiary discipline. Mr. Abdy was interested in whatsoever

affected the welfare of man. But he was more particularly devoted to the

investigation of slavery. He travelled extensively in our Southern

States, and contemplated with his own eyes the manifold abominations of

our American despotism. He was too much exasperated by our tyranny to be

enamoured of our democratic institutions; and on his return to England,

he published two very sensible volumes, that were so little

complimentary to our nation, that our booksellers thought it not worth

their while to republish them.

This warm-hearted philanthropist visited me several times at my home in

Connecticut. The last afternoon that he was there, we were sitting

together at my study window, when our attention was arrested by a very

handsome carriage driving up to the hotel opposite my house. A gentleman

and lady occupied the back seat; and on the front were two children,

tended by a black woman, who wore the turban that was then, more than

now, usually worn by _slave_ women.

We hastened over to the hotel, and soon entered into conversation with

the slave-holder. He was polite, but somewhat nonchalant, and defiant of

our sympathy with his victim. He readily acknowledged, as slave-holders

of that day generally did, that, abstractedly considered, the

enslavement of fellow men was a great wrong; but then he contended that

it had become a necessary evil, necessary to the enslaved, no less than

to the enslavers; the former being unable to do without masters, as much

as the latter were to do without servants. And he added, in a very

confident tone, “you are at liberty to persuade our servant-woman to

remain here, if you can.”

Thus challenged, we of course sought an interview with the slave; and

informed her that having been brought by her master into the free

States, she was, by the laws of the land, set at liberty. “No, I am not,

gentlemen,” was her prompt reply. We adduced cases, and quoted

authorities to establish our assertion that she was free. But she

significantly shook her head, and still insisted that the examples and

the legal decisions did not reach her case. “For,” said she, “_I

promised_ mistress that I would go back with her and the children.” Mr.

Abdy undertook to argue with her that such a promise was not binding. He

had been drilled in the moral philosophy of Dr. Paley, and in that

debate seemed to be possessed of its spirit. But he failed to make any

visible impression upon the woman. She had bound herself by a promise to

her mistress, that she would not leave her; and that promise had

fastened upon her conscience an obligation, from which she could not be

persuaded that even her natural right to liberty could exonerate her.

Mr. Abdy at last was impatient with her, and said, in his haste, “Is it

possible that you do not wish to be free?” She replied with solemn

earnestness, “Was there ever a slave that did not wish to be free? I

long for liberty. I will get out of slavery, if I can, the day after I

have returned, but go back I must, because I _promised_ that I would.”

At this, we desisted from our endeavour to induce her to take the boon

that was, apparently to us, within her reach. We could not but feel a

profound respect for that moral sensibility which would not allow her to

embrace even her freedom, at the expense of violating a promise.

The next morning, at an early hour, the slave-holder with his wife and

children drove off, leaving the slave-woman and their heaviest trunk to

be brought on after them in the stage-coach. We could not refrain from

again trying to persuade her to remain and be free. We told her that her

master had given us leave to persuade her if we could. She pointed to

the trunk, and to a very valuable gold watch and chain, which her

mistress had committed to her care, and insisted that fidelity to a

trust was of more consequence to her soul even than the attainment of

liberty. Mr. Abdy offered to take the trunk and watch into his charge,

follow her master, and deliver them into his hands. But she could not be

made to see that in this there would be no violation of her duty. And

then her own person, that, too, she had promised should be returned to

the home of her master; and much as she longed for liberty, she longed

for a clear conscience more.

Mr. Abdy was astonished, delighted at this instance of heroic virtue in

a poor, ignorant slave. He packed his trunk, gave me a hearty adieu,

and, when the coach drove up, he took his seat on the outside with the

trunk and the slave—chattels of a Mississippi slave-holder—that he might

study for a few hours more the morality of that strong-hearted woman,

who could not be bribed to violate her promise, even by the gift of

liberty.

It was the last time I saw Mr. Abdy,—and it was a sight to be

remembered,—he, an accomplished English gentleman, a fellow of Oxford or

Cambridge University, riding on the driver’s box of a stage-coach, side

by side with an American slave-woman, that he might learn more of her

history and character.

“Full many a gem, of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear;

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”

Yours, respectfully,

[Signature: Samuel J. May]

SYRACUSE, OCT. 9, 1852.

KOSSUTH.

You ask me what I think of Kossuth. The history of Kossuth is but partly

told. An opinion of him now, is, of course, founded on the past and

present. But so decisive have been the manifestations in regard to his

abilities and aims, that we may confidently say he is the great man of

the age. I don’t mean that there is no other man who is responsible for

as great or greater physical and intellectual endowments and education.

We measure men by what they _do_, not by what they are _able_ to do. He

is great because he has manifested great thoughts and corresponding

deeds. In this regard he has no superior.

When I speak of Kossuth as _great_, I mean that the divine elements of

power, wisdom, and goodness are so mixed in him, as to qualify him to

embrace the largest interests, and attract the agencies to secure those

interests. That his eye sees, and his heart feels, and his philanthropy

embraces a larger area, and is acknowledged by a larger portion of the

human family than any other living man. I do not say there are not men

living whose hearts are as large, whose abilities are as great, and

whose virtues are as exalted as Kossuth’s. Men, too, whose great

qualities under like contingencies would, and by future contingencies

may, brighten into a glory as large as his. Nor would I say it does not

often require as great, or even greater, talents and virtues to

accomplish deeds of humanity or patriotism, on a theatre vastly less

dazzling and imposing. It is not necessary to my argument to exclude

such conclusions. When God decrees great events, he brings upon the

stage and qualifies the human instrumentalities by which such events are

accomplished; and that, too, at the very time they are needed. We don’t

know the future; but if we are to measure the present and the past in

the life of Kossuth, leaving alone the shadows which coming events cast

in the path of our hopes, we must rank Kossuth with the greatest, and if

we couple his heart with his deeds, with the best of mankind.

I am aware that the opinion I here give of the great Magyar, is widely

different from the opinions of some others for whom I have very high

respect. Gerrit Smith honors Kossuth; but he honors him only as a

patriot, a Christian patriot. Professor Atler, of McGranville College,

in an oration that does him credit as a philosopher and orator, says,

that “he who thinks the largest thought is the ruler of the world,”—and

yet he dwarfs the character of Kossuth to the simple patriot of Hungary.

To my mind, these are strange conclusions. It is the greatest thought

illustrated by corresponding action that denotes the ruler of the world.

It is the external manifestation of the mighty spiritual that

demonstrates the right to rule mankind. Apply that rule to Kossuth, and

I maintain his right to the sceptre of the world.

The brotherhood of nations is an idea to which philanthropy only could

give birth. Its home is in the hearts of all good men, and yet, until

Kossuth came before the world, that idea had been esteemed so vast in

its circumference, so out of the reach of means, so far beyond the grasp

of present experience and possibility, that he would have been thought a

fanatic or a fool who attempted it. He, indeed, by power strictly

personal, not only seized upon it as a practical thought, and nobly

argued it, but has actually and bravely entered upon the experiment, and

forced it upon the conceptions of the world, and organized, not in our

country only, but in Europe, plans and parties for its realization. Here

is not only a great _thought_, but a great _deed_. To gather up the

philanthropic minds or the patriot minds of the world to embrace such an

enterprise as not only a dutiful but practicable scheme, is an

achievement that leaves out of sight any other achievement of eighteen

hundred years.

It is not the development of abstract principles in science, in

philosophy, or in religion, that establishes the highest claim to the

world’s gratitude and admiration. It is the successful application of

those principles to human life and conduct, the setting them to work to

restore the world to the shape and aspect which God gave it, that

demonstrates the God-like in man. It is the manifestation of a great

idea upon the external, as God’s great thoughts are manifested by the

landscape, the ocean, and the heavens, by which we arrive at the

spiritual power that conceived them. A patriot indeed! The great

Hungarian _did_ attempt to link America to his great purpose by appeals

to her patriotism. It was the only common sentiment between our country

and him. It is America’s loftiest thought. Her beau-ideal of public

virtue. I don’t mean that there was no Christianity or philanthropy in

the United States when Kossuth came amongst us: but I do mean that, as a

nation, we had none of them. He came on an errand of practical

philanthropy; to appeal to our national heart, and cause the only chord

of humanity in it that could be touched, to vibrate in unison with his

own in behalf of the down-trodden nations of the world. He wished to

engage its organic power in behalf of national law. Had Kossuth appealed

to any higher principle, he would have overshot his mark. Love of

country is common to the Christian and to the mere patriot. In the

latter it is only selfishness, in the former genuine philanthropy.

American patriotism was the only aperture through which he could reach

our nation’s heart, to raise it to the higher region of philanthropy,

and place it in his own bosom, and impregnate it with his own holy

sentiments, that their sympathies might circulate together for a common

brotherhood. He represented Hungary. He appeared at our door as an

outraged brother, to enlist us in behalf of a brother’s rights and

wrongs. He sought to excite in the nation’s bosom the activity of a

common principle, due at all times, and from nations no less than

individuals. It is the core of Christianity, described in these words,

“do unto others as you would have others do unto you.”

Our Washington had told us “to cultivate peace with all nations, and

form entangling alliances with none.” Our sensual and short-sighted

statesmen construed the sentiment as the rule of active power. Instead

of adopting it as Washington probably intended it, as a rule of

temporary policy, they inculcated the notion that we were to cut

ourselves clear from the family of nations, and live only for ourselves.

The large patriotism of Washington they had shrunken to the merest

selfishness. We may well thank God for the providence which sent Kossuth

among us, to relieve his fame from the suspicion of having begot, and

our country from the sin of cherishing, so weak and dishonouring a

delusion. Heaven-assisted man only could have dreamed of believing a

nation so securely blinded. Like the prophet of God, whose lips were

touched with celestial fire, he breathed upon the spell, and it

vanished. The nation’s eyes were opened. It saw, and all true men

admitted, that the sentiment was designed and adapted only to our

infancy, and, to use his own figure, no more fitting our manhood, than

the clothes of an infant are fitting the full grown man.

Now I admit we had philanthropists, wise men, orators, and some

statesmen, who asserted the doctrine of the human brotherhood, yet we

had no Kossuth to dissolve (if I may so speak) this Washingtonian

delusion. Kossuth touched it and it disappeared. The nation seemed to

have come to a new birth. Its heart, like the rock in the desert which

was touched by the staff of the prophet opened, and its imprisoned

waters poured over the world. We all felt as the bondman feels who is

set free by a strong man. From that moment we grew larger, saw farther,

and felt our hearts moving over an unlimited area of humanity. From that

moment we felt that a new day was dawning. From that moment the

principle of the human brotherhood struck its deep roots in our soil, as

immovable as our mountains, as irradicable as our religion. Nor was it

in America alone that this sentiment was then awakened. Touched by his

notes, it trembled in the bosom of Europe. The heart of humanity

throbbed with a common sympathy throughout the civilized world. Kossuth

and Mazzini, crushed from beneath, ascended above the despotisms of the

world in the clear upper sky, and, in sight of heaven and earth,

reflected God’s light and curse upon them; and called into being the

activities which we hope is to tumble them into a common ruin, as the

precursor of the holy compact which shall secure all human rights.

It is objected that Kossuth did not denounce our slavery. The same

objection has equal strength against the philanthropy of Paul and Jesus.

I shall not dwell on this point. He did denounce American slavery. The

presence of Kossuth was a killing rebuke, his words a consuming fire to

it. The former is still felt as an incurable wound, and the latter still

scorches to the very centre of its vitality. I have it from high

authority, when Kossuth first came upon the soil, and into the

atmosphere of American slavery, his soul was so shocked and disgusted by

its offensiveness, that he proposed to abandon his mission in those

States where it existed, and denounce it specifically; and was only

deterred from doing so, by his sense of the more comprehensive claims of

that mission, which embraced the utter destruction of all human

oppression. I drop this topic with the remark, that this objection, and

all objections to his philanthropy, within my knowledge, were made

antecedent to his inimitable speech in New York city, in behalf of his

mother and sisters, a short time before he took his departure for

Europe. If there is not Christianity, philanthropy, anti-slavery in that

speech, we may despair of finding it in earth, or even in the heavens. I

have never read anything so representative of heaven’s mercy, or angel’s

eloquence, as that. Oh! I wish the world knew it by heart. Methinks if

it did, all wrong and oppression would disappear from among men.

I was going to speak of the future, and of Mazzini, the twin apostle of

liberty, whose exile was wrung from the heart of poor Italy. But the

subject exceeds the brevity which must govern me. These rulers of the

world are linked with the mighty events which are fast becoming history.

From their hiding-places in London, they are moving and controlling the

passions which seem ready to break forth and obliterate every cruel code

under the sun, and hasten the time when all men shall feel as brethren,

and mingle their hearts in anthems of gratitude and love.

[Signature: John Thomas]

SYRACUSE, NOV. 14, 1852.

THE HEROIC SLAVE.

PART I.

Oh! child of grief, why weepest thou?

Why droops thy sad and mournful brow?

Why is thy look so like despair?

What deep, sad sorrow lingers there?

The State of Virginia is famous in American annals for the multitudinous

array of her statesmen and heroes. She has been dignified by some the

mother of statesmen. History has not been sparing in recording their

names, or in blazoning their deeds. Her high position in this respect,

has given her an enviable distinction among her sister States. With

Virginia for his birth-place, even a man of ordinary parts, on account

of the general partiality for her sons, easily rises to eminent

stations. Men, not great enough to attract special attention in their

native States, have, like a certain distinguished citizen in the State

of New York, sighed and repined that they were not born in Virginia. Yet

not all the great ones of the Old Dominion have, by the fact of their

birth-place, escaped undeserved obscurity. By some strange neglect,

_one_ of the truest, manliest, and bravest of her children,—one who, in

after years, will, I think, command the pen of genius to set his merits

forth, holds now no higher place in the records of that grand old

Commonwealth than is held by a horse or an ox. Let those account for it

who can, but there stands the fact, that a man who loved liberty as well

as did Patrick Henry,—who deserved it as much as Thomas Jefferson,—and

who fought for it with a valour as high, an arm as strong, and against

odds as great, as he who led all the armies of the American colonies

through the great war for freedom and independence, lives now only in

the chattel records of his native State.

Glimpses of this great character are all that can now be presented. He

is brought to view only by a few transient incidents, and these afford

but partial satisfaction. Like a guiding star on a stormy night, he is

seen through the parted clouds and the howling tempests; or, like the

gray peak of a menacing rock on a perilous coast, he is seen by the

quivering flash of angry lightning, and he again disappears covered with

mystery.

Curiously, earnestly, anxiously we peer into the dark, and wish even for

the blinding flash, or the light of northern skies to reveal him. But,

alas! he is still enveloped in darkness, and we return from the pursuit

like a wearied and disheartened mother, (after a tedious and

unsuccessful search for a lost child,) who returns weighed down with

disappointment and sorrow. Speaking of marks, traces, possibles, and

probabilities, we come before our readers.

In the spring of 1835, on a Sabbath morning, within hearing of the

solemn peals of the church bells at a distant village, a northern

traveller through the State of Virginia drew up his horse to drink at a

sparkling brook, near the edge of a dark pine forest. While his weary

and thirsty steed drew in the grateful water, the rider caught the sound

of a human voice, apparently engaged in earnest conversation.

Following the direction of the sound, he descried, among the tall pines,

the man whose voice had arrested his attention. “To whom can he be

speaking?” thought the traveller. “He seems to be alone.” The

circumstance interested him much, and he became intensely curious to

know what thoughts and feelings, or, it might be, high aspirations,

guided those rich and mellow accents. Tying his horse at a short

distance from the brook, he stealthily drew near the solitary speaker,

and concealing himself by the side of a huge fallen tree, he distinctly

heard the following soliloquy:—

“What, then, is life to me? it is aimless and worthless, and worse than

worthless. Those birds, perched on yon swinging boughs, in friendly

conclave, sounding forth their merry notes in seeming worship of the

rising sun, though liable to the sportsman’s fowling-piece, are still my

superiors. They _live free_, though they may die slaves. They fly where

they list by day, and retire in freedom at night. But what is freedom to

me, or I to it? I am a _slave_,—born a slave, an abject slave,—even

before I made part of this breathing world, the scourge was platted for

my back; the fetters were forged for my limbs. How mean a thing am I.

That accursed and crawling snake, that miserable reptile, that has just

glided into its slimy home, is freer and better off than I. He escaped

my blow, and is safe. But here am I, a man,—yes, _a man!_—with thoughts

and wishes, with powers and faculties as far as angel’s flight above

that hated reptile,—yet he is my superior, and scorns to own me as his

master, or to stop to take my blows. When he saw my uplifted arm, he

darted beyond my reach, and turned to give me battle. I dare not do as

much as that. I neither run nor fight, but do meanly stand, answering

each heavy blow of a cruel master with doleful wails and piteous cries.

I am galled with irons; but even these are more tolerable than the

consciousness, the _galling_ consciousness of cowardice and indecision.

Can it be that I _dare_ not run away? _Perish the thought_, I _dare_ do

any thing which may be done by another. When that young man struggled

with the waves _for life_, and others stood back appalled in helpless

horror, did I not plunge in, forgetful of life, to save his? The raging

bull from whom all others fled, pale with fright, did I not keep at bay

with a single pitchfork? Could a coward do that? _No,—no_,—I wrong

myself,—I am no coward. _Liberty_ I will have, or die in the attempt to

gain it. This working that others may live in idleness! This cringing

submission to insolence and curses! This living under the constant dread

and apprehension of being sold and transferred, like a mere brute, is

_too_ much for me. I will stand it no longer. What others have done, I

will do. These trusty legs, or these sinewy arms shall place me among

the free. Tom escaped; so can I. The North Star will not be less kind to

me than to him. I will follow it. I will at least make the trial. I have

nothing to lose. If I am caught, I shall only be a slave. If I am shot,

I shall only lose a life which is a burden and a curse. If I get clear,

(as something tells me I shall,) liberty, the inalienable birth-right of

every man, precious and priceless, will be mine. My resolution is fixed.

_I shall be free._”

At these words the traveller raised his head cautiously and noiselessly,

and caught, from his hiding-place, a full view of the unsuspecting

speaker. Madison (for that was the name of our hero) was standing erect,

a smile of satisfaction rippled upon his expressive countenance, like

that which plays upon the face of one who has but just solved a

difficult problem, or vanquished a malignant foe; for at that moment he

was free, at least in spirit. The future gleamed brightly before him,

and his fetters lay broken at his feet. His air was triumphant.

Madison was of manly form. Tall, symmetrical, round, and strong. In his

movements he seemed to combine, with the strength of the lion, a lion’s

elasticity. His torn sleeves disclosed arms like polished iron. His face

was “black, but comely.” His eye, lit with emotion, kept guard under a

brow as dark and as glossy as the raven’s wing. His whole appearance

betokened Herculean strength; yet there was nothing savage or forbidding

in his aspect. A child might play in his arms, or dance on his

shoulders. A giant’s strength, but not a giant’s heart was in him. His

broad mouth and nose spoke only of good nature and kindness. But his

voice, that unfailing index of the soul, though full and melodious, had

that in it which could terrify as well as charm. He was just the man you

would choose when hardships were to be endured, or danger to be

encountered,—intelligent and brave. He had a head to conceive, and the

hand to execute. In a word, he was one to be sought as a friend, but to

be dreaded as an enemy.

As our traveller gazed upon him, he almost trembled at the thought of

his dangerous intrusion. Still he could not quit the place. He had long

desired to sound the mysterious depths of the thoughts and feelings of a

slave. He was not therefore, disposed to allow so providential an

opportunity to pass unimproved. He resolved to hear more; so he listened

again for those mellow and mournful accents which, he says made such an

impression upon him as can never be erased. He did not have to wait

long. There came another gush from the same full fountain; now bitter,

and now sweet. Scathing denunciations of the cruelty and injustice of

slavery; heart-touching narrations of his own personal suffering,

intermingled with prayers to the God of the oppressed for help and

deliverance, were followed by presentations of the dangers and

difficulties of escape, and formed the burden of his eloquent

utterances; but his high resolution clung to him,—for he ended each

speech by an emphatic declaration of his purpose to be free. It seemed

that the very repetition of this, imparted a glow to his countenance.

The hope of freedom seemed to sweeten, for a season, the bitter cup of

slavery, and to make it, for a time, tolerable; for when in the very

whirlwind of anguish,—when his heart’s cord seemed screwed up to

snapping tension, hope sprung up and soothed his troubled spirit.

Fitfully he would exclaim, “How can I leave her? Poor thing! what can

she do when I am gone? Oh! oh! ’tis impossible that I can leave poor

Susan!”

A brief pause intervened. Our traveller raised his head, and saw again

the sorrow-stricken slave. His eye was fixed upon the ground. The strong

man staggered under a heavy load. Recovering himself, he argued thus

aloud: “All is uncertain here. To-morrow’s sun may not rise before I am

sold, and separated from her I love. What, then, could I do for her? I

should be in more hopeless slavery, and she no nearer to

liberty,—whereas if I were free,—my arms my own, I might devise the

means to rescue her.”

This said, Madison cast around a searching glance, as if the thought of

being overheard had flashed across his mind. He said no more, but, with

measured steps, walked away, and was lost to the eye of our traveller

amidst the wildering woods.

Long after Madison had left the ground, Mr. Listwell (our traveller)

remained in motionless silence, meditating on the extraordinary

revelations to which he had listened. He seemed fastened to the spot,

and stood half hoping, half fearing the return of the sable preacher to

his solitary temple. The speech of Madison rung through the chambers of

his soul, and vibrated through his entire frame. “Here is indeed a man,”

thought he, “of rare endowments,—a child of God,—guilty of no crime but

the colour of his skin—hiding away from the face of humanity, and

pouring out his thoughts and feelings, his hopes and resolutions to the

lonely woods; to him those distant church bells have no grateful music.

He shuns the church, the altar, and the great congregation of the

Christian worshippers, and wanders away to the gloomy forest, to utter

in the vacant air complaints and griefs, which the religion of his times

and his country can neither console nor relieve. Goaded almost to

madness by the sense of the injustice done him, he resorts hither to

give vent to his pent-up feelings, and to debate with himself the

feasibility of plans, plans of his own invention, for his own

deliverance. From this hour I am an abolitionist. I have seen enough and

heard enough, and I shall go to my home in Ohio resolved to atone for my

past indifference to this ill-starred race, by making such exertions as

I shall be able to do, for the speedy emancipation of every slave in the

land.”

PART II.

“The gaudy, blabbing and remorseful day

Is crept into the bosom of the sea;

And now loud-howling wolves arouse the jades

That drag the tragic melancholy night;

Who with their drowsy, slow, and flagging wings

Clip dead men’s graves, and from their misty jaws

Breathe foul contagions, darkness in the air.”

_Shakspeare._

Five years after the foregoing singular occurrence, in the winter of

1840, Mr. and Mrs. Listwell sat together by the fireside of their own

happy home, in the State of Ohio. The children were all gone to bed. A

single lamp burned brightly on the centre-table. All was still and

comfortable within; but the night was cold and dark; a heavy wind sighed

and moaned sorrowfully around the house and barn, occasionally bringing

against the clattering windows a stray leaf from the large oak trees

that embowered their dwelling. It was a night for strange noises and for

strange fancies. A whole wilderness of thought might pass through one’s

mind during such an evening. The smouldering embers, partaking of the

spirit of the restless night, became fruitful of varied and fantastic

pictures, and revived many bygone scenes and old impressions. The happy

pair seemed to sit in silent fascination, gazing on the fire. Suddenly

this _reverie_ was interrupted by a heavy growl. Ordinarily such an

occurrence would have scarcely provoked a single word, or excited the

least apprehension. But there are certain seasons when the slightest

sound sends a jar through all the subtle chambers of the mind; and such

a season was this. The happy pair started up, as if some sudden danger

had come upon them. The growl was from their trusty watch-dog.

“What can it mean? certainly no one can be out on such a night as this,”

said Mrs. Listwell.

“The wind has deceived the dog, my dear; he has mistaken the noise of

falling branches, brought down by the wind, for that of the footsteps of

persons coming to the house. I have several times to-night thought that

I heard the sound of footsteps. I am sure, however, that it was but the

wind. Friends would not be likely to come out at such an hour, or such a

night; and thieves are too lazy and self-indulgent to expose themselves

to this biting frost; but should there be any one about, our brave old

Monte, who is on the look-out, will not be slow in sounding the alarm.”

Saying this they quietly left the window, whither they had gone to learn

the cause of the menacing growl, and re-seated themselves by the fire,

as if reluctant to leave the slowly expiring embers, although the hour

was late. A few minutes only intervened after resuming their seats, when

again their sober meditations were disturbed. Their faithful dog now

growled and barked furiously, as if assailed by an advancing foe.

Simultaneously the good couple arose, and stood in mute expectation. The

contest without seemed fierce and violent. It was, however, soon

over,—the barking ceased, for, with true canine instinct, Monte soon

discovered that a friend, not an enemy of the family, was coming to the

house, and instead of rushing to repel the supposed intruder, he was now

at the door, whimpering and dancing for the admission of himself and his

newly-made friend.

Mr. Listwell knew by this movement that all was well; he advanced and

opened the door, and saw by the light that streamed out into the

darkness, a tall man advancing slowly towards the house, with a stick in

one hand, and a small bundle in the other. “It is a traveller,” thought

he, “who has missed his way, and is coming to inquire the road. I am

glad we did not go to bed earlier,—I have felt all the evening as if

somebody would be here to-night.”

The man had now halted a short distance from the door, and looked

prepared alike for flight or battle. “Come in, sir, don’t be alarmed,

you have probably lost your way.”

Slightly hesitating, the traveller walked in; not, however, without

regarding his host with a scrutinizing glance. “No, sir,” said he, “I

have come to ask you a greater favour.”

Instantly Mr. Listwell exclaimed, (as the recollection of the Virginia

forest scene flashed upon him,) “Oh, sir, I know not your name, but I

have seen your face, and heard your voice before. I am glad to see you.

_I know all._ You are flying for your liberty,—be seated,—be

seated,—banish all fear. You are safe under my roof.”

This recognition, so unexpected, rather disconcerted and disquieted the

noble fugitive. The timidity and suspicion of persons escaping from

slavery are easily awakened, and often what is intended to dispel the

one, and to allay the other, has precisely the opposite effect. It was

so in this case. Quickly observing the unhappy impression made by his

words and action, Mr. Listwell assumed a more quiet and inquiring

aspect, and finally succeeded in removing the apprehensions which his

very natural and generous salutation had aroused.

Thus assured, the stranger said, “Sir, you have rightly guessed, I am,

indeed, a fugitive from slavery. My name is Madison,—Madison Washington,

my mother used to call me. I am on my way to Canada, where I learn that

persons of my colour are protected in all the rights of men; and my

object in calling upon you was, to beg the privilege of resting my weary

limbs for the night in your barn. It was my purpose to have continued my

journey till morning; but the piercing cold, and the frowning darkness

compelled me to seek shelter; and, seeing a light through the lattice of

your window, I was encouraged to come here to beg the privilege named.

You will do me a great favour by affording me shelter for the night.”

“A resting-place, indeed, sir, you shall have; not, however, in my barn,

but in the best room of my house. Consider yourself, if you please,

under the roof of a friend; for such I am to you, and to all your deeply

injured race.”

While this introductory conversation was going on, the kind lady had

revived the fire, and was diligently preparing supper; for she, not less

than her husband, felt for the sorrows of the oppressed and hunted ones

of the earth, and was always glad of an opportunity to do them a

service. A bountiful repast was quickly prepared, and the hungry and

toil-worn bondman, was cordially invited to partake thereof. Gratefully

he acknowledged the favour of his benevolent benefactress: but appeared

scarcely to understand what such hospitality could mean. It was the

first time in his life that he had met so humane and friendly a greeting

at the hands of persons whose colour was unlike his own; yet it was

impossible for him to doubt the charitableness of his new friends, or

the genuineness of the welcome so freely given; and he therefore, with

many thanks, took his seat at the table with Mr. and Mrs. Listwell, who,

desirous to make him feel at home, took a cup of tea themselves, while

urging upon Madison the best that the house could afford.

Supper over, all doubts and apprehensions banished, the three drew

around the blazing fire, and a conversation commenced which lasted till

long after midnight.

“Now,” said Madison to Mr. Listwell, “I was a little surprised and

alarmed when I came in, by what you said; do tell me, sir, _why_ you

thought you had seen my face before, and by what you knew me to be a

fugitive from slavery; for I am sure that I never was before in this

neighbourhood, and I certainly sought to conceal what I supposed to be

the manner of a fugitive slave.”

Mr. Listwell at once frankly disclosed the secret; describing the place

where he first saw him; rehearsing the language which he (Madison) had

used; referring to the effect which his manner and speech had made upon

him; declaring the resolution he there formed to be an abolitionist;

telling how often he had spoken of the circumstance, and the deep

concern he had ever since felt to know what had become of him; and

whether he had carried out the purpose to make his escape, as in the

woods he declared he would do.

“Ever since that morning,” said Mr. Listwell, “you have seldom been

absent from my mind, and though now I did not dare to hope that I should

ever see you again, I have often wished that such might be my fortune;

for, from that hour, your face seemed to be daguerreotyped on my

memory.”

Madison looked quite astonished, and felt amazed at the narration to

which he had listened. After recovering himself he said, “I well

remember that morning, and the bitter anguish that wrung my heart; I

will state the occasion of it. I had, on the previous Saturday, suffered

a cruel lashing; had been tied up to the limb of a tree, with my feet

chained together, and a heavy iron bar placed between my ankles. Thus

suspended, I received on my naked back forty stripes, and was kept in

this distressing position three or four hours, and was then let down,

only to have my torture increased; for my bleeding back, gashed by the

cow-skin, was washed by the overseer with old brine, partly to augment

my suffering, and partly, as he said, to prevent inflammation. My crime

was that I stayed longer at the mill, the day previous, than it was

thought I ought to have done, which, I assured my master and the

overseer, was no fault of mine; but no excuses were allowed. ‘Hold your

tongue, you impudent rascal,’ met my every explanation. Slave-holders

are so imperious when their passions are excited, as to construe every

word of the slave into insolence. I could do nothing but submit to the

agonizing infliction. Smarting still from the wounds, as well as from

the consciousness of being whipt for no cause, I took advantage of the

absence of my master, who had gone to church, to spend the time in the

woods, and brood over my wretched lot. Oh, sir, I remember it well,—and

can never forget it.”

“But this was five years ago; where have you been since?”

“I will try to tell you,” said Madison. “Just four weeks after that

Sabbath morning, I gathered up the few rags of clothing I had, and

started, as I supposed, for the North and for freedom. I must not stop

to describe my feelings on taking this step. It seemed like taking a

leap into the dark. The thought of leaving my poor wife and two little

children caused me indescribable anguish; but consoling myself with the

reflection that once free, I could, possibly, devise ways and means to

gain their freedom also, I nerved myself up to make the attempt. I

started, but ill-luck attended me; for after being out a whole week,

strange to say, I still found myself on my master’s grounds; the third

night after being out, a season of clouds and rain set in, wholly

preventing me from seeing the North Star, which I had trusted as my

guide, not dreaming that clouds might intervene between us.

“This circumstance was fatal to my project, for in losing my star, I

lost my way; so when I supposed I was far towards the North, and had

almost gained my freedom, I discovered myself at the very point from

which I had started. It was a severe trial, for I arrived at home in

great destitution; my feet were sore, and in travelling in the dark, I

had dashed my foot against a stump, and started a nail, and lamed

myself. I was wet and cold; one week had exhausted all my stores; and

when I landed on my master’s plantation, with all my work to do over

again,—hungry, tired, lame, and bewildered,—I almost cursed the day that

I was born. In this extremity I approached the quarters. I did so

stealthily, although in my desperation I hardly cared whether I was

discovered or not. Peeping through the rents of the quarters, I saw my

fellow-slaves seated by a warm fire, merrily passing away the time, as

though their hearts knew no sorrow. Although I envied their seeming

contentment, all wretched as I was, I despised the cowardly acquiescence

in their own degradation which it implied, and felt a kind of pride and

glory in my own desperate lot. I dared not enter the quarters,—for where

there is seeming contentment with slavery, there is certain treachery to

freedom. I proceeded towards the great house, in the hope of catching a

glimpse of my poor wife, whom I knew might be trusted with my secrets

even on the scaffold. Just as I reached the fence which divided the

field from the garden, I saw a woman in the yard, who in the darkness I

took to be my wife; but a nearer approach told me it was not she. I was

about to speak; had I done so, I would not have been here this night;

for an alarm would have been sounded, and the hunters been put on my

track. Here were hunger, cold, thirst, disappointment, and chagrin,

confronted only by the dim hope of liberty. I tremble to think of that

dreadful hour. To face the deadly cannon’s mouth, in warm blood

unterrified, is, I think, a small achievement, compared with a conflict

like this with gaunt starvation. The gnawings of hunger conquers by

degrees, till all that a man has he would give in exchange for a single

crust of bread. Thank God, I was not quite reduced to this extremity.

“Happily for me, before the fatal moment of utter despair, my good wife

made her appearance in the yard. It was she; I knew her step. All was

well now. I was, however, afraid to speak, lest I should frighten her.

Yet speak I did; and, to my great joy, my voice was known. Our meeting

can be more easily imagined than described. For a time hunger, thirst,

weariness, and lameness were forgotten. But it was soon necessary for

her to return to the house. She being a house-servant, her absence from

the kitchen, if discovered, might have excited suspicion. Our parting

was like tearing the flesh from my bones; yet it was the part of wisdom

for her to go. She left me with the purpose of meeting me at midnight in

the very forest where you last saw me. She knew the place well, as one

of my melancholy resorts, and could easily find it, though the night was

dark.

“I hastened away, therefore, and concealed myself, to await the arrival

of my good angel. As I lay there among the leaves, I was strongly

tempted to return again to the house of my master and give myself up;

but remembering my solemn pledge on that memorable Sunday morning, I was

able to linger out the two long hours between ten and midnight. I may

well call them long hours. I have endured much hardship; I have

encountered many perils; but the anxiety of those two hours, was the

bitterest I ever experienced. True to her word, my wife came laden with

provisions, and we sat down on the side of a log, at that dark and

lonesome hour of the night. I cannot say we talked; our feelings were

too great for that; yet we came to an understanding that I should make

the woods my home, for if I gave myself up, I should be whipped and sold

away; and if I started for the North, I should leave a wife doubly dear

to me. We mutually determined, therefore, that I should remain in the

vicinity. In the dismal swamps I lived, sir, five long years,—a cave for

my home during the day. I wandered about at night with the wolf and the

bear,—sustained by the promise that my good Susan would meet me in the

pine woods at least once a week. This promise was redeemed, I assure

you, to the letter, greatly to my relief. I had partly become contented

with my mode of life, and had made up my mind to spend my days there;

but the wilderness that sheltered me thus long took fire, and refused

longer to be my hiding-place.

“I will not harrow up your feelings by portraying the terrific scene of

this awful conflagration. There is nothing to which I can liken it. It

was horribly and indescribably grand. The whole world seemed on fire,

and it appeared to me that the day of judgment had come; that the

burning bowels of the earth had burst forth, and that the end of all

things was at hand. Bears and wolves, scorched from their mysterious

hiding-places in the earth, and all the wild inhabitants of the

untrodden forest, filled with a common dismay, ran forth, yelling,

howling, bewildered amidst the smoke and flame. The very heavens seemed

to rain down fire through the towering trees; it was by the merest

chance that I escaped the devouring element. Running before it, and

stopping occasionally to take breath, I looked back to behold its

frightful ravages, and to drink in its savage magnificence. It was

awful, thrilling, solemn, beyond compare. When aided by the fitful wind,

the merciless tempest of fire swept on, sparkling, creaking, cracking,

curling, roaring, outdoing in its dreadful splendour a thousand

thunderstorms at once. From tree to tree it leaped, swallowing them up

in its lurid, baleful glare; and leaving them leafless, limbless,

charred, and lifeless behind. The scene was overwhelming,

stunning,—nothing was spared,—cattle, tame and wild, herds of swine and

of deer, wild beasts of every name and kind,—huge night-birds, bats, and

owls, that had retired to their homes in lofty tree-tops to rest,

perished in that fiery storm. The long-winged buzzard and croaking raven

mingled their dismal cries with those of the countless myriads of small

birds that rose up to the skies, and were lost to the sight in clouds of

smoke and flame. Oh, I shudder when I think of it! Many a poor wandering

fugitive who, like myself, had sought among wild beasts the mercy denied

by our fellow men, saw, in helpless consternation, his dwelling-place

and city of refuge reduced to ashes for ever. It was this grand

conflagration that drove me hither; I ran alike from fire and from

slavery.”

After a slight pause, (for both speaker and hearers were deeply moved by

the above recital,) Mr. Listwell, addressing Madison, said, “If it does

not weary you too much, do tell us something of your journeyings since

this disastrous burning,—we are deeply interested in everything which

can throw light on the hardships of persons escaping from slavery; we

could hear you talk all night; are there no incidents that you could

relate of your travels hither? or are they such that you do not like to

mention them?”

“For the most part, sir, my course has been uninterrupted; and,

considering the circumstances, at times even pleasant. I have suffered

little for want of food; but I need not tell you how I got it. Your

moral code may differ from mine, as your customs and usages are

different. The fact is, sir, during my flight, I felt myself robbed by

society of all my just rights; that I was in an enemy’s land, who sought

both my life and my liberty. They had transformed me into a brute; made

merchandise of my body, and, for all the purposes of my flight, turned

day into night,—and guided by my own necessities, and in contempt of

their conventionalities, I did not scruple to take bread where I could

get it.”

“And just there you were right,” said Mr. Listwell; “I once had doubts

on this point myself, but a conversation with Gerrit Smith, (a man, by

the way, that I wish you could see, for he is a devoted friend of your

race, and I know he would receive you gladly,) put an end to all my

doubts on this point. But do not let me interrupt you.”

“I had but one narrow escape during my whole journey,” said Madison.

“Do let us hear of it,” said Mr. Listwell.

“Two weeks ago,” continued Madison, “after travelling all night, I was

overtaken by daybreak, in what seemed to me an almost interminable wood.

I deemed it unsafe to go farther, and, as usual, I looked around for a

suitable tree in which to spend the day. I liked one with a bushy top,

and found one just to my mind. Up I climbed, and hiding myself as well

as I could, I, with this strap, (pulling one out of his old

coat-pocket,) lashed myself to a bough, and flattered myself that I

should get a _good night’s_ sleep that day; but in this I was soon

disappointed. I had scarcely got fastened to my natural hammock, when I

heard the voices of a number of persons, apparently approaching the part

of the woods where I was. Upon my word, sir, I dreaded more these human

voices than I should have done those of wild beasts. I was at a loss to

know what to do. If I descended, I should probably be discovered by the

men; and if they had dogs I should, doubtless, be ‘_treed_.’ It was an

anxious moment, but hardships and dangers have been the accompaniments

of my life; and have, perhaps, imparted to me a certain hardness of

character, which, to some extent, adapts me to them. In my present

predicament, I decided to hold my place in the tree-top, and abide the

consequences. But here I must disappoint you; for the men, who were all

coloured, halted at least a hundred yards from me, and began with their

axes, in right good earnest, to attack the trees. The sound of their

axes was like the report of as many well-charged pistols. By-and-by

there came down at least a dozen trees with a terrible crash. They

leaped upon the fallen trees with an air of victory. I could see no dog

with them, and felt comparatively safe, though I could not forget the

possibility that some freak or fancy might bring the axe a little nearer

my dwelling than comported with my safety.

“There was no sleep for me that day, and I wished for night. You may

imagine that the thought of having the tree attacked under me was far

from agreeable, and that it very easily kept me on the look-out. The day

was not without diversion. The men at work seemed to be a gay set; and

they would often make the woods resound with that uncontrolled laughter

for which we, as a race, are remarkable. I held my place in the tree

till sunset,—saw the men put on their jackets to be off. I observed that

all left the ground except one, whom I saw sitting on the side of a

stump, with his head bowed, and his eyes apparently fixed on the ground.

I became interested in him. After sitting in the position to which I

have alluded ten or fifteen minutes, he left the stump, walked directly

towards the tree in which I was secreted, and halted almost under the

same. He stood for a moment and looked around, deliberately and

reverently took off his hat, by which I saw that he was a man in the

evening of life, slightly bald and quite gray. After laying down his hat

carefully, he knelt and prayed aloud, and such a prayer, the most

fervent, earnest, and solemn, to which I think I ever listened. After

reverently addressing the Almighty, as the all-wise, all-good, and the

common Father of all mankind, he besought God for grace, for strength,

to bear up under, and to endure, as a good soldier, all the hardships

and trials which beset the journey of life, and to enable him to live in

a manner which accorded with the gospel of Christ. His soul now broke

out in humble supplication for deliverance from bondage. ‘O thou,’ said

he, ‘that hearest the raven’s cry, take pity on poor me! O deliver me! O

deliver me! in mercy, O God, deliver me from the chains and manifold

hardships of slavery! With thee, O Father, all things are possible. Thou

canst stand and measure the earth. Thou hast beheld and drove asunder

the nations,—all power is in thy hand,—thou didst say of old, “I have

seen the affliction of my people, and am come to deliver them,”—O look

down upon our afflictions, and have mercy upon us.’ But I cannot repeat

his prayer, nor can I give you an idea of its deep pathos. I had given

but little attention to religion, and had but little faith in it; yet,

as the old man prayed, I felt almost like coming down and kneel by his

side, and mingle my broken complaint with his.

“He had already gained my confidence; as how could it be otherwise? I

knew enough of religion to know that the man who prays in secret is far

more likely to be sincere than he who loves to pray standing in the

street, or in the great congregation. When he arose from his knees, like

another Zaccheus, I came down from the tree. He seemed a little alarmed

at first, but I told him my story, and the good man embraced me in his

arms, and assured me of his sympathy.

“I was now about out of provisions, and thought I might safely ask him

to help me replenish my store. He said he had no money; but if he had,

he would freely give it me. I told him I had _one dollar_; it was all

the money I had in the world. I gave it to him, and asked him to

purchase some crackers and cheese, and to kindly bring me the balance;

that I would remain in or near that place, and would come to him on his

return, if he would whistle. He was gone only about an hour. Meanwhile,

from some cause or other, I know not what (but as you shall see very

wisely), I changed my place. On his return I started to meet him; but it

seemed as if the shadow of approaching danger fell upon my spirit, and

checked my progress. In a very few minutes, closely on the heels of the

old man, I distinctly saw _fourteen men_, with something like guns in

their hands.”

“Oh! the old wretch!” exclaimed Mrs. Listwell, “he had betrayed you, had

he?”

“I think not,” said Madison, “I cannot believe that the old man was to

blame. He probably went into a store, asked for the articles for which I

sent, and presented the bill I gave him; and it is so unusual for slaves

in the country to have money, that fact, doubtless, excited suspicion,

and gave rise to inquiry. I can easily believe that the truthfulness of

the old man’s character compelled him to disclose the facts; and thus

were these blood-thirsty men put on my track. Of course I did not

present myself; but hugged my hiding-place securely. If discovered and

attacked, I resolved to sell my life as dearly as possible.

“After searching about the woods silently for a time, the whole company

gathered around the old man; one charged him with lying, and called him

an old villain; said he was a thief; charged him with stealing money;

said if he did not instantly tell where he got it, they would take the

shirt from his old back, and give him thirty-nine lashes.

“‘I did _not_ steal the money’, said the old man, ‘it was given me, as I

told you at the store; and if the man who gave it me is not here, it is

not my fault.’

“‘Hush! you lying old rascal; we’ll make you smart for it. You shall not

leave this spot until you have told where you got that money.’

“They now took hold of him, and began to strip him; while others went to

get sticks with which to beat him. I felt, at the moment, like rushing

out in the midst of them; but considering that the old man would be

whipped the more for having aided a fugitive slave, and that, perhaps,

in the _melee_ he might be killed outright, I disobeyed this impulse.

They tied him to a tree, and began to whip him. My own flesh crept at

every blow, and I seem to hear the old man’s piteous cries even now.

They laid thirty-nine lashes on his bare back, and were going to repeat

that number, when one of the company besought his comrades to desist.

‘You’ll kill the d—d old scoundrel! You’ve already whipt a dollar’s

worth out of him, even if he stole it!’ ‘O yes,’ said another, ‘let him

down. He’ll never tell us another lie, I’ll warrant ye!’ With this, one

of the company untied the old man, and bid him go about his business.”

The old man left, but the company remained as much as an hour, scouring

the woods. Round and round they went, turning up the underbrush, and

peering about like so many bloodhounds. Two or three times they came

within six feet of where I lay. I tell you I held my stick with a firmer

grasp than I did in coming up to your house to-night. I expected to

level one of them at least. Fortunately, however, I eluded their

pursuit, and they left me alone in the woods.

“My last dollar was now gone, and you may well suppose I felt the loss

of it; but the thought of being once again free to pursue my journey,

prevented that depression which a sense of destitution causes, so

swinging my little bundle on my back, I caught a glimpse of the _Great

Bear_ (which ever points the way to my beloved star), and I started

again on my journey. What I lost in money I made up at a hen-roost that

same night, upon which I fortunately came.”

“But you didn’t eat your food raw? How did you cook it?” said Mrs.

Listwell.

“O no, Madam,” said Madison, turning to his little bundle;—“I had the

means of cooking.” Here he took out of his bundle an old-fashioned

tinder-box, and taking up a piece of a file, which he brought with him,

he struck it with a heavy flint, and brought out at least a dozen sparks

at once. “I have had this old box,” said he, “more than five years. It

is the _only_ property saved from the fire in the dismal swamp. It has

done me good service. It has given me the means of broiling many a

chicken!”

It seemed quite a relief to Mrs. Listwell to know that Madison had, at

least, lived upon cooked food. Women have a perfect horror of eating

uncooked food.

By this time thoughts of what was best to be done about getting Madison

to Canada, began to trouble Mr. Listwell; for the laws of Ohio were very

stringent against any one who should aid, or who were found aiding a

slave to escape through that State. A citizen, for the simple act of

taking a fugitive slave in his carriage, had just been stripped of all

his property, and thrown penniless upon the world. Notwithstanding this,

Mr. Listwell was determined to see Madison safely on his way to Canada.

“Give yourself no uneasiness,” said he to Madison, “for if it cost my

farm, I shall see you safely out of the States, and on your way to a

land of liberty. Thank God that there is _such_ a land so near us! You

will spend to-morrow with us, and to-morrow night I will take you in my

carriage to the Lake. Once upon that, and you are safe.”

“Thank you! thank you,” said the fugitive; “I will commit myself to your

care.”

For the _first_ time during _five_ years, Madison enjoyed the luxury of

resting his limbs on a comfortable bed, and inside a human habitation.

Looking at the white sheets, he said to Mr. Listwell, “What, sir! you

don’t mean that I shall sleep in that bed?”

“Oh yes, oh yes.”

After Mr. Listwell left the room, Madison said he really hesitated

whether or not he should lie on the floor; for that was _far_ more

comfortable and inviting than any bed to which he had been used.

We pass over the thoughts and feelings, the hopes and fears, the plans

and purposes, that revolved in the mind of Madison during the day that

he was secreted at the house of Mr. Listwell. The reader will be content

to know that nothing occurred to endanger his liberty, or to excite

alarm. Many were the little attentions bestowed upon him in his quiet

retreat and hiding-place. In the evening, Mr. Listwell, after treating

Madison to a new suit of winter clothes, and replenishing his exhausted

purse with five dollars, all in silver, brought out his two-horse

waggon, well provided with buffaloes, and silently started off with him

to Cleveland. They arrived there without interruption a few minutes

before sunrise the next morning. Fortunately the steamer _Admiral_ lay

at the wharf, and was to start for Canada at nine o’clock. Here the last

anticipated danger was surmounted. It was feared that just at this point

the hunters of men might be on the look-out, and, possibly, pounce upon

their victim. Mr. Listwell saw the captain of the boat; cautiously

sounded him on the matter of carrying liberty-loving passengers, before

he introduced his precious charge. This done, Madison was conducted on

board. With usual generosity this true subject of the emancipating Queen

welcomed Madison, and assured him that he should be safely landed in

Canada, free of charge. Madison now felt himself no more a piece of

merchandise, but a passenger, and, like any other passenger, going about

his business, carrying with him what belonged to him, and nothing which

rightfully belonged to anybody else.

Wrapped in his new winter suit, snug and comfortable, a pocket full of

silver, safe from his pursuers, embarked for a free country, Madison

gave every sign of sincere gratitude, and bade his kind benefactor

farewell, with such a grip of the hand as bespoke a heart full of honest

manliness, and a soul that knew how to appreciate kindness. It need

scarcely be said that Mr. Listwell was deeply moved by the gratitude and

friendship he had excited in a nature so noble as that of the fugitive.

He went to his home that day with a joy and gratification which knew no

bounds. He had done something “to deliver the spoiled out of the hands

of the spoiler,” he had given bread to the hungry, and clothes to the

naked; he had befriended a man to whom the laws of his country forbade

all friendship,—and, in proportion to the odds against his righteous

deed, was the delightful satisfaction that gladdened his heart. On

reaching home, he exclaimed, “_He is safe,—he is safe,—he is safe_,”—and

the cup of his joy was shared by his excellent lady. The following

letter was received from Madison a few days after:—

“WINDSOR, CANADA WEST, DEC. 16, 1840.

My dear Friend,—for such you truly are:—

Madison is out of the woods at last; I nestle in the mane of the

British lion, protected by his mighty paw from the talons and the

beak of the American eagle. I AM FREE, and breathe an atmosphere too

pure for _slaves_, slave-hunters, or slave-holders. My heart is

full. As many thanks to you, sir, and to your kind lady, as there

are pebbles on the shores of Lake Erie; and may the blessing of God

rest upon you both. You will never be forgotten by your profoundly

grateful friend,

MADISON WASHINGTON.”

PART III.

——His head was with his heart,

And that was far away!

_Childe Harold._

Just upon the edge of the great road from Petersburg, Virginia, to

Richmond, and only about fifteen miles from the latter place, there

stands a somewhat ancient and famous public tavern, quite notorious in

its better days, as being the grand resort for most of the leading

gamblers, horse-racers, cock-fighters, and slave-traders from all the

country round about. This old rookery, the nucleus of all sorts of

birds, mostly those of ill omen, has, like everything else peculiar to

Virginia, lost much of its ancient consequence and splendour; yet it

keeps up some appearance of gaiety and high life, and is still

frequented, even by respectable travellers, who are unacquainted with

its past history and present condition. Its fine old portico looks well

at a distance, and gives the building an air of grandeur. A nearer view,

however, does little to sustain this pretension. The house is large, and

its style imposing, but time and dissipation, unfailing in their

results, have made ineffaceable marks upon it, and it must, in the

common course of events, soon be numbered with the things that were. The

gloomy mantle of ruin is, already outspread to envelop it, and its

remains, even but now remind one of a human skull, after the flesh has

mingled with the earth. Old hats and rags fill the places in the upper

windows once occupied by large panes of glass, and the moulding boards

along the roofing have dropped off from their places, leaving holes and

crevices in the rented wall for bats and swallows to build their nests

in. The platform of the portico which fronts the highway is a rickety

affair, its planks are loose, and in some places entirely gone, leaving

effective man-traps in their stead for nocturnal ramblers. The wooden

pillars, which once supported it, but which now hang as encumbrances,

are all rotten, and tremble with the touch. A part of the stable, a fine

old structure in its day, which has given comfortable shelter to

hundreds of the noblest steeds of “the Old Dominion” at once, was blown

down many years ago, and never has been, and probably never will be,

re-built. The doors of the barn are in wretched condition; they will

shut with a little human strength to help their worn-out hinges, but not

otherwise. The side of the great building seen from the road is much

discoloured in sundry places by slops poured from the upper windows,

rendering it unsightly and offensive in other respects. Three or four

great dogs, looking as dull and gloomy as the mansion itself, lie

stretched out along the door-sills under the portico; and double the

number of loafers, some of them completely rum-ripe, and others

ripening, dispose themselves like so many sentinels about the front of

the house. These latter understand the science of scraping acquaintance

to perfection. They know everybody, and almost everybody knows them. Of

course, as their title implies, they have no regular employment. They

are (to use an expressive phrase) _hangers on_, or still better, they

are what sailors would denominate _holders-on to the slack, in

everybody’s mess, and in nobody’s watch_. They are, however, as good as

the newspaper for the events of the day, and they sell their knowledge

almost as cheap. Money they seldom have; yet they always have capital

the most reliable. They make their way with a succeeding traveller by

intelligence gained from a preceding one. All the great names of

Virginia they know by heart, and have seen their owners often. The

history of the house is folded in their lips, and they rattle off

stories in connection with it, equal to the guides at Dryburgh Abbey. He

must be a shrewd man, and well skilled in the art of evasion, who gets

out of the hands of these fellows without being at the expence of a

treat.

It was at this old tavern, while on a second visit to the State of

Virginia, in 1841, that Mr. Listwell, unacquainted with the fame of the

place, turned aside, about sunset, to pass the night. Riding up to the

house, he had scarcely dismounted, when one of the half-dozen bar-room

fraternity met and addressed him in a manner exceedingly bland and

accommodating.

“Fine evening, sir.”

“Very fine,” said Mr. Listwell. “This is a tavern, I believe?”

“O yes, sir, yes; although you may think it looks a little the worse for

wear, it was once as good a house as any in Virginy. I make no doubt if

ye spend the night here, you’ll think it a good house yet; for there

ain’t a more accommodating man in the country than you’ll find the

landlord.”

_Listwell._ “The most I want is a good bed for myself, and a full manger

for my horse. If I get these, I shall be quite satisfied.”

_Loafer._ “Well, I alloys like to hear a gentleman talk for his horse;

and just because the horse can’t talk for itself. A man that don’t care

about his beast, and don’t look arter it when he’s travelling ain’t much

in my eye anyhow. Now, sir, I likes a horse, and I’ll guarantee your

horse will be taken good care on here. That old stable, for all you see

it looks so shabby now, once sheltered the great _Eclipse_, when he run

here agin _Batchelor_ and _Jumping Jemmy_. Them was fast horses, but he

beat ’em both.”

_Listwell._ “Indeed.”

_Loafer._ “Well, I rather reckon you’ve travelled a right smart distance

to-day, from the look of your horse?”

_Listwell._ “Forty miles only.”

_Loafer._ “Well! I’ll be darned if that aint a pretty good _only_.

Mister, that beast of yours is a singed cat, I warrant you. I never

see’d a creature like that that wasn’t good on the road. You’ve come

about forty miles, then?”

_Listwell._ “Yes, yes, and a pretty good pace at that.”

_Loafer._ “You’re somewhat in a hurry, then, I make no doubt? I reckon I

could guess if I would, what you’re going to Richmond for? It wouldn’t

be much of a guess either; for it’s rumoured hereabouts, that there’s to

be the greatest sale of niggers at Richmond to-morrow that has taken

place there in a long time; and I’ll be bound you’re a going there to

have a hand in it.”

_Listwell._ “Why, you must think, then, that there’s money to be made at

that business?”

_Loafer._ “Well, ’pon my honour, sir, I never made any that way myself;

but it stands to reason that it’s a moneymaking business; for almost all

other business in Virginia is dropped to engage in this. One thing is

sartain, I never see’d a nigger-buyer yet that hadn’t a plenty of money,

and he wasn’t as free with it as water. I has known one on ’em to treat

as high as twenty times in a night; and, ginerally speaking, they’s men

of edication, and knows all about the government. The fact is, sir, I

alloys like to hear ’em talk, becase I alloys can learn something from

them.”

_Listwell._ “What may I call your name, sir?”

_Loafer._ “Well, now, they calls me Wilkes. I’m known all around by the

gentlemen that comes here. They all knows old Wilkes.”

_Listwell._ “Well, Wilkes, you seem to be acquainted here, and I see you

have a strong liking for a horse. Be so good as to speak a kind word for

mine to the hostler to-night, and you’ll not lose any thing by it.”

_Loafer._ “Well, sir, I see you don’t say much, but you’ve got an

insight into things. It’s alloys wise to get the good will of them

that’s acquainted about a tavern; for a man don’t know when he goes into

a house what may happen, or how much he may need a friend.” Here the

loafer gave Mr. Listwell a significant grin, which expressed a sort of

triumphant pleasure at having, as he supposed, by his tact succeeded in

placing so fine appearing a gentleman under obligations to him.

The pleasure, however, was mutual; for there was something so

insinuating in the glance of this loquacious customer, that Mr. Listwell

was very glad to get quit of him, and to do so more successfully, he

ordered his supper to be brought to him in his private room, private to

the eye, but not to the ear. This room was directly over the bar, and

the plastering being off, nothing but pine boards and naked laths

separated him from the disagreeable company below,—he could easily hear

what was said in the bar-room, and was rather glad of the advantage it

afforded, for, as you shall see, it furnished him important hints as to

the manner and deportment he should assume during his stay at that

tavern.

Mr. Listwell says he had got into his room but a few moments, when he

heard the officious Wilkes below, in a tone of disappointment, exclaim,

“Whar’s that gentleman?” Wilkes was evidently expecting to meet with his

friend at the bar-room, on his return, and had no doubt of his doing the

handsome thing. “He has gone to his room,” answered the landlord, “and

has ordered his supper to be brought to him.”

Here some one shouted out, “Who is he, Wilkes? Where’s he going?”

“Well, now, I’ll be hanged if I know; but I’m willing to make any man a

bet of this old hat agin a five-dollar bill, that that gent is as full

of money as a dog is of fleas. He’s going down to Richmond to buy

niggers, I make no doubt. He’s no fool, I warrant ye.”

“Well, he acts d——d strange,” said another, “anyhow. I likes to see a

man, when he comes up to a tavern, to come straight into the bar-room,

and show that he’s a man among men. Nobody was going to bite him.”

“Now, I don’t blame him a bit for not coming in here. That man knows his

business, and means to take care on his money,” answered Wilkes.

“Wilkes, you’re a fool. You only say that, bekase you hope to get a few

coppers out on him.”

“You only measure my corn by your half-bushel, I won’t say that you’re

only mad becase I got the chance of speaking to him first.”

“O Wilkes! you’re known here. You’ll praise up any body that will give

you a copper; besides, ’tis my opinion that that fellow who took his

long slab-sides up stairs, for all the world just like a half-scared

woman, afraid to look honest men in the face, is a _Northerner_, and as

mean as dish-water.”

“Now what will you bet of that?” said Wilkes.

The speaker said, “I make no bets with you, ’kase you can get that

fellow up stairs there to say anything.”

“Well,” said Wilkes, “I am willing to bet any man in the company that

_that_ gentleman is a _nigger_-buyer. He didn’t tell me so right down,

but I reckon I knows enough about men to give a pretty clean guess as to

what they are arter.”

The dispute as to _who_ Mr. Listwell was, what his business, where he

was going, &c., was kept up with much animation for some time, and more

than once threatened a serious disturbance of the peace. Wilkes had his

friends as well as his opponents. After this sharp debate, the company

amused themselves by drinking whisky, and telling stories. The latter

consisting of quarrels, fights, _rencontres_, and duels, in which

distinguished persons of that neighbourhood, and frequenters of that

house, had been actors. Some of these stories were frightful enough, and

were told, too, with a relish which bespoke the pleasure of the parties

with the horrid scenes they portrayed. It would not be proper here to

give the reader any idea of the vulgarity and dark profanity which

rolled, as “sweet morsel,” under these corrupt tongues. A more brutal

set of creatures, perhaps, never congregated.

Disgusted, and a little alarmed withal, Mr. Listwell, who was not

accustomed to such entertainment, at length retired, but not to sleep.

He was _too_ much wrought upon by what he had heard to rest quietly, and

what snatches of sleep he got, were interrupted by dreams which were

anything than pleasant. At eleven o’clock, there seemed to be several

hundreds of persons crowding into the house. A loud and confused

clamour, cursing and cracking of whips, and the noise of chains startled

him from his bed; for a moment he would have given the half of his farm

in Ohio to have been at home. This uproar was kept up with undulating

course, till near morning. There was loud laughing,—loud singing,—loud

cursing,—and yet there seemed to be weeping and mourning in the midst of

all. Mr. Listwell said he had heard enough during the forepart of the

night to convince him that a buyer of men and women stood the best

chance of being respected. And he, therefore, thought it best to say

nothing which might undo the favourable opinion that had been formed of

him in the bar-room by at least one of the fraternity that swarmed about

it. While he would not avow himself a purchaser of slaves, he deemed it

not prudent to disavow it. He felt that he might, properly, refuse to

cast such a pearl before parties which, to him, were worse than swine.

To reveal himself, and to impart a knowledge of his real character and

sentiments would, to say the least, be imparting intelligence with the

certainty of seeing it and himself both abused. Mr. Listwell confesses,

that this reasoning did not altogether satisfy his conscience, for,

hating slavery as he did, and regarding it to be the immediate duty of

every man to cry out against it, “without compromise and without

concealment,” it was hard for him to admit to himself the possibility of

circumstances wherein a man might, properly, hold his tongue on the

subject. Having as little of the spirit of a martyr as Erasmus, he

concluded, like the latter, that it was wiser to trust the mercy of God

for his soul, than the humanity of slave-traders for his body. Bodily

fear, not conscientious scruples, prevailed.

In this spirit he rose early in the morning, manifesting no surprise at

what he had heard during the night. His quandam friend was soon at his

elbow, boring him with all sorts of questions. All, however, directed to

find out his character, business, residence, purposes, and destination.

With the most perfect appearance of goodnature and carelessness, Mr.

Listwell evaded these meddlesome inquiries, and turned conversation to

general topics, leaving himself and all that specially pertained to him

out of discussion. Disengaging himself from their troublesome

companionship, he made his way to an old bowling-alley, which was

connected with the house, and which, like all the rest, was in very bad

repair.

On reaching the alley Mr. Listwell saw, for the first time in his life,

a slave-gang on their way to market. A sad sight truly. Here were one

hundred and thirty human beings,—children of a common Creator—guilty of

no crime—men and women, with hearts, minds, and deathless spirits,

chained and fettered, and bound for the market, in a Christian

country,—in a country boasting of its liberty, independence, and high

civilization! Humanity converted into merchandise, and linked in iron

bands, with no regard to decency or humanity! All sizes, ages, and

sexes, mothers, fathers, daughters, brothers, sisters,—all huddled

together, on their way to market to be sold and separated from home, and

from each other _for ever_. And all to fill the pockets of men too lazy

to work for an honest living, and who gain their fortune by plundering

the helpless, and trafficking in the souls and sinews of men. As he

gazed upon this revolting and heartrending scene, our informant said he

almost doubted the existence of a God of justice! And he stood wondering

that the earth did not open and swallow up such wickedness.

In the midst of these reflections, and while running his eye up and down

the fettered ranks, he met the glance of one whose face he thought he

had seen before. To be resolved, he moved towards the spot. It was

MADISON WASHINGTON! Here was a scene for the pencil! Had Mr. Listwell

been confronted by one risen from the dead, he could not have been more

appalled. He was completely stunned. A thunderbolt could not have struck

him more dumb. He stood, for a few moments, as motionless as one

petrified; collecting himself, he at length exclaimed, “_Madison! is

that you?_”

The noble fugitive, but little less astonished than himself, answered

cheerily. “O yes, sir, they’ve got me again.”

Thoughtless of consequences for the moment, Mr. Listwell ran up to his

old friend, placing his hands upon his shoulders, and looked him in the

face. Speechless they stood gazing at each other as if to be doubly

resolved that there was no mistake about the matter, till Madison

motioned his friend away, intimating a fear lest the keepers should find

him there, and suspect him of tampering with the slaves.

“They will soon be out to look after us. You can come when they go to

breakfast, and I will tell you all.”

Pleased with this arrangement, Mr. Listwell passed out of the alley; but

only just in time to save himself, for, while near the door, he observed

three men making their way to the alley. The thought occurred to him to

await their arrival, as the best means of diverting the ever ready

suspicions of the guilty.

While the scene between Mr. Listwell and his friend Madison was going

on, the other slaves stood as mute spectators,—at a loss to know what

all this could mean. As he left, he heard the man chained to Madison

ask, “Who is that gentleman?”

“He is a friend of mine. I cannot tell you now. Suffice it to say he is

a friend. You shall hear more of him before long, but mark me! whatever

shall pass between that gentleman and me, in your hearing, I pray you

will say nothing about it. We are all chained here together,—ours is a

common lot; and that gentleman is not less _your_ friend than _mine_.”

At these words, all mysterious as they were, the unhappy company gave

signs of satisfaction and hope. It seems that Madison, by that mesmeric

power which is the invariable accompaniment of genius, had already won

the confidence of the gang, and was a sort of general-in-chief among

them.

By this time the keepers arrived. A horrid trio, well fitted for their

demoniacal work. Their uncombed hair came down over foreheads

“_villainously low_” and with eyes, mouths, and noses to match. “Hallo!

hallo!” they growled out as they entered. “Are you all there?”

“All here,” said Madison.

“Well, well, that’s right! your journey will soon be over. You’ll be in

Richmond by eleven to-day, and then you’ll have an easy time on it.”

“I say, gal, what in the devil are you crying about?” said one of them.

“I’ll give you something to cry about, if you don’t mind.” This was said

to a girl, apparently not more than twelve years old, who had been

weeping bitterly. She had, probably, left behind her a loving mother,

affectionate sisters, brothers, and friends, and her tears were but the

natural expression of her sorrow, and the only solace. But the dealers

in human flesh have _no_ respect for such sorrow. They look upon it as a

protest against their cruel injustice, and they are prompt to punish it.

This is a puzzle not easily solved. _How_ came he here? what can I do

for him? may I not even now be in some way compromised in this affair?

were thoughts that troubled Mr. Listwell, and made him eager for the

promised opportunity of speaking to Madison.

The bell now sounded for breakfast, and keepers and drivers, with

pistols and bowie-knives gleaming from their belts, hurried in, as if to

get the best places. Taking the chance now afforded, Mr. Listwell

hastened back to the bowling-alley. Reaching Madison, he said, “Now _do_

tell me all about the matter. Do you know me?”

“Oh, yes,” said Madison, “I know you well, and shall never forget you

nor that cold and dreary night you gave me shelter. I must be short,” he

continued, “for they’ll soon be out again. This, then, is the story in

brief. On reaching Canada, and getting over the excitement of making my

escape, sir, my thoughts turned to my poor wife, who had well deserved

my love by her virtuous fidelity and undying affection for me. I could

not bear the thought of leaving her in the cruel jaws of slavery,

without making an effort to rescue her. First, I tried to get money to

buy her; but, oh! the process was _too slow_. I despaired of

accomplishing it. She was in all my thoughts by day, and my dreams by

night. At times I could almost hear her voice, saying, ‘O Madison!

Madison! will you then leave me here? can you leave me here to die? No!

no! you will come! you will come!’ I was wretched. I lost my appetite. I

could neither work, eat, nor sleep, till I resolved to hazard my own

liberty, to gain that of my wife! But I must be short. Six weeks ago I

reached my old master’s place. I laid about the neighbourhood nearly a

week, watching my chance, and, finally, I ventured upon the desperate

attempt to reach my poor wife’s room by means of a ladder. I reached the

window, but the noise in raising it frightened my wife, and she screamed

and fainted. I took her in my arms, and was descending the ladder, when

the dogs began to bark furiously, and before I could get to the woods

the white folks were roused. The cool night air soon restored my wife,

and she readily recognized me. We made the best of our way to the woods,

but it was now _too_ late,—the dogs were after us as though they would

have torn us to pieces. It was all over with me now! My old master and

his two sons ran out with loaded rifles, and before we were out of

gunshot, our ears were assailed with ‘_Stop! stop! or be shot down._’

Nevertheless we ran on. Seeing that we gave no heed to their calls, they

fired, and my poor wife fell by my side dead, while I received but a

slight flesh wound. I now became desperate, and stood my ground, and

awaited their attack over her dead body. They rushed upon me, with their

rifles in hand. I parried their blows, and fought them till I was

knocked down and overpowered.”

“Oh! it was madness to have returned,” said Mr. Listwell.

“Sir, I could not be free with the galling thought that my poor wife was

still a slave. With her in slavery, my body, not my spirit, was free. I

was taken to the house,—chained to a ring-bolt,—my wounds dressed. I was

kept there three days. All the slaves, for miles around, were brought to

see me. Many slave-holders came with their slaves, using me as proof of

the completeness of their power, and of the impossibility of slaves

getting away. I was taunted, jeered at, and be-rated by them, in a

manner that pierced me to the soul. Thank God I was able to smother my

rage, and to bear it all with seeming composure. After my wounds were

nearly healed, I was taken to a tree and stripped, and I received sixty

lashes on my naked back. A few days after, I was sold to a slave-trader,

and placed in this gang for the New Orleans market.”

“Do you think your master would sell you to me?”

“O no, sir! I was sold on condition of my being taken South. Their

motive is revenge.”

“Then, then,” said Mr. Listwell, “I fear I can do nothing for you. Put

your trust in God, and bear your sad lot with the manly fortitude which

becomes a man. I shall see you at Richmond, but don’t recognize me.”

Saying this, Mr. Listwell handed Madison ten dollars; said a few words

to the other slaves; received their hearty “God bless you,” and made his

way to the house.

Fearful of exciting suspicion by too long delay, our friend went to the

breakfast table, with the air of one who half reproved the greediness of

those who rushed in at the sound of the bell. A cup of coffee was all

that he could manage. His feelings were too bitter and excited, and his

heart was too full with the fate of poor Madison (whom he loved as well

as admired) to relish his breakfast; and although he sat long after the

company had left the table, he really did little more than change the

position of his knife and fork. The strangeness of meeting again one

whom he had met on two several occasions before, under extraordinary

circumstances, was well calculated to suggest the idea that a

supernatural power, a wakeful providence, or an inexorable fate, had

linked their destiny together; and that no efforts of his could

disentangle him from the mysterious web of circumstances which enfolded

him.

On leaving the table, Mr. Listwell nerved himself up and walked firmly

into the bar-room. He was at once greeted again by that talkative

chatter-box, Mr. Wilkes.

“Them’s a likely set of niggers in the allay there,” said Wilkes.

“Yes, they’re fine looking fellows; one of them I should like to

purchase, and for him I would be willing to give a handsome sum.”

Turning to one of his comrades, and with a grin of victory, Wilkes said,

“Aha, Bill, did you hear that? I told you I know’d that gentleman wanted

to buy niggers, and would bid as high as any purchaser in the market.”

“Come, come,” said Listwell, “don’t be too loud in your praise, you are

old enough to know that prices rise when purchasers are plenty.”

“That’s a fact,” said Wilkes, “I see you knows the ropes—and there’s not

a man in old Virginy whom I’d rather help to make a good bargain than

you, sir.”

Mr. Listwell here threw a dollar at Wilkes, (which the latter caught

with a dexterous hand,) saying, “Take that for your kind good will.”

Wilkes held up the dollar to his right eye, with a grin of victory, and

turned to the morose grumbler in the corner who had questioned the

liberality of a man of whom he knew nothing.

Mr. Listwell now stood as well with the company as any other occupant of

the bar-room.

We pass over the hurry and bustle, the brutal vociferations of the

slave-drivers in getting their unhappy gang in motion for Richmond; and

we need not narrate every application of the lash to those who faltered

in the journey. Mr. Listwell followed the train at a long distance, with

a sad heart; and on reaching Richmond, left his horse at an hotel, and

made his way to the wharf, in the direction of which he saw the

slave-coffle driven. He was just in time to see the whole company embark

for New Orleans. The thought struck him that, while mixing with the

multitude, he might do his friend Madison one last service, and he

stepped into a hardware store and purchased three strong _files_. These

he took with him, and standing near the small boat, which lay in waiting

to bear the company by parcels to the side of the brig that lay in the

stream, he managed, as Madison passed him, to slip the files into his

pocket, and at once darted back among the crowd.

All the company now on board, the imperious voice of the captain

sounded, and instantly a dozen hardy seamen were in the rigging,

hurrying aloft to unfurl the broad canvas of our Baltimore built

American Slaver. The sailors hung about the ropes, like so many black

cats, now in the round-tops, now in the cross-trees, now on the

yard-arms; all was bluster and activity. Soon the broad topsail, the

royal and top gallant sail were spread to the breeze. Round went the

heavy windlass, clank, clank went the fall-bit,—the anchors

weighed,—jibs, mainsails, and topsails hauled to the wind, and the long,

low, black slaver, with her cargo of human flesh, careened, and moved

forward to the sea.

Mr. Listwell stood on the shore, and watched the slaver till the last

speck of her upper sails faded from sight, and announced the limit of

human vision. “Farewell! farewell! brave and true man! God grant that

brighter skies may smile upon your future than have yet looked down upon

your thorny pathway.”

Saying this to himself, our friend lost no time in completing his

business, and in making his way homewards, gladly shaking off from his

feet the dust of Old Virginia.

PART IV.

Oh, where’s the slave so lowly

Condemn’d to chains unholy,

Who could he burst

His bonds at first

Would pine beneath them slowly?

_Moore._

——Know ye not

Who would be free, _themselves_ must strike the blow.

_Childe Harold._

What a world of inconsistency; as well as of wickedness, is suggested by

the smooth and gliding phrase, AMERICAN SLAVE TRADE; and how strange and

perverse is that moral sentiment which loathes, execrates, and brands as

piracy and as deserving of death the carrying away into captivity men,

women, and children from the _African coast_; but which is neither

shocked nor disturbed by a similar traffic, carried on with the same

motives and purposes, and characterized by even _more_ odious

peculiarities on the coast of our MODEL REPUBLIC. We execrate and hang

the wretch guilty of this crime on the coast of Guinea, while we respect

and applaud the guilty participators in this murderous business on the

enlightened shores of the Chesapeake. The inconsistency is so flagrant

and glaring, that it would seem to cast a doubt on the doctrine of the

innate moral sense of mankind.

Just two months after the sailing of the Virginia slave brig, which the

reader has seen move off to sea so proudly with her human cargo for the

New Orleans market, there chanced to meet, in the Marine Coffee-house at

Richmond, a company of _ocean birds_, when the following conversation,

which throws some light on the subsequent history, not only of Madison

Washington, but of the hundred and thirty human beings with whom we last

saw him chained.

“I say, shipmate, you had rather rough weather on your late passage to

Orleans?” said Jack Williams, a regular old salt, tauntingly, to a trim,

compact, manly-looking person, who proved to be the first mate of the

slave brig in question.

“Foul play, as well as foul weather,” replied the firmly knit personage,

evidently but little inclined to enter upon a subject which terminated

so ingloriously to the captain and officers of the American slaver.

“Well, betwixt you and me,” said Williams, “that whole affair on board

of the Creole was miserably and disgracefully managed. Those black

rascals got the upper hand of ye altogether: and in my opinion, the

whole disaster was the result of ignorance of the real character of

_darkies_ in general. With half a dozen _resolute_ white men, (I say it

not boastingly,) I could have had the rascals in irons in ten minutes,

not because I’m so strong, but I know how to manage ’em. With my back

against the _caboose_, I could, myself, have flogged a dozen of them;

and had I been on board, by every monster of the deep, every black devil

of ’em all would have had his neck stretched from the yard-arm. Ye made

a mistake in yer manner of fighting ’em. All that is needed in dealing

with a set of _darkies_, is to show that yer not afraid of ’em. For my

own part, I would not honour a dozen niggers by pointing a gun at one of

’em,—a good stout whip, or a stiff rope’s end, is better than all the

guns at Old Point to quell a _nigger_ insurrection. Why, sir, to take a

gun to a _nigger_ is the best way you can select to tell him you are

afraid of him, and the best way of inviting his attack.”

This speech made quite a sensation among the company, and a part of them

intimated solicitude for the answer which might be made to it. Our first

mate replied, “Mr. Williams, all that you’ve now said sounds very well

_here_ on shore, where, perhaps, you have studied negro character. I do

not profess to understand the subject as well as yourself; but it

strikes me, you apply the same rule in dissimilar cases. It is quite

easy to talk of flogging niggers here on land, where you have the

sympathy of the community, and the whole physical force of the

government, state and national, at your command; and where, if a negro

shall lift his hand against a white man, the whole community, with one

accord, are ready to unite in shooting him down. I say, in such

circumstances, it’s easy to talk of flogging negroes and of negro

cowardice: but, sir, I deny that the negro is, naturally, a coward, or

that your theory of managing slaves will stand the test of _salt_ water.

It may do very well for an overseer, a contemptible hireling, to take

advantage of fears already in existence, and which his presence has no

power to inspire; to swagger about, whip in hand, and discourse on the

timidity and cowardice of negroes; for they have a smooth sea and a fair

wind. It is one thing to manage a company of slaves on a Virginia

plantation, and quite another thing to quell an insurrection on the

lonely billows of the Atlantic, where every breeze speaks of courage and

liberty. For the negro to act cowardly on shore, may be to act wisely;

and I’ve some doubts whether _you_, Mr. Williams, would find it very

convenient, were you a slave in Algiers, to raise your hand against the

bayonets of a whole government.”

“By George, shipmate,” said Williams, “you’re coming rather _too_ near.

Either I’ve fallen very low in your estimation, or your notions of negro

courage have got up a buttonhole too high. Now I more than ever wish I’d

been on board of that luckless craft. I’d have given ye practical

evidence of the truth of my theory. I don’t doubt there’s some

difference in being at sea. But a nigger’s a nigger, on sea or land; and

is a coward, find him where you will; a drop of blood from one on ’em

will skeer a hundred. A knock on the nose, or a kick on the shin, will

tame the wildest ‘_darkey_’ you can fetch me. I say again, and will

stand by it, I could, with half a dozen good men, put the whole nineteen

on ’em in irons, and have carried them safe to New Orleans too. Mind, I

don’t blame you; but I do say, and every gentleman here will bear me out

in it, that the fault was somewhere, or them niggers would never have

got off as they have done. For my part I feel ashamed to have the idea

go abroad, that a ship-load of slaves can’t be safely taken from

Richmond to New Orleans. I should like, merely to redeem the character

of Virginia sailors, to take charge of a ship-load on ’em to-morrow.”

Williams went on in this strain, occasionally casting an imploring

glance at the company for applause for his wit, and sympathy for his

contempt of negro courage. He had, evidently, however, waked up the

wrong passenger; for besides being in the right, his opponent carried

that in his eye which marked him a man not to be trifled with.

“Well, sir,” said the sturdy mate, “you can select your own method for

distinguishing yourself;—the path of ambition in this direction is quite

open to you in Virginia, and I’ve no doubt that you will be highly

appreciated and compensated for all your valiant achievements in that

line; but, for myself, while I do not profess to be a giant, I have

resolved never to set my foot on the deck of a slave ship, either as

officer, or common sailor again; I have got enough of it.”

“Indeed! indeed!” exclaimed Williams, derisively.

“Yes, _indeed_,” echoed the mate; “but don’t misunderstand me. It is not

the high value that I set upon my life that makes me say what I have

said; yet I’m resolved never to endanger my life again in a cause which

my conscience does not approve. I dare say _here_ what many men _feel_,

but _dare not speak_, that this whole slave-trading business is a

disgrace and scandal to Old Virginia.”

“Hold! hold on! shipmate,” said Williams, “I hardly thought you’d have

shown your colours so soon,—I’ll be hanged if you’re not as good an

abolitionist as Garrison himself.”

The mate now rose from his chair, manifesting some excitement. “What do

you mean, sir,” said he, in a commanding tone. “_That man does not live

who shall offer me an insult with impunity._”

The effect of these words was marked; and the company clustered around.

Williams, in an apologetic tone said, “Shipmate! keep your temper. I

meant no insult. We all know that Tom Grant is no coward, and what I

said about your being an abolitionist was simply this: you _might_ have

put down them black mutineers and murderers, but your conscience held

you back.”

“In that, too,” said Grant, “you were mistaken. I did all that any man

with equal strength and presence of mind could have done. The fact is,

Mr. Williams, you underrate the courage as well as the skill of these

negroes, and further, you do not seem to have been correctly informed

about the case in hand at all.”

“All I know about it is,” said Williams, “that on the ninth day after

you left Richmond, a dozen or two of the niggers ye had on board, came

on deck and took the ship from you;—had her steered into a British port,

where, by-the-bye, every woolly head of them went ashore and was free.

Now I take this to be a discreditable piece of business, and one

demanding explanation.”

“There are a great many discreditable things in the world,” said Grant.

“For a ship to go down under a calm sky is, upon the first flush of it,

disgraceful either to sailors or caulkers. But when we learn, that by

some mysterious disturbance in nature, the waters parted beneath, and

swallowed the ship up, we lose our indignation and disgust in

lamentation of the disaster, and in awe of the Power which controls the

elements.”

“Very true, very true,” said Williams, “I should be very glad to have an

explanation which would relieve the affair of its present discreditable

features. I have desired to see you ever since you got home, and to

learn from you a full statement of the facts in the case. To me the

whole thing seems unaccountable. I cannot see how a dozen or two of

ignorant negroes, not one of whom had ever been to sea before, and all

of whom were closely ironed between decks, should be able to get their

fetters off, rush out of the hatchway in open daylight, kill two white

men, the one the captain and the other their master, and then carry the

ship into a British port, where every ‘_darkey_’ of them was set free.

There must have been great carelessness, or cowardice somewhere!”

The company which had listened in silence during most of this

discussion, now became much excited. One said, I agree with Williams;

and several said the thing looks black enough. After the temporary

tumultuous exclamations had subsided,—

“I see,” said Grant, “how you regard this case, and how difficult it

will be for me to render our ship’s company blameless in your eyes.

Nevertheless, I will state the fact precisely as they came under my own

observation. Mr. Williams speaks of ‘ignorant negroes,’ and, as a

general rule, they are ignorant; but had he been on board the _Creole_,

as I was, he would have seen cause to admit that there are exceptions to

this general rule. The leader of the mutiny in question was just as

shrewd a fellow as ever I met in my life, and was as well fitted to lead

in a dangerous enterprise as any one white man in ten thousand. The name

of this man, strange to say, (ominous of greatness,) was MADISON

WASHINGTON. In the short time he had been on board, he had secured the

confidence of every officer. The negroes fairly worshipped him. His

manner and bearing were such, that no one could suspect him of a

murderous purpose. The only feeling with which we regarded him was, that

he was a powerful, good-disposed negro. He seldom spake to any one, and

when he did speak, it was with the utmost propriety. His words were well

chosen, and his pronunciation equal to any schoolmaster. It was a

mystery to us _where_ he got his knowledge of language; but as little

was said to him, none of us knew the extent of his intelligence and

ability till it was too late. It seems he brought three files with him

on board, and must have gone to work upon his fetters the first night

out; and he must have worked well at that; for on the day of the rising,

he got the irons _off eighteen_ besides himself.

“The attack began just about twilight in the evening. Apprehending a

squall, I had commanded the second mate to order all hands on deck, to

take in sail. A few minutes before this I had seen Madison’s head above

the hatchway, looking out upon the white-capped waves at the leeward. I

think I never saw him look more good-natured. I stood just about

midship, on the larboard side. The captain was pacing the quarter-deck

on the starboard side, in company with Mr. Jameson, the owner of most of

the slaves on board. Both were armed. I had just told the men to lay

aloft, and was looking to see my orders obeyed, when I heard the

discharge of a pistol on the starboard side; and turning suddenly

around, the very deck seemed covered with fiends from the pit. The

nineteen negroes were all on deck, with their broken fetters in their

hands, rushing in all directions. I put my hand quickly in my pocket to

draw out my jack-knife; But before I could draw it, I was knocked

senseless to the deck. When I came to myself, (which I did in a few

minutes, I suppose, for it was yet quite light,) there was not a white

man on deck. The sailors were all aloft in the rigging, and dared not

come down. Captain Clarke and Mr. Jameson lay stretched on the

quarter-deck,—both dying,—while Madison himself stood at the helm

unhurt.

“I was completely weakened by the loss of blood, and had not recovered

from the stunning blow which felled me to the deck; but it was a little

too much for me, even in my prostrate condition, to see our good brig

commanded by a _black murderer_. So I called out to the men to come down

and take the ship, or die in the attempt. Suiting the action to the

word, I started aft. You murderous villain, said I, to the imp at the

helm, and rushed upon him to deal him a blow, when he pushed me back

with his strong, black arm, as though I had been a boy of twelve. I

looked around for the men. They were still in the rigging. Not one had

come down. I started towards Madison again. The rascal now told me to

stand back. ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘your life is in my hands. I could have

killed you a dozen times over during this last half hour, and could kill

you now. You call me a _black murderer_. I am not a murderer. God is my

witness that LIBERTY, not _malice_, is the motive for this night’s work.

I have done no more to those dead men yonder, than they would have done

to me in like circumstances. We have struck for our freedom, and if a

true man’s heart be in you, you will honour us for the deed. We have

done that which you applaud your fathers for doing, and if we are

murderers, _so were they_.’

“I felt little disposition to reply to this impudent speech. By heaven,

it disarmed me. The fellow loomed up before me. I forgot his blackness

in the dignity of his manner, and the eloquence of his speech. It seemed

as if the souls of both the great dead (whose names he bore) had entered

him. To the sailors in the rigging he said: ‘Men! the battle is

over,—your captain is dead. I have complete command of this vessel. All

resistance to my authority will be in vain. My men have won their

liberty, with no other weapons but their own BROKEN FETTERS. We are

nineteen in number. We do not thirst for your blood, we demand only our

rightful freedom. Do not flatter yourselves that I am ignorant of chart

or compass. I know both. We are now only about sixty miles from Nassau.

Come down, and do your duty. Land us in Nassau, and not a hair of your

heads shall be hurt.’

“I shouted, _Stay where you are, men_,—when a sturdy black fellow ran at

me with a handspike, and would have split my head open, but for the

interference of Madison, who darted between me and the blow. ‘I know

what you are up to,’ said the latter to me. ‘You want to navigate this

brig into a slave port, where you would have us all hanged; but you’ll

miss it; before this brig shall touch a slave-cursed shore while I am on

board, I will myself put a match to the magazine, and blow her, and be

blown with her, into a thousand fragments. Now I have saved your life

twice within these last twenty minutes,—for, when you lay helpless on

deck, my men were about to kill you. I held them in check. And if you

now (seeing I am your friend and not your enemy) persist in your

resistance to my authority, I give you fair warning, YOU SHALL DIE.’

“Saying this to me, he cast a glance into the rigging, where the

terror-stricken sailors were clinging, like so many frightened monkeys,

and commanded them to come down, in a tone from which there was no

appeal; for four men stood by with muskets in hand, ready at the word of

command to shoot them down.

“I now became satisfied that resistance was out of the question; that my

best policy was to put the brig into Nassau, and secure the assistance

of the American consul at that port. I felt sure that the authorities

would enable us to secure the murderers, and bring them to trial.

“By this time the apprehended squall had burst upon us. The wind howled

furiously,—the ocean was white with foam, which, on account of the

darkness, we could see only by the quick flashes of lightning that

darted occasionally from the angry sky. All was alarm and confusion.

Hideous cries came up from the slave women. Above the roaring billows a

succession of heavy thunder rolled along, swelling the terrific din.

Owing to the great darkness, and a sudden shift of the wind, we found

ourselves in the trough of the sea. When shipping a heavy sea over the

starboard bow, the bodies of the captain and Mr. Jameson were washed

overboard. For awhile we had dearer interests to look after than slave

property. A more savage thunder-gust never swept the ocean. Our brig

rolled and creaked as if every bolt would be started, and every thread

of oakum would be pressed out of the seams. To the pumps! to the pumps!

I cried, but not a sailor would quit his grasp. Fortunately this squall

soon passed over, or we must have been food for sharks.

“During all the storm Madison stood firmly at the helm, his keen eye

fixed upon the binnacle. He was not indifferent to the dreadful

hurricane; yet he met it with the equanimity of an old sailor. He was

silent, but not agitated. The first words he uttered after the storm had

slightly subsided, were characteristic of the man. ‘Mr. mate, you cannot

write the bloody laws of slavery on those restless billows. The ocean,

if not the land, is free.’ I confess, gentlemen, I felt myself in the

presence of a superior man; one who, had he been a white man, I would

have followed willingly and gladly in any honourable enterprise. Our

difference of colour was the only ground for difference of action. It

was not that his principles were wrong in the abstract; for they are the

principles of 1776. But I could not bring myself to recognize their

application to one whom I deemed my inferior.

“But to my story. What happened now is soon told. Two hours after the

frightful tempest had spent itself, we were plump at the wharf in

Nassau. I sent two of our men immediately to our consul with a statement

of facts, requesting his interference on our behalf. What he did, or

whether he did anything, I don’t know; but, by order of the authorities,

a company of _black_ soldiers came on board, for the purpose, as they

said, of protecting the property. These impudent rascals, when I called

on them to assist me in keeping the slaves on board, sheltered

themselves adroitly under their instructions only to protect

property,—and said they did not recognize _persons_ as _property_. I

told them that, by the laws of Virginia and the laws of the United

States, the slaves on board were as much property as the barrels of

flour in the hold. At this the stupid blockheads showed their _ivory_,

rolled up their white eyes in horror, as if the idea of putting men on a

footing with merchandise were revolting to their humanity. When these

instructions were understood among the negroes, it was impossible for us

to keep them on board. They deliberately gathered up their baggage

before our eyes, and, against our remonstrances, poured through the

gangway,—formed themselves into a procession on the wharf,—bid farewell

to all on board, and, uttering the wildest shouts of exultation, they

marched, amidst the deafening cheers of a multitude of sympathising

spectators, under the triumphant leadership of their heroic chief and

deliverer, MADISON WASHINGTON.”

[Signature: Frederick Douglass.]

A PLEA FOR FREE SPEECH.

Give me leave to speak my mind.

_As You Like it._

The clamorous demand which certain patriotic gentlemen are just now

making for perfect silence on the slavery question, strikes a quiet

looker-on as something very odd. It might pass for a dull sort of joke,

were it not that the means taken to enforce it, by vexatious

prosecutions, political and social proscriptions, and newspaper assaults

on private reputation, are beginning, in certain quarters, to assume a

decidedly tragic aspect, and forcing upon all anti-slavery men the

alternative of peremptorily refusing compliance, or standing meanly by

to see others crushed for advocating _their_ opinions.

The question has been extensively, and I think very naturally raised,

why these anti-agitation gentlemen do not keep silent themselves. For,

strange as it may seem, this perilous topic is the very one which most

of all appears to occupy their thoughts too, and is ever uppermost when

they undertake to speak of the affairs of the country. They are in the

predicament of the poor man in the Eastern fable, who, being forbidden,

on pain of the genie’s wrath, to utter another cabalistic syllable,

found, to his horror, that he could never after open his lips without

their beginning perversely to frame the tabooed articulation. But not,

as in his case, does fear chain up their organs. They speak it boldly

out, proclaim it “the corner-stone” of their political creed, and do

their best in every way, by speeches and articles, Union-safety

pamphlets and National Convention platforms, to “keep it before the

people.” And the object always is, to keep the people quiet! Surely, if

the Union is _not_ strong enough to bear agitations, the special friends

of the Union have chosen a singular way to save it.

I would by no means infer, that they are _altogether_ insecure in their

professions of anxiety. The truth appears to be, however, that in so far

as these professions are not a sheer pretence, got up by political men

for political effect, our estimable fellow citizens have, all

unwittingly, been obeying a higher law than that which they would impose

on their neighbours,—a law, written in the very nature of the free soul.

On this, the subject of the age, they must think, and cannot refrain

from uttering their thoughts. “They believe, and _therefore_ have they

spoken.” And it is a sufficient reply to their unanswerable demand for

silence on the other side. “We _also_ believe, and therefore speak.”

Pray, why not?

A certain ardent conservative friend of mine, to whom I once proposed

this inquiry, made a short answer to it after this fashion:—“The

abolitionists are all fools and fanatics. Whenever the idea of

anti-slavery gets hold of a man, he takes leave of his common sense, and

is thenceforth as one possessed. I would put a padlock on every such

crazy fellow’s mouth.” My friend’s rule, it will be seen, is a very

broad one; stopping the mouths of all who speak foolishly. Who will

undertake to see it fairly applied? or who could feel quite free from

nervousness in view of its possible operation? Under an infallible

administration, I apprehend, many—some, perhaps, even of the most

strenuous advocates of the law—might find themselves uncomfortably

implicated, who at present hardly suspect the danger. “By’rlakin, a

parlous fear! my masters, you ought to consider with yourselves!” I am

constrained to confess, that in the very midst of my friend’s aforesaid

patriotic diatribe against folly and fanaticism, and his plea for a

summary fool-act, I could not keep out of my mind some wicked

recollections of Horace’s lines:

_Communi sensu plane caret_, inquimus. Eheu!

Quam temere in _nosmet_ legem sancimus iniquam!

It must in all candour be confessed, that there is something in the

subject of slavery which, when fairly looked at and realized, is a

little trying to one’s sanity. Even such intellects as John Wesley’s and

Thomas Jefferson’s seem to stagger a little under a view of the

appalling sum of iniquity and wretchedness which the word represents,

and vent their excitement in terms not particularly measured. What

wonder, then, if men of simpler minds should now and then be thrown

quite off the balance, and think and say some things that are really

unwise. I think, indeed, it will have to be confessed, that we have had

fools and fanatics on both sides of the slavery question; and it is

altogether among the probabilities, that such will continue to be the

case hereafter. Still, until we have some infallible criterion to

distinguish actual folly from that which foolish people merely think

such, I fancy we must forego the convenience of my friend’s summary

process, and, giving leave to every man to speak his mind, leave it to

Time—great sifter of men and opinions—to separate between the precious

and the vile.

It may be the kindness bred of a fellow feeling, but I must confess to a

warm side towards my brethren of the motley tribe. While on the one hand

I firmly hold with Elihu—who seems to have represented young Uz among

the friends of Job—that “great men are not always wise.” I rejoice on

the other hand in the concession of Polonius,—chief old Fogy of the

court of Denmark,—that there is “a happiness which madness often hits

on, that reason and sanity could not so prosperously be delivered of.”

Folly and craziness, quotha! Did it, then, never occur to you, O Worldly

Wiseman, that even your wisdom might be bettered by a dash of that which

you thus contemptuously brand? Or does the apostle seem to you as one

that driveleth, when he says, “If any man among you seemeth to be wise

in this world, let him become a fool, that he may be wise?”

I have often admired the sagacity of our mediæval forefathers, in the

treatment of their (so called) fools. They gave them a _special licence_

of the tongue; for they justly estimated the advantages which the truly

wise know how to draw from the untrammelled utterances of any honest

mind, especially of minds which, refusing to run tamely in the oiled

grooves of prescriptive and fashionable orthodoxy, are the more likely,

now and then, (where if only by accident,) to hit upon truths which

others missed. Hence they maintained an “Independent Order” of the

motley, whose only business it was freely to think and freely speak

their minds. “I must have liberty withal,” says Jaques, aspiring to this

dignity,

—“as free a charter as the wind,

To blow on whom I please: for _so fools have_.”

And he adds, in a strain of admonition which certain contemporaneous

events might almost lead one to consider prophetic—

“They that are most galled with my folly,

They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so?

The _why_ is as plain as way to parish church.

He that a fool doth very wisely hit,

Doth very foolishly, although he smart,

Not to seem senseless of the bob. If not,

The wise man’s folly is anatomised

Even by the squandering glances of the fool.

* * What then? Let me see wherein

My speech hath wronged him. If it do him right,

Then he hath wronged himself; if he be free,

Why then, my taxing like a wild goose flies,

Unclaimed of any man.”

Now if there be “fools in the nineteenth century,” as I devoutly hope

there be,—men possessed with the belief of a Higher Law, Inalienable

Rights, Supremacy of Conscience, and such like obsolete phantoms, and

passing strange judgments on the deeds of men, and nations in the light

thereof,—I beg to put in a similar plea for them. _Give them leave to

speak their minds._ Now and then, it may be worth the pondering, and,

heeded betimes, may, peradventure, save from calamity and ruin. If not,

an attempt to _enforce_ silence on fools—and is it not much the same

with freemen?—is likely to produce, not silence at all, but a greater

outcry. And as for our great and wise men, when hit, let them conceal

the smart, and profit by the lesson. But, for their own greatness’ sake,

and the honour of their wisdom, whether hit or not, let them never fall

into a passion at the freedom of men’s speech, and cry, _This must be

put down_. For it will not down at their bidding.

But the subject refuses to be treated lightly. The vast interest at

stake on both sides, and the immediate urgency of crisis, compel the

mind to sobriety and solicitude in the contemplation of it. No truly

wise man will look upon the anti-slavery doctrine as mere folly, or on

the promulgation of it as idle breath. It is the measureless power of

that sentiment, and all its power lies in its truth—that wakens this

alarm; and it is the consciousness of holding such a weapon in their

hands, that makes the anti-slavery masses at the North pause, lest, in

attempting to use it for good, they should, unwittingly, do harm. For

such a sentiment, who can fail to feel respect? Who would not despise

himself if his own bosom were destitute of it? But, by as much as I

respect it in others, and would cherish it in myself, by so much will I

resent all playing upon it by political men for party or personal ends,

and fear lest it betray me into pusillanimity and inertness where the

times demand action for humanity and God. It _is_ a serious question for

all honest anti-slavery men throughout the land, in what way they can

most wisely and hopefully quit them of their responsibility in relation

to this thing. Their actions as citizens should, unquestionably, be

restricted by the just limits of their civil responsibility; as men by

those of their moral responsibility. Even within those limits, they

should act with a wise moderation, and in a generous spirit of candour

and kindness. But one thing is abundantly certain, that by ignoring the

responsibility, they do not get rid of it; by turning their backs on the

obligation, they will not get it discharged. Still the terrible _fact_

remains. _Still the tears and blood of the enslaved are daily dropping

on our country’s soil._ Throw over it what veil of extenuation and

excuse you may, the essential crime and shame remains. Believe as kindly

as you can of the treatment which the slaves receive of humane and

Christian masters; it is only on condition that they first surrender

their every _right_ as men. Let them dare demur to that, and their tears

and blood must answer it. That is the terrible fact; and _our country_

is the abettor, the protector, and the agent of the iniquity. Must we be

indifferent? May we be indifferent? It is a question of tremendous

import to every freeman in the land, who honestly believes that the

rights he claims as a man are common to the race.

We used to be told, and are sometimes still, that this is a matter which

belongs to our Southern brethren exclusively, and that when we of the

Free States interfere with it, we meddle with that which is “none of our

business.” And there was a time, when this might be urged with a show of

consistency. It was when slavery claimed only to be a creature of State

legislation, and asked only of the national Government and the Free

States to be let alone. Even then, it had no right of exemption from the

rational scrutiny to which all human institutions are amenable, nor from

the rebuke and denouncement which all men may, in Heaven’s name, utter

against all iniquity done in the face of Heaven. But the _special_ right

of republican citizens to demand the correction of wrongs done by _their

own_ government, attached in the matter of slavery only to the citizens

of the slave States.

But a wonderful change has been passing before our eyes. The attitude of

slavery is entirely altered. It now claims to be nationalized. It

demands a distinct recognition and active protection from the general

government, and indirect, but most effectual support from every State in

the Union, and from every citizen thereof! The government has

acknowledged the validity of the claim; and our great political

leaders—some on whom we have been wont to rely as stalwart champions of

freedom—have turned short round in their tracks, and require us to

believe that we are _under constitutional obligations_ to help maintain

the accursed thing,—yea, through all future time, to do its most menial

work! Nor is the doctrine to be left in the dubious region of

speculation. It is already “a fixed fact,” terribly embodied in a penal

law. It enters the home of every Northern freeman, and announces in

thunder-tones this ancestral obligation, which had so strangely faded

from the recollections of men. It tolerates no dulness of apprehension,

no hesitancy of belief. It bids us all, on pain of imprisonments and

fines, to conquer our prejudices, to swallow our scruples, to be still

with our nonsensical humanities, and, “as good citizens,” to start out

at the whistle of a United States’ constable, to chase down miserable

negroes fleeing from the hell of bondage!

Slavery, then, has become _our_ business at last; and, as such, does it

not behove us to attend to it? I think, in the language of honest

Dogberry, that “that is proved already, and will go near to be thought

so shortly.” The thing lies in a nut-shell. Millard Fillmore is not our

master, but our servant. It is not his to prescribe duties, but ours;

and his to perform them. What he does, in his own person and by his

subordinate executive officers, he does for us, and on our

responsibility. What he does or they do, in other words, WE do; and we

must abide the reckoning. In this responsibility, the humblest citizen

bears his share, and cannot shirk it if he would. When, then, I see the

ministers of my country’s law consigning men with flesh and blood like

my own, with homes and business, with wives and children,

As dear to them, as are the ruddy drops

That visit their sad hearts,

men unaccused of crime, and eating the daily bread of honest

labour—consigning them, I say, and their posterity to hopeless

vassalage, and degrading chattelhood, by a process, too, which tramples

under foot the most ancient and sacred guarantees of my own and my

neighbour’s rights. When I see this great nation lay its terrible grasp

upon the throat of a feeble, unoffending man, and thrust him back to

worse than a felon’s fate for doing that which no casuistry can torture

into a crime, I am compelled to feel that _it is myself_ engaged in this

atrocious business; and no one but myself can rid me of the

responsibility. I can no longer be silent; I dare no longer be silent; I

will no longer be silent. I will remonstrate and cry, shame! I will

refuse to obey the law; I will demand to be released, and to have my

country released, from its odious requirements. I will vote, and

influence voters, and use every prerogative of freedom, to throw at

least from off my conscience a burden that it cannot bear. And who that

is worthy to be free himself, will blame me? To speak is no longer a

mere right; it has become a religious duty.

Let no man tell me, that this law is a mere dead letter. The old

Fugitive Law, had, indeed, become so; and so would any other be likely

to become, which, while grasping after the slave, should pay a decent

respect to the rights of the free. But slavery cannot subsist on any

such condition; and this law was framed to supply the deficiencies of

the old law, _and to accomplish the thing_. It is based on the

assumption that the government of the United States is bound to effect

the rendition of fugitives, if possible at all, _at whatever cost_. And,

if this law is insufficient, the assumption is equally good for still

more stringent measures. But I repeat it, let no man tell me it is _now_

a nullity. Have we not seen it executed in our streets, and at our very

doors? I chanced to be in the city of New York at the time when, I

think, its first victim, Henry Long, was torn from his family, and from

a reputable and profitable business, and sent back,—limbs, and brain,

and throbbing, loving heart—the husband, father, friend, the peaceful

and industrious member of society, all, to be the _property_ of a

fellow-mortal in a hostile land. Could I look upon this crimeless man,

thus in the grasp of the officers of my country’s laws, my own

representatives, and hurried unresisting to that dreadful doom; and ever

be able to believe the law innocuous, and myself guiltless while I

acquiesced in silence? The rabble followed him along the streets,

shouting in exultation at the negro’s fate. _Them_ I must acknowledge as

my fellows and brethren, but _him_—on him I must put my heel, with

theirs, to crush him out of manhood! And the morrow’s papers, edited by

professed Christians, heralded the occurrence, with not even a decent

pretence of pity and regret, but as a triumph of LAW, (O sacred name

profaned!) in which all good men should rejoice. That day I felt a

stifling sensation settling down upon me, of which my previous

experience had afforded no precedent, and with an oppressive weight

which no language can describe. _I felt that I no longer breathed the

air of liberty;_ that slavery was spreading her upas branches athwart

_my_ sky also. The convenient apology that the sin was not mine, but

another’s, no longer stood me in stead; and I have wondered ever since

to hear any honest Northern man employ it. There are Northern men, from

whom nothing could surprise me.

And what have we since witnessed? The inferior officers of the law

prowling throughout the North for victims on whom to enforce it. Their

superiors, even to the highest, labouring by speeches and proclamations

and journeyings to an fro in the land (is it too much to say?) to

_dragoon_ the people into its support. The national treasury thrown wide

open to meet its “extraordinary expenses.” Fanueil Hall hung in chains,

to ensure its execution. Presidential candidates vieing with each other

in expressions of attachment and fidelity to it. Able men, in Church and

State, spotted for proscription for no other sin than hating that law,

and daring to declare that hatred. And to crown the whole, the wisdom of

the nation, in Baltimore Conventions once and again assembled,

pronouncing the new doctrines of constitutional responsibility, with the

law that embodies it, not only a certainty, but—(hear it, O heavens!) a

_finality!_ A new word in the political vocabulary, and verily a new

thing in the earth! “Finality,” in the legislation of freemen! A

finality, that for ever precludes reconsideration, amendment, or repeal!

When such things are said, and gravely said, by men professing to be

American statesmen, I can almost imagine the fathers of my country

turning painfully in their graves. And can it be possible, that in the

same breath with which men assume to roll political responsibilities on

freemen, they dare require perpetual silence and unconsidering

submission thereto? Then, what is it to be free?

But let no one dream that these formidable pronouncements have any

enduring force. It is natural, that Southern statesmen should seek, by

every possible expedient, to keep out the flood of discussion from a

system which can so illy bear it. And it is not strange, that Northern

politicians should, for temporary purposes, assist them in the effort.

This is for a day; but the great tide of human thought flows on for

ever, and there is no spot from which it will be shut out. I remember

when the right of petition was denied by our Southern brethren, in

respect to this subject; and they found compliant tools enough from the

North to work with for a season. But was the right of petition

sacrificed? Of course not. And is the right of free discussion, the

right to make and (if we please) unmake our laws less precious? This

subject _will_ be agitated. This law will be reconsidered; and, if it is

not repealed, it will be for the same reasons that ensures the

continuance of other laws, namely, because it is able to sustain severe

and ever recurring scrutiny.

But what is to become of the Union meanwhile? One thing is very certain.

If it deliberately places itself in competition with those “blessings of

liberty,” which it was created to “secure,” it _ought_ to fall. Shall

the end be sacrificed to preserve the means, to which the end alone

gives value? And what are we to think of the statesmanship of those,

who, to effect that preservation, would force such an issue on a people

nursed at the breasts of freedom? I would rather die than live a traitor

to my country; but let me die _ten thousand_ deaths before I prove

treacherous to freedom and to God. “If this be treason, make the most of

it.”

But it is worse than idle to talk so. There is no such issue before the

nation. We are not compelled to choose between disunion and slavery; a

slavery, too, that would not only hold the black man in its remorseless

gripe, but put its fetters on the conscience of the white man, and its

gag into his mouth. Our Southern brethren themselves, even to save their

cherished institution, would not dare, would not desire to press such an

alternative. Were it so, who would not be ready to surrender the Union

as valueless to him, and to part company with Southrons as men unworthy

to be free? But it is not so. There are Hotspurs, doubtless, enough of

them at the South; and Jehus, too many, at the North. And there are

cunning politicians to stand between the two sections, and play upon the

prejudices of both, and into each other’s hands, for selfish ends. But

the great heart of the nation, North and South, on the whole and

according to the measure of its understanding, beats true alike to

freedom and the constitution,—true to that immortal sentiment which, as

long as this nation endures, shall encircle its author’s name with a

halo, in whose splendour some later words that have fallen from his lips

will be happily lost and forgotten: “Liberty _and_ Union, now and for

ever, one and inseparable.” Whatever differences there may be as to the

nature, conditions, and obligations of freedom, or as to the intent and

meaning of the constitution, no party among the people will refuse to

submit them to the ordeal of discussion, and the arbitrament of the

appointed tribunals.

While this is so, let him be deemed the traitor, who stands up before

the world, and belies his country by declaring it to be otherwise. And

let every man prepare to enter into those discussions which no human

power can now stave off, in a spirit of intelligent candour and

kindness, but, at the same time of inflexible fidelity to God and man.

[Signature: J. H. Raymond]

PLACIDO.

The true wealth and glory of a nation consist not in its gold dust, nor

in its commerce, nor in the grandeur of its palaces, nor yet in the

magnificence of its cities,—but in the intellectual and moral energy of

its people. Egypt is more glorious because of her carrying into Greece

the blessings of civilization, than because of her Pyramids, however

wondrous, her lakes and labyrinths, however stupendous, or her Thebes,

though every square marked a palace, or every alley a dome. Who hears of

the moneyed men of Athens, of Rome? And who does _not_ hear of Socrates,

of Plato, of Demosthenes, of Virgil, of Cicero? Are you in converse with

him of the “Sea-girt Isle,” and would touch the chord that vibrates most

readily in his heart?—then talk to him of Shakspeare, of Milton, of

Cowper, of Bacon, of Newton; of Burns, of Scott. To the intelligent son

of the “Emerald Isle,” talk of Curran, of Emmett, of O’Connell.

Great men are a nation’s vitality. Nations pass away,—great men, never.

Great men are not unfrequently buried in dungeons or in obscurity; but

they work out great thoughts for all time, nevertheless. Did not Bunyan

work out a great thought all-vital and vitalizing, when he lay twelve

years in Bedford jail, weaving his tagged lace, and writing his

Pilgrim’s Progress? The greatest man in all America is now in obscurity.

It is he who is “_the Lord of his own soul_,” on whose brow wisdom has

marked her supremacy, and who, in his sphere, moves

“Stilly as a star, on his eternal way.”

A great writer hath said, “Nature is stingy of her great men.” I do not

believe it. God doeth all his work fitly and well; how, therefore, could

he give us great men, not plentifully, but stingily? The truth is, there

are great men, and they are plentiful,—plentiful for the times, I

mean,—but we do not see them, because we will not come into the

sun-light of truth and rectitude where, and where only, dwelleth

greatness.

Placido was a great man. He was a great poet besides. He was a patriot,

also,—how could he be otherwise? Are not all poets patriots?

“Adios Mundo,” cried he, as with tear-bedimmed eyes he looked up into

the blue heavens above him, and upon the green earth beneath him; and

upon the portals of the universe read wisdom, majesty, and power. Was

there no poetry in this outburst of a full heart, and in this looking

upward to heaven? “Adios Mundo,” cried he, as now beholding, for the

last time, the home of his love,—he bared his bosom to the death-shot of

the soldiers.

Great was Placido in life,—he was greater still in death. His was the

faith which fastens itself upon the EVERLASTING I AM.

Call you that greatness which Pizarro achieved when, seizing a sword and

drawing a line upon the sand from east to west, he himself facing the

south, he said to his band of pirates—“_Friends, comrades, on that side

are toil, hunger, nakedness, the drenching storm, desertion, and death;

on this side, ease and pleasure. There lies Peru with its richness; here

Panama with its poverty. Choose each man what best becomes a brave

Castillian. For my part I go to the south_;”—suiting the action to the

word? So do I,—but look ye, this is merely the greatness of overwhelming

energy and concentrated purpose, not illuminated by a single ray of

light from the Divine. See here, how Placido dwarfeth Pizarro when he

thus prayeth,

“God of unbounded love, and power eternal!

To Thee I turn in darkness and despair;

Stretch forth Thine arm, and from the brow infernal

Of calumny the veil of justice tear!

· · · · ·

O, King of kings!—my father’s God!—who only

Art strong to save, by whom is all controlled,—

Who giv’st the sea its waves, the dark and lonely

Abyss of heaven its light, the North its cold,

The air its currents, the warm sun its beams,

Life to the flowers, and motion to the streams:

All things obey Thee; dying or reviving

As Thou commandest; all apart from Thee,

From Thee alone their life and power deriving,

Sink and are lost in vast eternity!

· · · · ·

O, merciful God! I cannot shun Thy presence,

For through its veil of flesh, Thy piercing eye

Looketh upon my spirit’s unsoiled essence,

As through the pure transparence of the sky;

Let not the oppressor clap his bloody hands,

As o’er my prostrate innocence he stands.

· · · · ·

But if, alas, it seemeth good to Thee

That I should perish as the guilty dies,

Still, fully in me, Thy will be done, O God!”

Placido had a symmetrically developed character. All great men have

this. His intellectual and moral nature blended harmoniously as

“Kindred elements into one.”

An ancient philosopher hath said that the passions and the soul are

placed in the same body, so that the passions might have ready

opportunity to persuade the soul to become subservient to their purpose.

A terrible conflict. And yet through it Placido passed triumphantly.

Placido was born a slave on the island of Cuba, on the plantation of Don

Terribio De Castro. The year of his birth I am unable to give, but it

must have been somewhere between the years 1790 and 1800. He was of

African origin. But little is known of his earliest days save that he

was of gentle demeanor, and wore an aspect which, though mild, indicated

the working of great thoughts within. He was allowed some little

advantage of education in his youth, and he evinced great poetic genius.

The prayer just quoted was composed by him while he lay in prison, and

repeated on his way from his dungeon to his place of execution.

The Heraldo, a leading journal of Havanna, thus spoke of him after his

arrest:—

“Placido is a celebrated poet,—a man of great genius, but too wild and

ambitious. His object was to subdue Cuba, and make himself the chief.”

The following lines, also, were found inscribed upon the walls of his

dungeon. They were written on the day previous to his execution.

“O Liberty! I wait for thee,

To break this chain, and dungeon bar;

I hear thy voice calling me,

Deep in the frozen North, afar,

With voice like God’s, and vision like a star.

Long cradled in the mountain wind,

Thy mates, the eagle and the storm:

Arise; and from thy brow unbind

The wreath that gives its starry form,

And smite the strength, that would thy strength deform.

Yet Liberty; thy dawning light,

Obscured by dungeon bars, shall cast

A splendour on the breaking night,

And tyrants, flying thick and fast,

Shall tremble at thy gaze, and stand aghast.”

In poetic feeling, patriotic spirit, living faith, and withal in

literary beauty, these lines are not surpassed; and they cannot fail to

rank Placido not only with the great-hearted, but with the gifted men of

the earth. A tribute to his genius is recorded in the fact, that he was

ransomed from slavery by the contributions of slave-holders of Cuba.

Placido was executed on the 7th of July, 1844. On the first fire of the

soldiers, no ball entered his heart. He looked up, but with no spirit of

revenge, no aspect of defiance,—only sat upon his countenance the desire

to pass at once into the region where no death is.

“Pity me,” said he, “and fire here,”—putting his hand upon his heart.

Two balls then entered his body, and Placido fell.

As Wordsworth said of Touissant, so may it be said of Placido,—

“Thou hast left behind thee

Powers that work for thee; air, earth, and skies.

There’s not a breathing of the common wind

That will forget thee; thou hast great allies,

Thy friends are exultations, agonies,

A love, and man’s unconquerable mind.”

The charge against Placido was, that he was at the head of a conspiracy

to overthrow slavery in his native island. Blessings on thee, Placido!

Nor didst thou fail of thy mission. Did the martyrs, stake-bound, fail

of theirs? As the Lord liveth, Cuba shall yet be free.

That Placido was at the head of this conspiracy there is not a doubt;

but what his plans in detail were, I know not; the means of acquiring

them are not within my reach. Nevertheless, from the treatment

throughout of the Cuban authorities towards Placido, we may safely

conclude that Placido’s plan in detail evinced no lack of ability to

originate and execute, nor of that sagacity which should mark a

revolutionary leader. Placido hated slavery with a hatred intensified by

the remembrance of wrongs which a loving and loved mother had borne. The

iron, too, had entered into his own soul; and he had been a daily

witness of scenes such as torment itself could scarcely equal, nor the

pit itself outdo. Call you this extravagance? You will not,—should you

but study a single chapter in the history of Cuban slavery.

Do you honour Kossuth?—then forget not him who is worthy to stand side

by side with Hungary’s illustrious son.

What may be the destiny of Cuba in the future near at hand, I will not

venture to predict. What may be her _ultimate_ destiny is written in the

fact that,—“God hath no attribute which, in a contest between the

oppressed and the oppressor, can take sides with the latter.”

This sketch, though hastily written, and meagre in detail as it must

necessarily be, will show, at least, by the quotations of poetry

introduced, that God hath not given to one race alone, all intellectual

and moral greatness.

[Signature: Wm G. Allen]

TO THE FRIENDS OF NEGRO EMANCIPATION.

The following powerful Appeal, reprinted from the “_Uncle Tom’s Cabin

Almanack_,” will not, it is hoped, be deemed an inappropriate

termination of this most interesting Volume:

Many of the interpreters of prophecy consider that England is one of

“the ten horns” of the beast, or Roman power, referred to by the

Apostle John. It is also allowed that, in the highly figurative and

varied language of Scripture, the monster of the Apocalypse is the

same as the image of Daniel, whose feet were partly strong and

partly fragile. In a being that has to stand, walk, fight, and run,

very much depends upon the lower members. The physical man of Louis

XVIII. was very kingly as far as his hips, but his extremities were

feeble, and it was a poor affair when he attempted to walk. Now this

is the very spirit of Daniel’s description of the Roman power. It

had no good legs and feet to stand upon, for they were part of iron

and part of clay, partly strong and partly fragile. As a limb of old

Rome, we are at present in this very predicament. Thank God, we have

a great deal of “_iron_” among us, both metallic, mental, and moral;

but we have an enormous quantity of the old Pagan “_clay_,” and

hence our strength and our weakness.

Passing over a host of subjects which might illustrate what we have

just stated, we now refer only to the _slavery question_. Here we

are strong, and we are also feeble. The twenty millions we paid for

the emancipation of our slaves in the West Indies was one of the

most generous acts of the nation, especially if we consider the

burden of taxation under which we were then groaning. Such a

sacrifice at the shrine of cupidity, for the noble and glorious

object of bursting the yoke of the captive, exhibited no small

degree of moral principle and power. But some beheld in this

munificent price the “clay” blended with the “iron.” Not a few of

the anti-slavery labourers were growing tired of the agitation. The

task had been an arduous one—had demanded considerable toil and

incurred much odium. The philanthropists were stigmatised as “_the

saints_,” as “_canting hypocrites_,” and by other terms equally

expressive of the ire and malignity of their opponents; and while

there were numbers among us who were willing to suffer any kind of

martyrdom in this good cause, there was a still greater multitude

who had been galvanised, rather than vitally quickened into

activity, and longed, from the inert characters of their hearts and

benevolence, to relapse again into their wonted apathy. The money

therefore was paid down quite as much to release these worried

philanthropists from travail, as to meet any supposed equitable

claim of the slave-holder; and no sooner was the contract of

emancipation sealed than these soldiers of humanity threw off their

armour, and retired from the fray; and hence, though slavery has

been abolished in our colonies, it has been allowed to vegetate and

grow in the United States and elsewhere.

Now all this showed that we were not sound at heart. Because the

negroes perishing under the iron sceptre of the American Republican

were just as much “our bone and our flesh” as the victims of West

Indian bondage. It is true we had more control over the condition of

the one than the other, because the one was our fellow-subject, and

the other was not; but still this very fact, instead of being a

reason for inactivity, ought to have furnished a motive for more

energetic operations. Even the brutish horse puts forth extra

strength when the burden increases, or when a hill is to be climbed;

and we need scarcely add that generally among beasts and men the

greater the foe the more vigorous the effort to overcome him; but,

strange to say, in the anti-slavery cause, we reversed this common

mode of proceeding, and, because the enemy was powerful, our

exertions to vanquish him became proportionably feeble! We know that

many will ask what could we have done? But then the very question

betrays the state of their hearts. True philanthropy is never at a

loss for expedients to accomplish her benevolent purpose, and

therefore never retires because there is a lion or a mountain in the

way. Its faith can stop the mouth of the one, or slay him

altogether, and remove the other into the midst of the sea. Before

we close this paper, we shall, perhaps, show that if we had not been

weary in well doing, we might have brought an immense amount of

influence against American slavery, which, long before this, would

have produced the most happy results.

There was one circumstance which especially contributed to paralyse

our efforts for the emancipation of American slaves. Just about the

time that we liberated our brethren in the British colonies, we

heard a great deal about revivals of religion in the United States,

and we were told that the Spirit from on high was poured out on

transatlantic churches and congregations in almost Pentecostal

abundance; and what was more astonishing, the slave-holders were

said to be remarkably favoured with these supposed tokens of Divine

favour. The writer remembers that in those days, when he was about

to offer some remarks at an anti-slavery meeting, he was called

aside by a minister of religion, and especially reminded of the

great piety of many of the slave-owners, and therefore exhorted to

be very tender in his animadversions! He was allowed to be as severe

as he pleased on the poor ignorant, blind, dead, unconverted

traffickers in human flesh! but the enlightened, pious, spiritual

holders of slaves were, forsooth, to be treated with the utmost

lenity!! Our Saviour’s rule was thus to be reversed; for he who knew

his Lord’s will and did things worthy of stripes, was to be beaten

with _few_ stripes! but he who knew _not_ his Lord’s will, was to be

beaten with _many_ stripes!!

That the people of England should have allowed themselves to be

duped in this manner, is almost equal to an eighth wonder of the

world. Why, there is as great probability that the Holy Spirit will

be poured out upon Satan as upon men and women who for “paltry pelf”

hold their brethren in bondage. Had such a phenomenon taken place,

the very first fruit would have been the breaking “of every yoke.”

Strange that people who read the New Testament should have supposed

that the Holy Ghost could have been granted to the worst of tyrants

without destroying their tyranny and rendering them abolitionists. A

real Christian man never “confers with flesh and blood.” Poverty,

dungeons, racks, losses, and tortures of every kind, are cheerfully

endured in the cause of humanity, justice, liberty, and religion,

and therefore a slave-holder endued with the special influences of

the Holy Spirit would instantly have braved penury and death rather

than have continued to retain in bondage his poor brethren and

sisters.

The sum and substance of all true religion is love to God and love

to man, and when the Spirit is poured out on any individual or body

of individuals, he sheds abroad the love of God in the heart; and

this invariably exhibits itself in benevolence of life. The apostle

John is plain even to what some would call bluntness on this matter.

“If a man say ‘I love God,’ and hateth his brother, he is a _liar_:

for he that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he

love God whom he hath not seen? And this commandment have we from

him, that he who loveth God, loves his brother also.” Now the negro

is both “_neighbour_” and “_brother_” to his master, and unless his

owner loves him as he loves himself, he has no real religion, and

not one particle of evidence that the Spirit has been poured out

upon him, or that the love of God has been shed abroad in his heart

by the Holy Ghost. It was therefore the height of absurdity to talk

of a revival of religion in the heart of any one so long as he held

his brother in bondage; because he does not love him as he loves

himself, and consequently is a stranger to the love of God and to

vital Christianity. Love to our brother, prompting us to give him

equal rights and blessings with ourselves, whatever may be his

colour or country, is a perfect window to the soul, and renders the

heart transparent. On the contrary, the plain language of John,

which we have just quoted, assures us that every individual who

professes to love God while he does not love his brother, is “a

_liar_.” And it must be remembered that the love of which John

speaks is not that sickly sort of charity which will bestow a few

pence or privileges on a brother while we rob him of liberty and his

natural rights, but it is that “perfect love” which loves every

human being as we love ourselves, and will make any sacrifice for

the purpose of developing this love.

We may congratulate the real friends of emancipation on the progress

of public opinion in this affair. Our churches refuse communion with

slave-holders. We deny their Christianity. Their deeds show that

they are strangers to the love of God. They have not learnt the A B

C of the Gospel: they sacrifice everything to gain. Mammon is their

god, and to enrich themselves and their families they traffic in

human flesh and blood. They do violence to every natural affection

which Jehovah has implanted in the human soul, and thus offer one of

the greatest insults to the Majesty of Heaven. The great curse of

the slave is that God has created him a human being. He suffers

severely from the chain, the scourge, and other instruments of

cruelty; but the greatest of all torments is his possession of a

heart. Slaves, to be happy, ought to be created without any

susceptibilities. Love is the cement of society, and the angel which

blesses all the relations of life. A world of love would be a second

paradise, and the bright reflection of heaven and of the Deity. “God

is love.” No tongue can tell, no heart can conceive the unspeakable

blessings and joys which spring from the tender affections of

parents, children, husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, and friends.

What would life be without these? God has so constituted us that

there can be no real happiness without love; and yet this precious

feeling, which comes to us fresh from the heart of the Deity,

constitutes the Negro’s hell upon earth. Talk of racks, dungeons,

thumb-screws, and other tortures of the Inquisition, slavery

embodies them all. To tear relatives from relatives, and friends

from friends; to sever the brother from the sister, the husband from

the wife, and the child from its mother, inflicts far more suffering

on the soul than any outward scourge can lay on the body.

Consequently slavery is the monster of monsters, and the

slave-holder is the head and chief of all tyrants who have ever

cursed the world. He shall therefore no longer stand before us in

the garb of Christianity, but shall be exhibited to the world as the

lowest, worst, and basest of all criminals, and as such he shall be

refused the right hand of fellowship, and expelled from the pale of

the Christian Church.

Nothing has ever augured better for the cause of emancipation than

the popularity of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” The benevolent authoress has

thrown so many bewitching charms into her narrative, that she has

fascinated every one, and may justly be called the Enchantress of

the age. She is read by all ranks and classes. We are amused

everywhere by the sight of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” We meet the little

British National Schoolboy going home and reading his “Uncle Tom,”

as affording him greater amusement than his hoop, his top, or his

marbles. And we find the grave divine and scholar, in the

first-class railway carriage, with his more costly “Uncle Tom.” We

see the lady in her chariot, who has gone out for a ride to enjoy

the scenery, and taste the breeze of heaven, beguiled from

surrounding objects by the touching pages of Mrs. Stowe. We have

witnessed a whole family of children to turn from every other

pursuit and amusement to enjoy this mental and moral treat. It has

come with them to their meals, and yielded them such a repast that

the luxuries of the table were almost unheeded. And then the

servants also sought it at every interval, and read it with avidity

by stealth. In a word, it is the favourite of the saint and the

sinner, the sage and the frivolous, the believer and the unbeliever,

the young and the old, the grave and the gay, the learned and the

illiterate, the rude and the polished, the sad and the cheerful. And

nothing could be more opportune for the cause of humanity. Mrs.

Stowe must hereafter take her stand by the side of Clarkson,

Wilberforce, and others, as one of the chief instruments raised up

by Providence to burst the fetters of the slave, and let the

oppressed go free.

We trust, indeed we feel sure, that the slumbering embers of

anti-slavery zeal will, by means of this volume, be kindled into

active power. We have influence enough among us to move the world on

this topic, and all that we require is cooperation and union. The

pulpit, the press, and the platform must speak out once more, and by

its thunders shake the whole world of slavery. Already the old theme

is firing the British heart. Week after week the _Morning

Advertiser_ appeals and instructs and arouses. Nor has it laboured

in vain. Far and near the friends of the slave look to it as their

tower of strength. In America we have a goodly number of

abolitionists as our fellow-helpers, and “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” will

increase them a thousandfold. The book speaks to the intellect, the

reason, and the heart. Women are said to possess an innate power of

arriving at truth, without employing the tedious metaphysics of men,

and here we have a glorious example. In “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” we have

logic stripped of its dryness, and clothed with all the charms of

romance. We would as soon believe in the power of the planters to

reverse the revolutions of the planets as to resist the influence of

Mrs. Stowe. The voice of humanity is the voice of God, and is

essentially omnipotent. As a punishment for not having listened to

this divine oracle, the slave-holders must have the humiliation of

being vanquished by a woman. And, after all, what more natural than

that the woes of our race should owe their softest, sweetest, and

consequently most powerful, utterances to the heart of the sex which

was created to bless the world with its tenderest sympathies.

We are thus placed on a vantage ground from which it would be base

to retire, especially as we have been raised thus high by the talent

and benevolence of a female. Christian chivalry has now open before

it a race of glory, compared with which the tilts and tournaments of

the olden time are the veriest trifles. The whole country is

baptised with anti-slavery zeal, just ready to burst forth in every

possible way to emancipate the slave. We must have public meetings

everywhere.

The “braying of Exeter Hall,” like the ass of Balaam, has, in ten

thousand instances, rebuked the madness of our modern false

prophets, who, from love of filthy lucre, have gone forth to curse

God’s Israel, because they have left the house of bondage. It is

only for the friends of humanity once more to gird themselves for

their work, and in a few years there will be another and more

extensive triumph over the foes of liberty and the negro.

We can also expostulate. The life of William Allen shows how

powerful the voice of an unofficial individual may be, when that

voice is the voice of reason, justice, and philanthropy. He brought

the tyrants of Europe on their knees before the Majesty of Heaven,

and there constrained them to ameliorate the laws which oppressed

their subjects. Why should not the diplomacy of England be

christianised? If this had been done years ago, we might have

converted Napoleon into a man of peace, and saved the nation a

thousand millions of taxation. Humanity is the genius of economy.

Christian diplomacy would long ago have burst the fetters of the

continent, and could now effect wonders in every part of the globe.

It is left with the electors to say, whether foreign ambassadors,

consuls, &c., shall continue to be the mere minions of mammon, or

become the missionaries of justice and philanthropy. But supposing

we failed here, there is power beyond that of bureaucratic

officials; the denunciations we utter against the rulers of the

slave will be carried by the birds of the air to the ears of these

tyrants, and make their hearts quiver and knees shake like those of

Belshazzar. The words of justice require no patent from courts to

render them authoritative. The stamp of Heaven is upon them, and

though spoken by a Paul in chains, they pierce the hearts of despots

and make them tremble. We mistake if we suppose that conscience is

altogether dead in the souls of slave-holders. Heaven has decreed

that the wretch who is deaf to the small still voice of duty and

mercy, shall be horrified by the thunders of guilt, and feel a hell

within. “Haley,” hoping to cheat the devil when he has made his

fortune; and “Legree” trembling for fear of ghosts and hobgoblins,

are no creatures of fiction, but the truthful delineations of the

conscious degradation and forebodings of the trader in human blood.

And further, cannot _consistency_ utter a plea? There is nothing,

perhaps, at which men labour more earnestly than to appear

consistent. But what fellowship can there be between liberty and

slavery? Slavery is a foul blot on the escutcheon of the United

States; and every patriotic American feels it to be so. Here, in the

land of liberty, Freedom receives her deepest wound in the house of

her vaunting friends. The enemies of tyranny over the world are

taunted with the despotism of the American democrat. The infidel of

our day draws his most potent arguments from the vices and faults of

professing Christians; and the advocates of despotism act in the

same manner, and procure their artillery from the barbarism of

American slave-holders. We must then assail this inconsistency until

the guilty parties blush and are ashamed. The continual dropping of

water will wear away stones, and the persevering reiterations of

truth shall eventually prevail, and make even slave-holders relent

and listen to the voice of consistency and humanity.

We have had among us glorious specimens of what the slave can be. To

those who talk of his inferior powers and limited rights, we point

to such men as Frederick Douglass, Wells Brown, Henson, Garnett, and

Dr. Pennington. It was our privilege to enter the hall at

Heidelberg, just as the academy conferred on Dr. Pennington his

diploma. And is this the man that the slave-holder would sell as he

would a horse or bullock? What is the reply of humanity to this

question? I need not dwell on the mind, talents, and piety of Brown,

Henson, or Garnett. The country has long since borne witness to

these. Exeter-hall has often resounded with the loftiest strains of

eloquence, but never has it listened to a more intellectual,

eloquent, and soul-stirring tongue, than that of Frederick Douglass,

and yet this is the man, on whose head the planters have set a

price, because he obeyed the voice of nature and of God in running

away from the horrors of slavery. But why advance these examples?

There is not a field of slaves, a slave-market, or a negro cabin,

but proclaims the equality of the African with the rest of the human

family. The tears, cries, and broken hearts which every separation

by the dealer occasions, proclaim that the sympathies of the slave

are equal to those of the rest of mankind. Every argument used by

these sons and daughters of bondage, every prayer they offer, every

speech they make, and every sermon they preach, prove that all the

essentials of soul belong to them in as much native richness as to

us. ’Tis true everything has been done to degrade them. The

cruelties practised by Simon the cobbler to deprave and demoralise

the Dauphin of France, and which awakened the execration of the

world, are every day being followed by the planters of America. What

if any of us had had the sphere of our knowledge contracted to the

smallest span, and our language confined to a few words of the most

outlandish _patois_, is there one man among us that would surpass

them in their present condition? Where would Milton, Shakspeare, or

Newton have been under such training? Considering the debasing

education to which they have been doomed, the slaves are our equals,

if not our superiors; every part of their history shows the truth of

the words of our poet—

“Fleecy locks and black complexion,

Cannot forfeit Nature’s claim;

Skins may differ, but affection

Dwells in black and white the same;

Deem our nation brutes no longer,

Till some reason ye shall find,

Worthier of regard and stronger

Than the colour of our kind.

Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings

Tarnish all your boasted powers,

Prove that you have human feelings

Ere you proudly question ours.”

The passing of “The Fugitive Slave Bill” adds strength to our cause.

This measure has shocked every human heart; it has libelled

humanity; it has sunk the Republican below most of the tyrants that

have ever scourged society; it has insulted the world, and

blasphemed the Eternal. It commands and compels free men to become

informers and kidnappers, and thus degrades them below the meanest

of our race. It is an attempt to render freedom the slave of

slavery. A viler law has never degraded any statute book. However,

its iniquity and its cruelty have aroused thousands to action who

before were asleep; and when the history of the emancipation of

American slaves shall be written, the narrator will triumphantly

relate that the infamous “Fugitive Slave Bill” very greatly hastened

this glorious consummation.

We have also another material aid in the clerical teachings of

pro-slavery priests and preachers. We shall hereafter have to thank

Dr. Spring, of New York; Dr. Parker, of Philadelphia; Dr. Stuart, of

Andover; Dr. Spencer, of Brooklyn; the Right Rev. Bishop Hopkins, of

Vermont; and a host of other reverends; for their advocacy of the

cause of slavery. This outrage on Christianity by its own ministers

has shocked the whole Christian world. Even the planters despise

these sycophants. To hear men in the sacred desk, and in the name of

the Redeemer of the world, advocate a system which cherishes

ignorance, vice, debauchery, dishonesty, and murder, out-Herods

anything that was ever taught by the most depraved heathens and

infidels. Even Pagans had their dark groves and other midnight

recesses for their sensual orgies. No atheist or barbarian has yet

taught that the infant should be torn from the breast of its mother,

and sold like a swine to the murderous dealer in human flesh. It was

left for the 19th century, and doctors of divinity in a Christian

garb, to arrive at this decree of blasphemy, impiety, and

immorality. Well, we thank them for their teachings, we congratulate

them for their boldness in iniquity, and we will repeat their

sayings until we make every ear in Christendom tingle with their

presumption and inhumanity.

We have thus briefly shown that the friends of the slave have every

thing on their side, and may now make a noble stand in the cause of

liberty. Providence is remarkably appearing on their behalf, and

pointing out the path of duty and victory. “Is not the Lord gone up

before us.” As far as England is concerned, the odium of an

anti-slavery movement has passed away. “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” has

rekindled the zeal of the lukewarm, and baptized with holy fire

myriads who before cared nothing for the negro. Let us only do our

duty, and this foul blot on humanity and daring insult to the Deity

shall ere long become the history of a by-gone age; and a few years

hence the system shall be deemed too monstrous to be believed but as

a myth of some misanthrope who felt a malignant pleasure in

libelling his species.

[ENTERED AT STATIONERS’ HALL.]

John Cassell, Ludgate-hill.

-----

Footnote 1:

A son of that distinguished friend of humanity, WILLIAM WILBERFORCE.

Footnote 2:

“Take counsel, execute judgment; make thy shadow as the night in the

midst of the noon-day; hide the outcasts; bewray not him that

wandereth. Let my outcasts dwell with thee, Moab; be thou a covert to

them, from the face of the spoiler.”—Isaiah xvi. 3, 4.

Footnote 3:

“Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not

to me.”—_Jesus Christ._ Matt. xxv. 45.

Footnote 4:

“Is it not that thou deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring

the poor that are cast out to thy house? when thou seest the naked

that thou cover him? and that thou hide not thyself from thine own

flesh?” “If thou take away from the midst of thee the yoke, the

putting forth of the finger, and speaking of vanity,” &c.—Isaiah

lviii. 6–9.

Footnote 5:

“Therefore, all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you,

do ye even so to them; for this is the law and the prophets.”—_Jesus

Christ._ Matt. vii. 12.

Footnote 6:

“Thou shalt not deliver unto his master the servant which is escaped

from his master unto thee. He shall dwell with thee; even among you in

that place which he shall choose, in one of thy gates, where it liketh

him best; thou shalt not oppress him.”—Deut. xxiii. 15, 16.

Footnote 7:

“Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.”—Lev. xix. 18; Matt. xix.

19.

Footnote 8:

“Hearken unto me, ye that know righteousness; the people in whose

heart is my law: fear yet not the reproach of men, neither be ye

afraid of their revilings. For the moth shall eat them up like a

garment, and the worm shall eat them like wool; but my righteousness

shall be for ever, and my salvation from generation to

generation.”—Isaiah li. 7, 8.

Footnote 9:

“Ye that love the Lord, hate evil.”—Ps. xcvii. 10. “The fear of the

Lord is to hate evil.”—Prov. viii. 13.

Footnote 10:

“Who art thou, that thou shouldst be afraid of a man? * * * And

forgettest the Lord thy Maker, * * * and has feared continually every

day, because of the fury of the oppressor, as if he were ready to

destroy? And where is the fury of the oppressor?”—Isa. li. 12, 13, 14.

Footnote 11:

“We ought to obey God rather than men.”—Acts v. 29.

Footnote 12:

“The captive exile hasteth that he maybe loosed,” &c.—Isa. li. 15.

Footnote 13:

Haynau.

Footnote 14:

Editor of the _Glasgow Courier_. Poor Motherwell! I have it from a

mutual friend that he sympathised _with_ the cause of Freedom, while

paid to write against it.

Footnote 15:

Daniel Webster’s oration, at the laying the corner-stone of Bunker

Hill Monument, 17 June, 1825.

Footnote 16:

Daniel Webster’s speech in the Senate of the U. S., 7 March, 1850.

Footnote 17:

Daniel Webster’s speech at the Capron Springs, Virginia, 1851.

Footnote 18:

It is vain to say that rich governments cannot, and do not, offer

effective temptations to clever and eloquent men, whose religious

views differ from the national form, to induce them to adopt the

latter.

Footnote 19:

Congress, the legislative department, and, of course, the judicial,

its interpreter, were intended to be founded on such undoubted

principles of liberty, that it would be difficult for them to use

their everywhere acknowledged rights, and perform their everywhere

expected duties, without first putting aside the strongest impediment

to their exercise—slavery. In our judgment this has been done. There

is no truth in public law more certain than that protection and

allegiance are reciprocal. They must exist together or not at all. The

power of the United States is adequate for the protection of all

within her limits, and from all within them she expects allegiance. If

she is informed, in any way to be relied on, that any person is

restrained of his rights under the constitution of the United States,

it is her duty to see him set at liberty, if he be confined, and see

that he is redressed. It is in vain for Congress to excuse itself from

acting, by saying that it is a State concern. Can a citizen of the

United States, if he be a citizen, be tortured or tormented by a

State, when there is no pretence that he has violated the law of

either?

The constitution of the United States authorises no man to hold

another as a slave. The United States has no power to hold a slave. It

matters not that it was _intended_ to allow some to hold others as

their slaves. A very vile person may _intend_ to lock up in prison an

innocent and just one, but through mistake he leaves the door

unlocked; does this, in the eyes of any reasonable men, prevent his

making his escape through the door? We are certain not. The only

proper inquiry here is, which is supreme, the government of the Union,

or the government of a particular State of it? It is not necessary to

answer this. If the first deal with no one as a slave, the subordinate

cannot by law. Persons may be held as slaves by fraud, by cunning, by

taking advantage of the ignorance in which we hold them by force, or a

successful combination of force, but not by LAW.

Footnote 20:

“Our house stood within a few rods of the Chesapeake bay, whose broad

bosom was ever white with sails from every quarter of the habitable

globe. Those beautiful vessels, robed in purest white, so delightful

to the eye of freemen, were to me so many shrouded ghosts to terrify

and torment me with thoughts of my wretched condition. I have often,

in the deep stillness of a summer’s Sabbath, stood all alone upon the

lofty banks of that noble bay, and traced, with saddened heart and

tearful eye, the countless number of sails moving off to the mighty

ocean. The sight of these always affected me powerfully. My thoughts

would compel utterance; and then, with no audience but the Almighty, I

would pour out my soul’s complaint, in my rude way, with an apostrophe

to the moving multitude of ships:—

“You are loosed from your moorings, and are free; I am fast in my

chains, and am a slave! You move merrily before the gentle gale, and I

sadly before the bloody whip! You are freedom’s swift-winged angels

that fly around the world; I am confined in bands of iron! O that I

were free! O that I were on one of your gallant decks, and under your

protecting wing! Alas! betwixt me and you the turbid waters roll. Go

on, go on. O that I could also go! Could I but swim! If I could fly!

O, why was I born a man, of whom to make a brute! The glad ship is

gone; she hides in the dim distance. I am left in the hottest hell of

unending slavery. O God, save me! God, deliver me! Let me be free! Is

there any God? Why am I a slave? I will run away. * * * Only think of

it; one hundred miles straight north, and I am free! Try it? Yes! God

helping me, I will. It cannot be that I shall live and die a

slave. * * *”—_Autobiography of Douglass_, pp. 64, 65.

Footnote 21:

“There was no getting rid of it [the thought of his condition]. It was

pressed upon me by every object within sight or hearing, animate or

inanimate. The silver trump of freedom had roused my soul to eternal

wakefulness. Freedom now appeared, to disappear no more for ever. It

was heard in every sound, and seen in everything. It was ever present

to torment me with a sense of my wretched condition. I saw nothing

without seeing it, I heard nothing without hearing it, and felt

nothing without feeling it. It looked from every star; it smiled in

every calm, breathed in every wind, and moved in every

storm.”—_Autobiography_, pp. 40, 41.

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The Rev. J. STOUGHTON,

The Rev. W. REID,

The Rev. GEORGE SMITH,

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The Publisher, therefore, confidently promises, as the result, a Work of

singular ability, adapted to every Family where such aid in Domestic

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