They fell silent after that. But some time afterward several of the

passengers approached the Captain with the request that he invite this

unusual character to deliver a lecture in the salon. Captain Judkins,

who had been unhappy about the matter, gladly complied. He himself went

to the steerage and sat chatting with the ex-slave. The dark man’s

manners captivated him.

Announcement was made of the scheduled lecture. News of the Captain’s

visit to the steerage got around. In one of the most expensive suites

on the ship three young men faced each other. They were trembling with

rage.

“By God, suh,” said one, thumping the table with his fist, “we won’t

stand for it!”

“Invited to the salon!” said another.

“By the Captain!”

The pampered son of a Louisiana planter tore his silk cravat as he

loosened it.

“Dog of a runaway slave--flaunted in our faces!” His voice choked in

his throat. His cousin quickly assented.

“Fool Captain ought to be horsewhipped!”

The fair-haired boy from Georgia emptied his glass of brandy and waved

his hand drunkenly.

“Just a minute, gentlemen. No rash talk! Gotta plan--that’s it--gotta

plan!”

“Plan--hell!” The dark face of the Louisianian flushed dangerously.

“We’ll just throw the nigger overboard if he dares show his impertinent

face!”

“Yes,” agreed his cousin. “That’ll show the damned Yankees!”

They did not really believe he would come. But, of course, they did not

know Frederick Douglass.

On the appointed evening the salon filled up early. Few of the ladies

had dared to go to the steerage, and now flowered ruffles and curls

fluttered with excitement as they settled into the cushioned seats.

Promptly on the hour the imposing figure appeared in the doorway. At a

sign from the Captain, who had risen, Douglass walked toward the front

of the room.

Then it happened.

The three young men were now five. At Douglass’ appearance the two who

were inside the salon sprang quickly to their feet, the three who had

been watching from the deck came running in.

“We’ll stop him!”

“Get the nigger!”

“Throw him overboard!”

Ladies screamed, men jumped up, but Frederick only stood still while

they closed in on him. Perhaps he had expected something like this. At

any rate, his face did not change. The clamor increased as, cursing,

the young men knocked aside any opposition.

But they had reckoned without the Captain. The stern old Britisher’s

voice thundered out. His shipmen came running, and before the rioters

could realize what had happened, they were struggling in the firm grasp

of British seamen, who looked toward the Captain for further orders.

Captain Judkins was outraged. He glared at the offenders who, utterly

bewildered by the turn of events, were stuttering their objections. The

Captain chose to ignore everything except one obvious fact.

“Put these young drunks in irons until they sober up!” He turned away,

leaving his competent crewmen to execute the order.

The Louisianian’s face paled. He stared about stupidly, expecting the

whole roomful of people to rise in protest. But they did not. The faces

swam before his eyes crazily as, stumbling a little, he was led away.

Later he heard them applauding on the upper deck.

* * * * *

The next day they sighted land. A mist between the ocean and the sky

turned green, took shape. The man beside Frederick gripped the rail

with his broken nails.

“’Tis Ireland,” he repeated softly. And there was pain and heartache in

his voice.

Frederick did not sleep that night. He was one of the huddled group

that stayed on deck. They talked together in low voices, watching the

distant flicker of an occasional light, straining their ears to catch

some sound. Some of them had failed in the bewildering New World, and

they were going back. Others had succeeded and now were returning for

parents or wives and children.

But Frederick was breaking through the horizon. He was getting on the

other side. He had sailed through the sky. America and all that it had

meant to him lay far behind. How would Europe receive this dark-skinned

fugitive from slavery?

The ship docked at Liverpool, but certain preliminaries prevented the

passengers from going ashore immediately. Baltimore, New Bedford, not

even New York, had prepared Frederick for the port of Liverpool. It was

rapidly becoming Britain’s monstrous spider of commerce, flinging its

sticky filaments to the far corners of the world and drawing into its

net all that the earth yields up to men.

Just inside the bottleneck entrance to the Mersey River, kept

relatively free from silt by tidal scour, Liverpool was once a shelter

for fishing vessels which built up a comfortable coastal trade with

Ireland. Medieval sailors gave little thought to the sandstone hill

that lay beyond the marshy fringe. The Dee River silted up and trade

with America grew; and it was found that Liverpool was well situated

to meet the change. The mouth of the old pool was converted into wet

docks, the marshes were hollowed out, and railroads tunneled through

the sandstone hill with ease. The British Empire was expanding.

Now all along the wharves rode merchant ships of every variety, ships

laden with iron and salt, timber and coal, grains, silks and woollens,

tobacco and, most of all, raw cotton from America.

Frederick saw them unloading the cotton and piling it high on the

docks. He knew it was going to the weavers of Lancashire. He wondered

if those weavers knew how cotton was planted and chopped and picked.

The Hutchinsons had been in Liverpool before, so they all went to a

small hotel not far from the wide Quadrant. Frederick stood in the

square gazing up at the great columned building fashioned after the

Greek Parthenon and for a moment he forgot about the cotton. He liked

the quiet, solid strength of that building. He resolved to visit it to

feel the stone and measure the columns.

Quite unexpectedly Liverpool became aware of Frederick Douglass.

The young men who had been so rudely halted in their premeditated

violence, went immediately to the police demanding the arrest of the

“runaway slave” and of the ship’s Captain! They were not prepared for

the calm detachment of British justice. Never doubting the outcome,

the young men repaired to the newspapers, where they told of their

“outrageous treatment,” denounced the Captain and all his crew and

heaped abuse upon the insolent instigator of this “crime against

society.”

British curiosity is not easily aroused. But the young men’s language

pricked both the authorities and the newspapermen. They did not like

it. They dropped in on Captain Judkins. His words were few, brusque and

pointed. The police asked politely if he wished them to lock the young

men up. The Captain considered their proposal coolly and decided he had

no interest in the young men. He _was_ going to take his Missus to hear

the black American speak. She would enjoy it. And now, if the inspector

was finished, his Missus was waiting. The Captain hurried away, rolling

a little on his sea legs; and the newspapermen decided they would visit

the “black American.”

* * * * *

The Honorable William Gladstone, down from London for a few days,

re-read a certain column in his paper over a late and solitary

breakfast. The new Colonial Secretary spent most of his time in London;

but Liverpool remained his home. It was a lovely house, well out of

town, away from the dirt and noise of warehouses and docks. Well back

from the graveled road, behind high fences and undulating greens, sat

the residences of England’s merchant princes. Gladstone had represented

his neighbors in the government since he was twenty-three years old,

first as vice-president and then president of the Board of Trade. Now,

at thirty-six, he had been made Colonial Secretary. It took a man who

knew trade and the proper restrictions for its protection to handle the

affairs of Egypt, Australia and fabulously rich India.

The young man frowned and crumpled his paper.

“Nevins!” he called.

“Yes, sir!”

“Nevins, have you been in town this week?”

Nevins considered before answering. There must be no mistake about this

matter.

“Not this week, sir.”

“Well, have you heard any talk of a British India Society meeting?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“India Society,” the Colonial Secretary explained, “or anything

at all about India. I understand there have been meetings in the

provinces--talk about starving India--Indian independence--some sort of

agitation.”

“We’ve had nothing of that kind in these parts.” Nevins spoke with a

touch of disapproval.

The Colonial Secretary picked up his paper. He frowned at it a moment.

“I was wondering if there were any connection. Any connection at all.

Might well be, you know.”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“There’s something here about a runaway slave from America speaking in

town tonight--at one of those workers’ halls. They’re springing up all

over England.” He added the last thoughtfully.

“Did you say a slave, sir, perhaps an African cannibal?”

“Exactly. This gives a most extraordinary account of the fellow on

shipboard. Ship’s Captain says he’s educated.”

“I can’t believe it, sir.”

“Um--would be very strange, if true. But who would be bringing him over

here?” The American Revolution had not yet become a mellowed memory.

Americans--white or black--would bear watching.

“Nevins!”

“Yes, sir.”

“I should like you to attend this meeting.”

“I, sir?”

“Find out what this slave has to say and what’s behind him.”

* * * * *

It had really been planned by the Hutchinsons as a concert. The

Anti-Slavery Society had asked Mr. Buffum to say a few words. Douglass

was merely to be presented and to say that he was glad to be in

England. But the newspapers had played up Frederick Douglass’ story

so much that at the last moment they decided to seize the opportunity

and feature him. When, long before dark the hall began to fill, it was

obvious that they had come to hear “the black man.”

While the crowd listened respectfully to the Hutchinsons, Frederick

studied his first British audience. Somehow it was different. He

realized it bore out what he had witnessed in two days of wandering

about Liverpool. For the first time in his life he had seen white

people whose lot might well be compared with that of the black slave

in America. Here in Liverpool they could indeed leave their jobs, he

thought grimly; but their children would starve. He saw them living in

unbelievable squalor, several families herded together in two or three

rooms, or in a single dirty cellar, sleeping on straw and shavings.

He sat on the platform and studied their faces. There was something in

their eyes, something in the stolid set of their chins, something hard

and unyielding, some strength which could not be destroyed--something

to join with his strength. And so when he rose he did not fumble for

words. He told them that he was glad that here on British soil he was

truly free, that no slave-hunter could drag him from the platform, no

arm, however long, turn him over to a master. Here he stood a free man,

among other free men!

They cheered him lustily. And when they had quieted down he began to

talk to them about cotton. He talked to them of the cotton piled high

on the docks of Liverpool and how it got there. He talked to them of

black hands picking cotton and blood soaking into soil around the

cotton stalks.

“Because British manufacturers need cotton, American slavery can defy

the opinions of the civilized world and block Abolitionists in America

and England. If England bought free cotton from some other part of the

world, if she stopped buying slave-grown cotton, American slavery would

die out.”

Graphically, he added up the horrors of slavery. He told how the labor

of the slave in chains cheapened and degraded labor everywhere. They

listened, leaning forward in their seats, their eyes fixed.

“Cotton can be grown by free labor, at a fair cost and in far greater

abundance, in India. England, as a matter of self-interest as well as

on the score of humanity, should without delay redress the wrongs of

India, give protection and encouragement to its oppressed and suffering

population, and thus obtain a permanent and abundant supply of free

cotton produced by free men.”

* * * * *

“A powerful speech, sir!” Nevins reported the next morning.

The Colonial Secretary looked at his man with some impatience.

“Well, really, Nevins! Let’s be a bit more specific. A black make a

powerful speech--something of an exaggeration, surely!”

“He’s not really a black, sir,” Nevins answered surprisingly.

“Good Lord! What is he then?”

“I couldn’t rightly say, sir.” There was a dogged stubbornness about

Nevins this morning. The Colonial Secretary shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, well. What did he talk about?”

A lucid thought flashed across Nevins’ mind.

“He talked about cotton, sir.”

“About cotton?” The Colonial Secretary stared. “What on earth did he

say about cotton?”

“He said that better cotton could be raised in India than in America.”

The lucid moment passed, and Nevins could tell no more. But the young

Colonial Secretary saw the newspaper accounts of Douglass’s talk before

he returned to London. He took out his notebook and on a clean, fresh

page he wrote a name, “Frederick Douglass.” Then he thoughtfully drew

a circle around it. William Gladstone’s mind had projected itself

into the future, when there might be no more cheap cotton coming from

America. The Colonial Secretary was a solid young man with no nonsense

about him.

* * * * *

Across the narrow strip of water, in Dublin, Daniel O’Connell sat in

a ruby-brick house off Rutland Square, while the dusk of a September

evening closed about him. He held a letter in his hand--a letter he

had been re-reading while he waited. From far-off America his friend,

William Lloyd Garrison, had written:

I send him to you, O’Connell, because you of all men have most to

teach him. He is a young lion, not yet fully come into his strength,

but all the latent power is there. I tremble for him! I am not a

learned man. When confronted with clever phrasing of long words I

am like to be confused. Scholars well versed in theology say I am a

perfectionist.... As Christians, I believe we must convert the human

race. Yet, God forgive me, doubts assail my heart. Here is a man,

a few short years ago a slave. I stand condemned each time I look

into his face. I am ashamed of being identified with a race of men

who have done him so much injustice, who yet retain his people in

horrible bondage. I try to make amends. But who am I to shape this

young man’s course? I have no marks of a lash across my back; I’ve

had the comforts of a mother’s tender care; I speak my father’s name

with pride. I am a free white man in a land shaped and designed for

free white men. But you, O’Connell, know of slavery! Your people are

not free. Poor and naked, they are governed by laws which combine all

the vices of civilization with those of primitive life. The masses of

Ireland enjoy neither the freedom of the savage, left to roam his own

forests and draw fish from his rivers, nor the bread of servitude....

From you, Frederick Douglass can learn. I commend him to you, with my

love. He will strengthen your great heart. He will renew your faith

and hope for all mankind.

The old man sat, turning the letter in his hand. The years lay heavy

along his massive frame. His own voice came back to him: _Sons of

Ireland! Agitate, agitate, agitate!_

Yet the evictions of starving tenants went on. The great castle in its

circle of wretched cabins, stripped the surrounding country of food

and fuel. People were ignorant because they could not go to school,

slothful because there was nothing they could do. Drunkards because

they were cold. Ireland had long been in subjection harsh enough to

embitter, yet not complete enough to subdue. But the failure of the

potato crop this year had brought a deadening apathy. The Irish cottier

was saying he could never be worse off or better off by any act of his

own. And everywhere there were the gendarmes, sodden with drink and

armed with carbines, bayonets and handcuffs.

Daniel O’Connell had been thirty-six years old when, in 1812, Robert

Peel came to Dublin. To O’Connell the twenty-four-year-old Secretary

for Ireland was the embodiment of everything English. The Irishman

had been destined and educated for the priesthood, had taken up law

instead, and risen as rapidly as a Catholic could in a Protestant

government. An Irish Catholic could vote, but could not sit in

Parliament; he could enter the army, navy or professions, but could not

rise to the higher ranks. The universities and all the important posts

in the Civil Service were closed to him.

As an advocate, Daniel O’Connell had been greatly in demand. In those

days he stood six feet tall, with a head of fox-red curls and a face

that had irregular, almost ugly features. They said his voice could be

heard a mile off and was like music strained through honey. Reckless,

cunning, generous and vindictive, O’Connell had fought for Ireland.

They threw him in jail when he challenged Robert Peel to a duel. It

never came off. He finally apologized, thinking to propitiate the

Englishman in the matter of his Catholic Relief Bill that was up before

Parliament.

Now Robert Peel was Prime Minister of England, and misery still lay

like a shroud over all Ireland. O’Connell shook his head. Garrison was

mistaken. There was nothing he could teach his young man. At seventy,

one’s work is finished, and he, Daniel O’Connell, had failed.

After a while the girl brought in a lighted lamp and set it on the

table. O’Connell said nothing. He was waiting.

Then he heard voices in the hall and he stood up, his keen eyes fixed

on the door. It opened to admit Frederick Douglass. The dark man stood

a moment where the lamplight fell on him; then he smiled. And something

in the Irishman’s tired heart ran out to meet that smile. O’Connell

strode across the room. He placed his two hands on the younger man’s

shoulders and looked deep into his eyes.

“My son, I’m glad you’ve come,” he said.

So Frederick Douglass saw Ireland and came to know its people. He

learned why women’s faces beneath their shawls aged so quickly. He

watched children claw the débris on the coal-quays of Cork. He saw the

rich grasslands of the Golden Vale where fine, fat cattle fed while

babies died for milk. Looking out over the Lakes of Killarney, he saw

on the one side uncultivated tracts, marshy wastes studded with patches

of heather, with here and there a stunted fir tree; and on the other,

along the foot of the mountains beside the lovely lakes, green, smiling

fields and woods of almost tropical vegetation. He learned that in

Ireland there were only rich and poor, only palaces and hovels.

“Misrule is due to ignorance and ignorance is due to misrule.”

O’Connell tapped the short stem of his pipe on the table. “Few

Englishmen ever visit Ireland. When they do they drive in a carriage

from country house to country house. The swarms of beggars in Dublin

only fill them with disgust.”

“But--But why don’t these beggars work?”

“There are no industries in Ireland. Our wool and wheat go into English

mills. In Ireland, in order to work, one must have a plot of land.”

Frowning, Douglass grappled with the problem. Oppression then was not

confined to black folks! There was some common reason for it all.

O’Connell nodded his head.

“Possession of the land! This is the struggle, whether we’re talking

about the Gaels of Scotland and Ireland, the brown peoples of India, or

the blacks of South Africa. Indeed, where are your red men in America?”

The young man’s face showed something of horror. Was the earth so small

then that men must destroy each other to have their little bit?

“Not at all. But there have always been those who would share nothing.

Conquest has come to be a glorious thing. Our heroes are the men who

take, not those who give!”

The old man was in fine form that fall. The young man with his vibrant

personality and searching questions inspired him. Earlier in the year

he had vetoed plans for a huge rally at the great Conciliation Hall.

The place held twenty thousand people and O’Connell had not felt equal

to it. But now he announced a change of mind: he and Douglass would

speak there together.

It was an event talked of many a long winter evening afterward.

“Dan--Our Dan,” they said, outdid himself. The massive stooped

shoulders were squared, the white head high. Once more the magnificent

voice pealed forth.

“Until I heard this man that day,” Douglass himself wrote, “I had

thought that the story of his oratory and power was exaggerated. I

did not see how a man could speak to twenty or thirty thousand people

at one time and be heard by any considerable portion of them, but the

mystery was solved when I saw his ample person and heard his musical

voice. His eloquence came down upon the vast assembly like a summer

thunder-shower upon a dusty road. At will he stirred the multitude to

a tempest of wrath or reduced it to the silence with which a mother

leaves the cradle-side of her sleeping babe. Such tenderness, such

pathos, such world-embracing love! And, on the other hand, such

indignation, such fiery and thunderous denunciation, such wit and

humor, I never heard surpassed, if equaled, at home or abroad.”[5]

A piece on O’Connell came out in _Brownson’s Review_. Mr. O. A.

Brownson, recently become a Catholic, took issue with the “Liberator”

of Ireland for having attacked American institutions. O’Connell gave

another speech.

“I am charged with attacking American institutions, as slavery is

called,” he began. “I am not ashamed.... My sympathy is not confined to

the narrow limits of my own green Ireland; my spirit walks abroad upon

sea and land, and wherever there is sorrow and suffering, there is my

spirit to succor and relieve.”

The striking pair toured Ireland together. O’Connell talked about the

antislavery movement and why the people of Ireland should take part in

it; Douglass preached O’Connell’s doctrines of full participation of

all peoples in government and legislative independence.

* * * * *

“There must be government,” said O’Connell. They were talking together

quietly in the old man’s rooms. “And the people must take part, must

learn to vote and take responsibility. You have a fine Constitution in

the United States of America. I have studied it carefully.”

“I have never read it,” confessed the dark man, very much ashamed.

“No?” O’Connell studied the somber face. “But you have read the

Declaration of Independence. A glorious thing!”

“Yes.” And now there was deep bitterness. “And I find it only words!”

The Irishman leaned over and placed his hand upon the young man’s knee.

He spoke softly.

“Aye, lad--words! But words that can come alive! And that’s worth

working and even fighting for!”

CHAPTER NINE

“_To be henceforth free, manumitted and discharged from all manner of

servitude to me...._”

The two letters reached them in the same mail. One came from James

Buffum to Frederick; the other was for Daniel O’Connell from George

Thompson, the English Abolitionist. Thompson, who had been stoned

from his platform in Boston on his last trip to America, had not met

Frederick. However, he had heard from William Lloyd Garrison.

Their letters said substantially the same thing: “We need Douglass in

Scotland.”

The facts were brief. It had been proved that the Free Church of

Scotland, under the leadership of the great Doctors Cunningham,

Candlish and Chalmers, had taken money from slave-dealers to build

churches and to pay church ministers for preaching the gospel. John

Murray of Bowlien Bay and other antislavery men of Glasgow had called

it a disgrace. The leading divines had thereupon undertaken to

defend, in the name of God and the Bible, not only the principle of

taking money from slavers, but also of holding fellowship with these

traffickers in human beings. The people of Scotland were thoroughly

aroused. Meetings were being called and strong speakers were needed.

Buffum and Thompson were already on their way to Edinburgh.

“You’ll come back, Frederick?” O’Connell’s voice was wistful. It was

like parting with a son.

“Come with us!” Frederick urged. But the “Liberator” shook his head.

“Our people are threatened with starvation. First our potatoes. And now

the wheat crop has failed in England. There is no longer time. Richard

Cobden writes that the Prime Minister may be with us. A shallow hope,

but I must be on hand if needed.”

“Perhaps then I shall see you in London?” The thought that he might not

see the old man again was unbearable.

“Perhaps, Frederick. God bless you!”

* * * * *

Frederick found the famous old city of Edinburgh literally plastered

with banners. _Send Back the Money_ stared at him from street corners.

Every square and crescent carried the signs. They had scribbled it on

the sidewalks and painted it in large white letters on the side of the

rocky hill which stands like some Gibraltar, guarding the city: _Send

Back the Money_.

For several days George Thompson, James Buffum and another American,

Henry C. Wright, had been holding antislavery meetings in the city. As

soon as Douglass arrived, they hurried him off to the most beautiful

hall he had ever seen. The audience was already assembled and greeted

him with cheers. Without taking time to remove the dust and grime of

travel, he mounted the platform and told his story.

After that, excitement mounted in the town. _Send Back the Money_

appeared in a banner across the top of Edinburgh’s leading newspapers.

Somebody wrote a popular street song, with _Send Back the Money_ in the

chorus. Wherever Douglass went, crowds gathered. It was as if he had

become the symbol of the people’s demand.

At last the general assembly of the Free Church rose to the bait and

announced they would hold an open session at Cannon Mills. Doctors

Cunningham and Candlish would defend the Free Church of Scotland’s

relations with slavery in America. The great Dr. Chalmers was in feeble

health at the time. “Besides,” Douglass wrote afterward,[6] “he had

spoken his word on this question; and it had not silenced the clamor

without nor stilled the anxious heavings within.” As it turned out, the

whole weight of the business fell on Cunningham.

The quartet of Abolitionists made it their business to go to this

meeting of the opposition. So did the rest of Edinburgh. The building

held about twenty-five hundred persons. Long ahead of time, the crowd

gathered outside and stood waiting for the doors to open.

Douglass always remembered the meeting at Cannon Mills with relish.

Dr. Cunningham rose to tumultuous applause and began his learned

address. With logic and eloquence he built up his argument, the high

point of which was that neither Jesus Christ nor his holy apostles had

looked upon slaveholding as a sin.

Just as the divine reached this climax, George Thompson called out, in

a dear, sonorous, but rebuking voice, “Hear! Hear! Hear!” Speaker and

audience were brought to a dead silence.

“The effect of this common exclamation was almost incredible,” Douglass

reported.[7] “It was as if a granite wall had been suddenly flung up

against the advancing current of a river.... Both the Doctor and his

hearers seemed appalled by the audacity as well as the fitness of the

rebuke.”

After a moment the speaker cleared his throat and continued. But his

words stuck in his throat--the flow of language was dammed. The speech

dragged on for several minutes, and then the Doctor stumbled to his

seat to scattered patting of hands.

The Free Church of Scotland held on to its bloodstained money, and the

people bowed their heads in shame.

“Ours is a long history,” said Andrew Paton, sadly, “of incompetent

leadership and blind, unquestioning following by the ranks.”

“But this time you did protest. The people of Scotland know what

slavery means now,” George Thompson assured him.

Thompson, Buffum and Douglass traveled back to London together. They

went by stagecoach, stopping each night at some inn. It was like a

holiday. Frederick thought the soft mist that lay over all the land was

very lovely. And there was something comforting and homelike about the

way the stark grandeur of Scotland’s rugged crags gave way to rounded

hills, wide valleys and gently rolling moors. The roads of Ireland had

been bad, the occasional inns wretched and dirty. Now, for the most

part, they rolled along in state; and, when night came, lights from

an inn twinkled a jolly welcome, the dinner was hot and filling, the

innkeeper genial. Undoubtedly, thought Frederick, life is pleasanter in

England.

The three Abolitionists were teetotalers--temperance men on principle.

But Frederick could not stifle a desire to taste of the foamy ale which

he saw being tossed off with such gusto.

“Are you _sure_ it’s alcoholic?” he asked.

Thompson threw back his head with a hearty laugh.

“If you mean will a bit of our ale with your dinner make you drunk.

I’ll say no.” He eyed him with a quizzical twinkle. “You’d like some?”

“Frederick!” Buffum frowned his disapproval. He was three-fourths

Massachusetts Puritan and he felt an older man’s responsibility.

But the Englishman spread his hands and reasoned.

“This is a test, Friend Buffum. Here is a newcomer to England. He

observes that ale is a national drink. He asks why?” He leaned forward.

“How can he speak of the temptations of any kind of drink if he has

never even tasted ale? Be logical, man!” Frederick was certain that one

eye winked. He grinned and looked anxiously at the Secretary of the

Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society. By now he really _wanted_ some ale.

Buffum had to laugh, if weakly. He clucked his tongue and shook his

head.

“Frederick, Frederick! What would the folks at home say?”

Thompson was signaling to the waiter to bring them a large ale.

“That,” he said sagely, as he turned back to his companions, “is

something history will not record!” He looked at Frederick’s broad,

rather solemn face and raised his eyebrows. “But I am of the opinion

that a single wild oat sown by our young friend will do him no great

harm.”

The boy came up, bearing three huge, foaming mugs, having interpreted

the order as he thought right. He set the mugs down with a thump,

scattering the suds in every direction, and departed before anyone

could say “Jack Robinson!”

“Well”--Thompson shook with laughter--“it seems our young friend here

is not going to sow his oats alone. So be it!” He raised his mug high

in the air and led off.

“Gentlemen! To the Queen! God bless her!”

As they neared London they talked plans.

“First,” said Thompson, “our distinguished visitor must have some

clothes.”

Frederick wondered whom he was talking about, but Buffum, his eyes on

Frederick, nodded his head thoughtfully.

“Yes, I suppose so,” he murmured. Then they both looked at Frederick

and he shifted uneasily. Answering the unspoken question in his face,

Thompson explained.

“You are becoming something of a celebrity. You will be going to

dinners and teas. You must have proper apparel.”

“But--” Frederick began, flushed and downcast.

“You are now in the employ of the World Anti-Slavery Society,” Thompson

went on, “our chief and most effective spokesman. In the interest

of the entire cause you must make what the French call the good

impression.”

Now Frederick’s apprehensions began to mount. How could he go into

English “society”?

“Clothes do not make a gentleman,” he said, shaking his head violently.

“I am a workingman. I will speak--yes--anywhere. I will tell the

meaning of slavery, I will do anything, but I have no manners or ways

for society.”

Thompson regarded the young man a long moment before answering.

“You are right, Frederick,” he said quietly. “Clothes do not make a

gentleman. They only serve to render him less conspicuous.” He placed

the tips of his fingers together and continued. “It will interest you

to know that our word aristocracy comes from the Greek _aristokratia_,

which is to say ‘the best workman.’” He leaned forward. “Someday we’ll

recognize that. Meanwhile, Frederick Douglass, make no mistake about

it--_you_ belong!”

Came the evening when the swaying stagecoach drew up before the Golden

Cross Hostelry on Charing Cross. The thick fog gave Frederick a feeling

of unreality. He could see nothing but dim lights and looming shadows,

but he was surrounded by a kind of muffled, intermittent rumbling. He

stood in the drizzling rain listening.

“Come,” said Thompson, taking him by the arm. “Let’s get inside. You’ll

be drenched before you realize it.”

Thompson lived in Dulwich, a suburb of London, but he was going to stay

in town a few days until his friends had found suitable lodging and

until, as he put it, chuckling, Frederick was “launched.”

The next few days were busy ones. They found lodgings in Tavistock

Square, not far from the Tavistock House, where Dickens lived for ten

years. London would be Douglass’ headquarters. From there he would make

trips throughout England and in the spring would go to Wales. He was

waited upon by the British India Committee, the Society of Friends, the

African Colonial Society and by a group working for the repeal of the

Corn Laws.

“It is the poor man’s fight,” they said.

The newcomer listened carefully, read newspapers morning and night

and asked questions. He spoke at the Freemason’s Hall, taking as his

theme the right of every workman to have bread. Douglass spoke well,

for he had only to step outside his rooms in London to see the pinch

of poverty. Then, just as Thompson had warned him, the writers William

and Mary Howitt sent a charming note asking him for a week-end in the

country. Fortunately Frederick had managed to see a good tailor.

“Go, Frederick,” his co-workers urged him. “They are Quakers. They have

influence. You will come back rested.”

Fall was closing around London like a shroud, but Clapham was

delightful. The Howitts greeted him warmly.

“We have read your _Narrative_, so you are an old friend.”

This was Frederick’s initiation into English country life. He walked

out into the beautiful garden where, rounding a smilax, he almost

stepped on Hans Christian Andersen!

It was Mary and William Howitt who had translated the Danish writer’s

works into English. Andersen was very fond of them, and their home in

Clapham was his haven. When they had guests he could always putter

about in the garden. He knew that the famous ex-slave was coming that

afternoon, but he would meet him after the tea party was over. Now, on

his knees, trowel in hand, a smudge of mud on his nose, he stared with

amazement. _So much of darkness and beard--and what a head!_

A peal of musical laughter behind him caused Frederick to turn. The

funny little man scrambled to his feet and Mary Howitt, who had

followed Frederick into the garden, was saying, “It is our dear Hans.”

Andersen knew very little English and Frederick had never before heard

Danish, so they could do very little more than grin at each other. But

later, before an open fire, Frederick read Hans Christian Andersen’s

fairy stories, while Andersen, sipping his brandy, watched the

expressive dark face. Their eyes met, and they were friends.

The next day Douglass asked the Howitts about their translations and

what it meant to study languages other than one’s native tongue. Then

the writer of fairy tales began to talk. He spoke in Danish, and Mary

interpreted. He talked of languages, of their background and history.

He told Frederick about words and their symbolic magic. And another

corner of Frederick’s brain unfolded itself.

* * * * *

There was too much rain the summer and fall of 1845. Robert Peel, Prime

Minister of Great Britain, stood at his window and watched it beat down

on the slippery stones of the court. But he was not seeing the paving

stones, he was not seeing the dripping walls. He was seeing unripened

spikes of wheat rotting in the mud. He knew he had a crisis on his

hands and he was not ready.

Robert Peel was a Tory. His background and education, his

administration as Secretary of Ireland, his avowed policies, all had

been those of the Conservative party. In appearance he was cold and

proud. But he was an honest man, and he grew in wisdom.

Until the 1840’s, despite the vast industrial changes of the previous

half-century, some balance had been maintained between industry and

agriculture. British farmers had been able to feed most of the workers

in the new towns and factories and mines. But population had increased,

villages had dwindled, and whole networks of manufacturing towns had

sprung into being. When Peel took office the country was already in

serious straits. The problem was economic, he knew. He listened to the

speeches of John Bright, a Quaker cotton-spinner from Lancashire and he

received Richard Cobden.

“There are thousands of houses in England at this moment where wives,

mothers, and children are dying of hunger. Come with me and you will

never rest until you give them bread,” Cobden said.

Cobden backed his facts with logic. High tariffs kept out foodstuffs

and essential commodities; landowners were keeping up the price of

wheat while workingmen starved. Britain was on the verge of social

revolution.

So Robert Peel, the Conservative, began to reduce customs. In 1842 he

set a gradually lowering scale for corn duties. He sought to shift

the burden of taxation from the poor to the wealthier classes and to

cheapen the necessities of life. He saw that reforms were necessary,

but he wished to avoid hasty changes. And in this caution lay his

undoing.

His own party fell away. The Whigs distrusted the haughty, gray-eyed

Minister. What did he, a Tory, mean by “seeming” to favor lower

tariffs? The Irish still hated him because he stood firm against

Repeal of the Union. The Catholics opposed him because he had backed

nonsectarian schools.

But the enemy who kept closest watch was Disraeli. Not for a day did

this ambitious member of Parliament forget that he had been left out of

the new Prime Minister’s cabinet. He took this omission as a personal

slight. Hatred for Peel distorted his every move. Cleverly, coolly,

calculatingly, Disraeli widened the cleavage in party ranks; he drew

young aristocrats about him; he flattered them with his wit and charm,

and whispered that Robert Peel, _their_ Robert Peel, was betraying

them. He was pushing the country into Free Trade. He would open the

gates to a deluge that would destroy England.

In the spring of 1845 Richard Cobden had risen in the House of Commons

and called for Repeal of the Corn Laws. He said that Free Trade ought

to be applied to agriculture and pointed to what it had done for

British manufacturing. He decried the old fallacy that wages vary

with the price of bread. He thundered that there was no truth in the

contention that wages were high when bread is dear and low when bread

is cheap. The Conservatives drew together, their faces hardening.

But Robert Peel no longer backed the Corn Laws. He wanted the

drawbridges around Britain lowered forever. But he wondered how

could he, leader of the Conservative party, carry through such a

revolutionary change? He decided to let the present Parliament run its

course. In the next election he would appeal to the country: he would

carry the fight to the people. Then they could send him back, free of

all party ties and obligations, as a Free Trader.

But the weather is no respecter of parliamentary elections! The wheat

crop failed in England, like the potato crop in Ireland. People were

starving, and the Corn Laws locked out food. Peel called a meeting of

his Cabinet, and the storm broke.

The Cobden forces were ready. They held great mass meetings, with

Cobden and Bright enlisting every available speaker. Frederick Douglass

addressed crowds in Piccadilly, on the docks, and in Hyde Park. He and

John Bright went down into Lancashire. They talked in Birmingham and

other towns and cities about the worker’s right to have bread.

Then one morning a week before Christmas, Bright burst into the rooms

on Tavistock Square, waving a newspaper.

“We’ve won! We’ve won!” he shouted. “The Cabinet’s intact, the Prime

Minister is back, the Repeal stands! We’ve won!”

James Buffum rolled out of bed and reached for the paper. Frederick,

partly dressed, emerged from behind a curtained cubicle and clapped the

little man on the shoulder. John Bright had watched his wife die of

starvation while he sat at his spindles. But he could not fill enough

spools. He could not spin fast enough. She had died. So John Bright had

left his loom and joined Richard Cobden. Now there would be more food

in England. He stood clinging to the dark man’s hand--this new friend

who knew so much about suffering.

“I’m going home,” he said in his rich rolling Lancashire brogue.

“I’m going down to tell the folks myself. Come with me. We’ll be glad

together!”

So it happened that Frederick spent the Christmas in a spinner’s shack

in Lancaster. On Christmas Eve he wrote Anna.

The baby’s crying in the next room and here in the corner sleeps a

little lad just about Freddie’s age. He’s curled in a tight knot and

his hair is falling over his face. It’s not as round as I remember

Freddie’s, nor are his legs as plump. This house isn’t as big as our

little place in New Bedford and there are four children! But tonight

they’re all happy. The weavers carried on as if John and I had given

them the world! My hand shakes as I think of it. We brought a goose

and a few toys for the children. You should have seen their eyes!

Tomorrow we will feast! How I wish you could share this with me.

They’re letting me borrow their little ones. But my heart cannot but

be anxious for my own. Are you well and are the children well? I

enclose some money. Enough, I hope, for your most urgent needs. But my

real Christmas present to you is news that will make you very happy.

Friends here are raising money to purchase my freedom--seven hundred

and fifty dollars! The Misses Richardson, sweet sisters in Newcastle,

have written to Mr. Walter Forward of Philadelphia, who will seek

out Captain Auld and ask what he will accept for my person. He will

tell my former master that I am now in England and that there is no

possibility of my being taken. There can be little doubt that under

the circumstances the Captain will name his price--and be very glad to

get it! So, dear Anna, soon this separation will be at an end. I will

return to you and to my dear children, in fact and before the law, a

free man.

The writer sat for a few moments regarding that last line. Anna’s eyes

would shine when she read it. For an instant her face was there. Then

the child stirred in his sleep. Frederick rose and straightened the

little limbs on the cot. His hands were very tender.

* * * * *

“Frederick! I believe you’ve grown,” Garrison beamed. He had just

arrived in London from America.

John Bright nodded. “He is a big man,” he said.

Garrison whisked Frederick away to Sir John Bowring’s castle where they

had been asked for over New Year’s.

Sir John had represented England as Minister to China. He was a

brilliant talker and drew about himself a circle of literary friends.

On New Year’s Eve, Douglass stood at a table covered with fine linen

and old silver. He held in his hand a crystal glass and drank another

toast: “The Queen! God bless her!”

They were all back in London for the opening of Parliament. Robert Peel

on the side of the people! A great day for England!

As if to honor the auspicious occasion the fog blew away during the

night, and January 22, 1846, dawned clear and bright like a spring

day. People poured into the streets and lined Pall Mall. The Queen

was coming! They crowded into Cannon Row and Parliament Street and

surrounded Westminster Hall and Parliament. The Queen was coming!

Cobden had secured seats for them in the gallery, but Garrison and

Douglass lingered in the crowd, craning their necks. The bobbies were

forcing them back to keep the way clear when a modest, closed carriage

drew up and a tall figure in a high silk hat stepped out.

“It’s Peel! It’s Robert Peel!” shouted Garrison and that started the

crowd cheering. They had not recognized the Prime Minister. But the

tall, pale man looked neither to the right or left. He walked straight

ahead, unsmiling, and disappeared. The people were disappointed. They

wanted to know him. They wanted to be friends.

The cheers had not gone unheeded. In the great, open carriage with

prancing horses that now turned into the square, Disraeli tightened his

lips. The carriage stopped with a clatter, the footman sprang down and

threw open the door. Disraeli stepped out, his head high, his silken

cape enveloping him with majesty. The crowd pressed forward.

“Who is it?”

“Who is that man?”

“Disraeli!” someone answered.

“The Jew!” another voice added.

They drew back then, and let him pass in silence. Frederick Douglass

followed him with his eyes. There was something painful in the defiant

swagger. As he disappeared Frederick caught his breath sharply. He felt

a hurt in his chest.

“I’m sorry for that man,” he said, in a heavy tone.

“Why?” asked Garrison coolly. “He would spit upon you!”

Frederick shook his head. “Let’s go in.” Suddenly, he was very tired.

Inside he forgot his singular depression when, from the throne of

England, Queen Victoria declared the session of Parliament open. She

was only thirty-one years old at that time, not beautiful perhaps, but

a radiantly happy woman. Prince Albert was at her side. She was adored

by her people. None of their hardships were laid at her door. Now she

felt that a crisis had been successfully averted. Her voice rang with

confidence and pride as she addressed her trusted Prime Minister.

And all the Lords and Ministers of the realm bowed low. The royal

couple took their leave, and the business of running an empire was

resumed. Every eye turned toward Robert Peel.

The Prime Minister rose, very pale, and began to state his case. He

had the facts. Step by step, he unfolded his plan for combating the

economic stalemate: cheap raw materials for the manufacturer, no

protection against fair foreign competition, cheaper seed for the

farmer, the open door for foreign meat and corn; for all, cheaper

living.

No longer was his face cold and remote. The fires of deep conviction

glowed in his eyes, and there was passion in his final declaration of

independence.

“I will not, sirs,” he concluded, “undertake to direct the course of

the vessel by observations which have been taken in 1842.” His words

rang. “I do not wish to be Minister of England, but while I have the

high honor of holding that office, I am determined to hold it by no

servile tenure. I will only hold that office upon the condition of

being unshackled by any other obligation than those of consulting the

public interests, and of providing for the public safety.”

He bowed and took his seat. Douglass wet his dry lips. What did the

heavy silence mean? He wanted to blister his hands with applause.

Garrison laid his hand on the younger man’s arm.

There was a slight stir of movement, and Sir John Russell was on his

feet. He commended the Prime Minister’s speech and quietly backed it up

with the authentic statement of Whig disasters. Some of the tenseness

relaxed. There was polite applause when Sir John ended and a bit of

parliamentary phrasing by the clerk. Men moved restlessly, wondering

what to do next.

Then, like an actor carefully choosing his entrance Disraeli rose.

Slowly his eyes swept the chamber. There was a sneering smile on his

lips. It was as if he scorned their cowardly silence. Disraeli knew his

time had come.

He stepped forth as defender of everything sacred! He talked of

all the fine traditions of Great Britain. Englishmen, he said, must

be protected without and within, from those who would undermine her

power. The Prime Minister had given a “glorious example of egotistical

rhetoric,” and his policy was a “gross betrayal of the principles which

had put him in power and of the party which kept him there.”

The brilliance of his style held them spellbound. His defense

of England thrilled them and his attack on Peel justified their

selfishness. Disraeli took his seat to thunderous applause.

Douglass was shaking as though ill.

“What does it mean?” he asked, when they had got away.

“It means,” said Richard Cobden, grimly, “that we’ll have to fight

every inch of the way all over again. We have won nothing. Except that

now Disraeli will stop at nothing to ruin Peel.”

“But how can Disraeli oppose the cause of poor people? I thought he

knew of oppression and suffering from his own experience.” Douglass’

distress was very real. John Bright tried to explain.

“Suffering and oppression often only embitter men, Frederick, embitter

and harden them. They close in upon themselves. They are so determined

to be safe that they are ruthless and cruel. Undoubtedly Disraeli has

suffered, but he has suffered selfishly--he has refused to see the

sufferings of other people. He will sacrifice anything for power.”

Frederick Douglass was learning what it takes to make men free. In

the spring he went up into Wales. He traveled, as he said in a letter

which was published in the _Liberator_, “from the Hill of Howth to the

Giant’s Causeway, and from the Giant’s Causeway to Cape Clear.” On May

12 he made a speech at Finsbury Chapel, Moorfields, which was published

throughout England. William Gladstone addressed a note to him, inviting

him to call.

Douglass heard that Daniel O’Connell was in London, that the Irish and

Catholics were joined in the coalition against Peel. Yet the Prime

Minister carried his Corn Bill through the House of Commons with

comparative ease. It began to look as if, in spite of Lord Bentinck and

Disraeli, it would get through the House of Lords. Then they attacked

Peel’s character.

Returning to London in May, Douglass immediately sought out O’Connell.

The old man greeted him warmly, but he was haggard and shaken. Also,

he was on the defensive. They could not avoid the subject which was

uppermost in both their minds.

“He’s a lifelong enemy of Ireland, lad.” O’Connell studied Frederick’s

troubled face anxiously.

“But Richard Cobden proves that Peel will listen to reason. Cobden has

won him so far along the way. His enemies are using the Irish question

now to destroy him.”

“He would tie Ireland to England forever!” The old man rose defiantly,

shaking his white hair.

On June 25 the Corn Bill passed in the House of Lords, but the same

day the Commons repudiated the Minister’s Life Preservation bill for

Ireland by a majority of seventy-three. Once more his enemies could say

that Peel had betrayed his principles and fooled his followers. Three

days later Peel tendered his resignation to the Queen.

That evening Douglass, accompanied by O’Connell, made his way to the

Parliament.

“He will speak tonight--for the last time,” John Bright had told them.

The members sat in their seats, strangely subdued. The contest between

Peel and Disraeli was over. True, the Corn Laws were repealed--the

gates were down. But Disraeli had forced Robert Peel out. He was

finished.

Yet the grimness which had marked his pale face in the past months was

gone, and in his final words there was a sense of peace that seemed to

reach beyond that time and place.

“When Ministers appear to change their course, and lay themselves open

to the charge of inconsistency, it were better perhaps for this country

and for the general character of public men that they be punished by

expulsion from office.” He did not blame them, then. There was no word

of bitterness. Moreover, the credit for his reforms, he said, should

not go to him. “The name which ought to be chiefly associated with the

success of these measures is the name of Richard Cobden,” one who has

achieved his disinterested purpose by “appeals to our reason.”

There was a slight rustle throughout the chamber. It was as if the very

shadows were listening.

“In relinquishing power, I shall leave a name censured by many who

deeply regret the severance of party ties, by others, who, from no

selfish interest adhere to the principles of Protection, considering

its maintenance essential to the welfare and interests of the country;

I shall leave a name execrated by every monopolist, who clamors for

Protection because it conduces to his own individual benefit. But it

may be that I shall leave a name sometimes remembered with expressions

of goodwill in the abodes of those whose lot it is to labor, and to

earn their bread by the sweat of their brow. Perhaps they too will call

my name when they shall recruit their exhausted strength with abundant

and untaxed food, the sweeter because it is not leavened by a sense of

injustice.”

It was all over in a few minutes. Frederick turned at a sound beside

him. O’Connell had covered his face with his two hands. Frederick

slipped his arm through his, pressing against him. The grand old man of

Ireland was weeping.

* * * * *

It was the Reverend Samuel Hanson Cox who now decided that London had

had just about enough of Frederick Douglass!

Sixty or seventy American divines had arrived in London that summer for

the double purpose of attending the World Evangelical Alliance and the

World Temperance Convention. It was the avowed purpose of a group of

these ministers, under the leadership of the Reverend Cox, to procure

a blanket endorsement for the Christian character of slaveholders. The

matter was becoming a little ticklish in certain quarters, and these

churchmen were determined to establish the Biblical and divine status

of the “sons of Ham” whom--they agreed--God had designated “hewers of

wood and drawers of water.”

What was their dismay, therefore, to find one of the slaves running

around at large in England, speaking from platforms, and being invited

to the homes of respectable, but utterly misguided, Englishmen _and_

Englishwomen--_God save us!_

The divines set about enlightening the English people. Before they

realized it, the question of slavery became a burning issue in the

Evangelical Alliance. And things did not go well. By far the larger

crowds were attracted to the Temperance Convention, which was being

held in huge Covent Garden. The Abolitionists planned carefully. One

afternoon when the Garden was packed, Frederick Douglass was called

from the audience to “address a few words” to the Convention. The

slavers’ advocates were thunderstruck! They could not believe that such

treachery existed within their own ranks. As, amid clamorous applause,

Douglass made his way to the platform, Reverend Cox leaped to his feet

and shouted his protests. But he was yelled down.

“Let him speak!”

“Hear him!”

“Douglass! Frederick Douglass!”

They shouted until the livid little divine sank helpless into his seat.

Frederick Douglass, “the young lion,” had come into his full strength.

He stood facing the audience which filled every corner of Covent

Garden, and felt power coursing all along his veins. He resolved that

no man or woman within the sound of his voice that afternoon should

ever be able to say “I did not know!”

According to the account written by the Reverend Cox that appeared

in his denominational paper, the _New York Evangelist_, Douglass’

speech was “a perversion, an abuse, and an iniquity against the law

of reciprocal righteousness--inspired, I believe, from beneath, and

not from above. This Douglass,” said Reverend Cox, “denounced American

temperance societies and churches as a community of enemies of his

people. He talked to the American delegates as if he had been our

schoolmaster and we his docile and devoted pupils.”

And Covent Garden rocked as it seldom had in all its history.

“We all wanted to reply,” the account concluded, “but it was too late.

The whole theater seemed taken with the spirit of the Ephesian uproar;

they were boisterous in the extreme, and poor Mr. Kirk could hardly

obtain a moment to say a few well-chosen words.”

The applause was like thunder. When Douglass bowed and tried to leave

the platform, people rushed forward to seize his hand. They blocked his

path. Men and women wept. They shouted until they were hoarse. Nobody

heard or heeded “poor Mr. Kirk.” Douglass left the theater at the head

of a procession of Londoners, who continued to cheer him as they came

out on the street. Curious passersby swelled the ranks. They followed

him down Bow Street to Russell and past the Drury Lane Theater. But

just beyond the theater Frederick stopped. He faced the crowd and at a

motion from him they closed in around him.

“My friends,” he told them, “never in my life have people been so good

to me. But I have spoken not to arouse you to cheers, but to move you

to action. I have told you of slavery, of oppression, of wrongdoing

which is going on in this world. I tell you now that this is true not

only of black slaves in America, but of white slaves here in Europe. My

friends, these are not times for cheering. Go to your homes, to your

shops and to your offices! Pass my words along and find the job that

you can do to bring about the freedom of all peoples. Go now, quickly!”

He stood facing them until they had dispersed, looking back over their

shoulders, talking excitedly.

Then, with a sigh of deep satisfaction, Frederick Douglass went walking

on down Russell Street. He turned into Drury Lane and half an hour

later was rolling along Fulham Road.

Tavistock Square no longer claimed him as a lodger. When James Buffum

returned to America and Douglass set out on his northern tour the attic

rooms were given up. Upon his return to London he had been invited

to make his home with friends in Chelsea where, in the rare periods

between strenuous rounds, he could enjoy a haven from the noise and

dirt of the city. He remembered that summer with pleasure--no fog, a

mild sun, long walks over the Heath, across Albert Bridge and down by

the river. Hours of undisturbed reading in a little arbor behind the

cottage continually opened new vistas and broadened his understanding.

More than the scars on his back, he deplored his lack of education. Now

he seized every opportunity to learn.

Back in America the Mexican War was arousing people. The possibility

of more slave states being added to the Union speeded up the

Abolitionists. Word was rushed to the Anti-Slavery Society in England

to enlist the people of Great Britain, to let the workers of Britain

know how slavery in America threatened all their hard-bought gains, and

perhaps get them to boycott slave-grown cotton.

Frederick Douglass rose to the need. Thousands packed into the Free

Trade Hall in London to hear him; workers in Manchester and Birmingham

learned how cotton was produced; merchants and dock hands rubbed

shoulders at Concert Hall in Liverpool.

Frederick Douglass spoke to men and women in every walk of life.

William Gladstone listened and learned from the black American.

In Edinburgh he was entertained by George Combe, and the eminent

philosopher listened as well as talked. Together they discussed the

Corn Laws, reduction of hours of labor, and what black slavery was

doing to the world. During this time Douglass was urged to remain in

Europe. He was offered important posts in Ireland and in Scotland.

“Send for your family, Douglass!” they said. “There is work here for

you to do.”

But he shook his head. In spite of all his activities, he was growing

restless that winter. True, he was presenting the case of the slave

to Britain. In a few months he had become famous; but within himself

he felt that all this had only been a period of preparation. He was

like an athlete who, trained to the pink of condition, was only going

through preliminary skirmishes. For Frederick Douglass knew his real

work lay ahead--in America.

They were still waiting for the final settlement with Captain Auld.

He had asked one hundred and fifty pounds sterling for his slave. The

money had been promptly sent.

Then, one morning, a letter reached Douglass in Darlington. It was from

George Thompson.

“Your papers have arrived. Come down with us for two or three days

before you go to Wales. There is so much to talk about and I know this

means an early farewell.”

This was the beginning of his last days in Britain. He was invited to

dinners, receptions, teas, scheduled for “farewell” speeches.

“What will you do?” they asked.

“I should like to establish a paper, a paper in which I can speak

directly to my people, a paper that will prove whether or not a Negro

has mind, the tongue of reason, and can present facts and arguments

clearly.”

They placed twenty-five hundred dollars in his hands--as a start toward

this enterprise.

“You will come back!” They made it both a question and an affirmation.

“When we have won our fight!” He nodded.

A crowd accompanied him to the boat at Liverpool and stood waving him

goodbye. John Bright’s eyes were wet.

“We’ll miss you, Douglass!” said the little spinner from Lancaster.

The shores and wharves and people blurred as he stood on the deck. They

had been so good. He reached in his pocket and once more took out the

precious papers that declared him free.

The transaction had to be in two parts. Thomas Auld first sold him to

his brother Hugh, and then the Philadelphia lawyer had secured the

final manumission paper through the Baltimore authorities. It was this

second and final sheet that Frederick unfolded--the paper for which the

people of England had paid seven hundred and fifty dollars.

_To all whom it may concern_: Be it known, that I, Hugh Auld, of the

city of Baltimore, in Baltimore county, in the state of Maryland,

for divers good causes and considerations, me thereunto moving, have

released from slavery, liberated, manumitted, and set free, and by

these presents do hereby release from slavery, liberate, manumit,

and set free, My Negro Man, named Frederick Bailey, otherwise called

Douglass, being of the age of twenty-eight years, or thereabouts,

and able to work and gain a sufficient livelihood and maintenance;

and him the said negro man, named Frederick Bailey, otherwise called

Frederick Douglass, I do declare to be henceforth free, manumitted,

and discharged from all manner of servitude to me, my executors, and

administrators forever.

In witness whereof, I, the said Hugh Auld, have hereunto set my hand

and seal, the fifth of December, in the year one thousand eight

hundred and forty-six.

_Signed_ HUGH AULD.

_Sealed and delivered in presence of_ T. HANSON BELT.[8]

He looked out across the waters. He had been away nearly two years. It

was spring, and he was going home.

CHAPTER TEN

_A light is set on the road_

Massachusetts hung out her fairest garlands that spring. The fruit

trees were in bloom. Dandelions a foot tall framed the winding roads in

gold; across the meadows lay Queen Anne’s lace and white daisies; the

lake shallows were covered with dark, green rushes; and alders, growing

at the water’s edge, stood between white and yellow water-lilies. There

was sweetness in the air.

Behind the little house between two cedar trees the line of white

clothes waved merrily in the breeze. Mrs. Walker from the other side of

the fence, stood in the doorway and admired the scrubbed and polished

kitchen.

“Land sakes, Mis’ Douglass, you _are_ smart this morning!”

The dark woman, her sleeves tucked up, was kneading a batch of dough.

She did not stop. There was still so much to do, and her breasts were

heavy with milk. She must set these loaves before she nursed the baby.

But she smiled at her neighbor, her eyes shining.

“My husband’s coming home!”

Mrs. Walker laughed sympathetically.

“I know, but not today. Body’d think he was walkin’ in this minute.”

In the next room little Rosetta filled an earthen jar with buttercups

and violets she had picked down by the river. It spilled over and she

began to cry.

“Never mind,” comforted Lewis. He spoke with masculine superiority,

reinforced by his eight years. “Pa’s got no time for flowers anyhow.”

But Miss Abigail always kept flowers on the table. She had taught

Rosetta how to arrange them, and now the little girl wiped her eyes

and returned to her task. She had only that week been brought back

to the cottage in Lynn for her father’s homecoming. Shortly before

the baby was born the Misses Abigail and Lydia Mott had taken the

child to live with them in Albany. To this extent the Quaker ladies

had lightened Anna’s responsibilities. They had cared for and taught

Frederick Douglass’ little daughter carefully. Now she was home for a

visit, they said: they wanted her back.

“Don’t touch!” Rosetta climbed down from the chair and eyed her

centerpiece with satisfaction. She spoke to three-year-old Charlie,

whose round face was also turned toward the flowers. Freddie, all of

his six years intent on mending a hole in the fence, had sent his “baby

brother” into the house with a terse “Get outta my way!”

Charlie’s plump legs carried him hither and yon obeying orders. Now he

was wondering what he could do on his own. Pa was coming--and he wanted

to do something special. All at once he yelled, “I’ll show him the

baby!”

Two days later he clung, ecstatic with joy, to the big man’s coat when

for the first time the father held his new daughter in his arms. It was

love at first sight. Perhaps because she was called Annie, or perhaps

it was the very special way she wrapped her fist about his thumb.

Over the heads of their children, Anna and Frederick smiled at each

other. The months had put lines on her face; he knew the days and

nights had not been easy. He had yet to rub the rough callouses on

her hands and find out about the shoes! Anna saw that her husband had

grown, that he had gone far. He had walked in high places. But now he

was home again. They were together.

They feasted that evening. The children tumbled over themselves being

useful. They emptied their plates and then sat listening, wide-eyed. He

talked and then he too asked questions.

“Say nothing about the shoes. We’ll surprise him,” she had cautioned.

_A joke on Pa!_ They hugged their secret gleefully, as children will.

At last the house was still and she lay down beside him.

“Everything’s gone fine, hasn’t it, dear?” He spoke with deep

contentment. “The children are well. The house looks better than it did

when I went away. How did you do it?”

Her body touched his in the old bed.

“I managed,” she murmured. The shoes had made her hands rough and hard.

His skin was warm and smooth.

“Have you missed me?” he asked.

Her sigh of response came from a heart at peace.

* * * * *

Washington read of Frederick Douglass’ return in the _National Era_.

Gamaliel Bailey had been printing short accounts of his activities

in Great Britain. Many of the Abolitionists had protested against

Douglass’ purchase by English friends. They declared it a violation

of antislavery principles and a wasteful expenditure of money. The

_National Era_ took up the issue.

“Our English friends are wise,” Bailey’s editorial commented.

“Maryland’s slave laws still stand. Frederick Douglass is now free

anywhere in the United States, only because he carries manumission

papers on his person. The Eastern Shore can no longer claim him.”

The slaveholding power, it seemed, was stronger than ever. Texas with

its millions of acres had been admitted to the Union, and President

Polk was negotiating a treaty that favored the slave oligarchy.

Abolitionists had split over political matters and had weakened

themselves. But the sparks had fallen and were lighting fires in

unexpected places. Charles Sumner, emerging from the State Legislature

in Massachusetts, was moving toward the United States Senate. From

Pennsylvania came David Wilmot with his amendment of the proposed

treaty saying “neither slavery nor involuntary servitude shall ever

exist in any part” of the territory acquired as a result of the

Mexican War. Longfellow, most popular author in America, was writing

thunderously on slavery; _The Biglow Papers_ were circulating, and

petitions, signed by tens of thousands, were gathered and delivered

in Washington by Henry Wilson and John Greenleaf Whittier. Inside

Congress, the aged John Quincy Adams laid the petitions before the

House. The House tabled them--but the sparks continued to fly.

On an evening late in May a group of people responded to invitations

sent out by the Reverend Theodore Parker and gathered at his house in

Boston. He had called them together to discuss further strategy. Among

those present were Bronson Alcott, Ralph Waldo Emerson, William Ellery

Channing,[9] Walter Channing,[9] Wendell Phillips, James Russell Lowell,

James and Lucretia Mott, Charles Sumner, Joshua Blanchard, William

Lloyd Garrison and Frederick Douglass.

These men and women had not agreed on every issue in the past, but

now they united their efforts toward one single end: Slavery must be

stopped. If it could not now be abolished, at least it must not spread.

The _Wilmot Proviso_ must be carried to the country.

And who was better equipped to carry out such a mandate than William

Lloyd Garrison and their newly returned co-worker, who had been hailed

throughout Great Britain? The man who bore his “diploma” on his back,

Frederick Douglass. So it was decided.

Douglass’ reputation no longer rested on the warm word of his personal

friends. Not only had accounts of him been printed in the _Liberator_,

but the _Standard_ and the _Pennsylvania Freeman_ had told of his

speeches and reception abroad. Every antislavery paper in the country

had picked up the stories. Horace Greeley had told New York about him.

Nor was the opposition unaware of him. The advocates and supporters of

slavery pointed to him as “a horrible example” of what “could happen.”

“Douglass!” The name was whispered in cabins and in tobacco and rice

fields. It traveled up and down the Eastern Shore. A tall black girl,

dragging logs through the marsh, heard it and resolved to run away.

She became “Sojourner Truth” of the Underground Railroad--the fearless

agent who time after time returned to the Deep South to organize bands

of slaves and lead them out.

In Boston and Albany and New York they clamored to see and hear

Douglass. And in clubs and offices and behind store-fronts they

muttered angry words.

During the first week in August the Anti-Slavery Society held a

three-day convention in Morristown, Pennsylvania, with hundreds of

people coming by train from Philadelphia. Lucretia Mott, the foremost

woman Abolitionist of her day, fired the crowd with enthusiasm.

Douglass did not arrive until the second day. His name was on

everyone’s lips, the trainmen craned their necks to see him, and he was

pointed out wherever he went.

The evening of the closing day of the convention, Garrison and Douglass

were to speak together at a church. It was packed when they arrived.

Garrison spoke first. All went well until Douglass rose, when there

came a sound of breaking glass and large stones flew through the

windows. The men in the audience rushed out. There was the sound of

shouting and running outside. The rowdies fled, and in a short while

the meeting continued.

In Philadelphia there were a large number of educated and extremely

active Negro Abolitionists. Douglass was particularly happy to spend

some time with them, and they were eager to heed and honor him. William

Grant Still, secretary of the Philadelphia Vigilance Committee, saw to

it that they met Douglass.

On Saturday morning Garrison and Douglass said goodbye to their friends

and hurried to the station. At the last moment Garrison recalled an

errand.

“Go ahead and get the tickets, Douglass,” he said. “I’ll be along in

time.”

Douglass complied with his request, but Garrison had not arrived when

the train pulled in. Douglass boarded one of the last cars and, sitting

down close to a window, watched rather anxiously for his traveling

companion.

He did not notice the man who came up to the seat until he heard: “You

there! Get out of that seat!”

It came like the old-remembered sting of a whip. He had not heard that

tone for so long. He looked up. The speaker was a big man. He had

evidently been drinking. His face was flushed.

“Get along up front where you belong!”

“I have a first-class ticket which entitles me to this seat,” Douglass

said quietly. The muscles along his back were tightening.

“Why, you impudent darky!”

“Oh, John, please!”

Then Douglass saw that behind the man and, until that moment hidden

by him, was a little woman, the thin, gray strands of her hair partly

concealed by a poke bonnet, her blue eyes now wide with alarm.

“Oh,” said Douglass, rising, “excuse me, madam. Would you like my seat?”

The bully’s mouth dropped open. For a moment the unexpected words

struck him dumb.

“Why--why--I--” the woman stammered.

“Shut up!” The man had recovered his breath. “Don’t talk to that

nigger. I’ll knock his teeth down his black throat if he says another

word.”

Frederick smiled at the woman.

“As I said, I have my ticket. But there are plenty of seats. I’ll

gladly vacate this one for a lady.”

He moved quickly, catching his assailant’s blow with a swing of his

arm, and brushed past before the man could recover himself. Douglass

went on down the aisle. Behind him the man cursed.

“Oh, please, John!” the little lady protested.

Out on the platform, Douglass walked into Garrison. They hurried into

another car and the train moved off.

“We’ll report the man when we reach the station,” said Garrison.

Douglass shrugged his shoulders. “He was drunk!” was his only comment.

The train pulled into Harrisburg about three o’clock in the afternoon.

At the depot they found Dr. Rutherford, long-time subscriber to the

_Liberator_, his sister-in-law, Agnes Crane, and several colored

people awaiting them. One of the latter, a Mr. Wolf, proudly bore off

Frederick Douglass to his home, while Dr. Rutherford took Mr. Garrison

in tow.

Harrisburg, capital of Pennsylvania, was very much under the influence

of slavery. The little group of Abolitionists had struggled valiantly

against odds. They had obtained the Court House for the Saturday

and Sunday evening presentations of their two speakers. Heretofore,

antislavery lecturers had drawn only a few anxious listeners. This

Saturday evening the Court House was filled to overflowing, and crowds

had gathered in the street in front of the building.

Mischief was brewing. Outside, mounted horsemen mingled with the crowd,

and inside the hall seethed with tense expectancy.

The chairman for the evening rose and introduced Mr. Garrison first. He

spoke briefly, merely to open the meeting. Everybody knew that whatever

happened would be aimed at Douglass. The dark speaker came forward, and

someone in the back yelled, “Sit down, nigger!”

It was the signal. Through the windows came hurtling stones, bricks and

pieces of Harrisburg pottery. From the back of the hall people threw

stones and rotten eggs, ripe tomatoes and other missiles. Several men

armed with clubs leaped for the platform.

The hall had become a bedlam: shrieks, shattering glass, and shouts of

“Out with the damned nigger!” “Kill him!” “Break his head!” Douglass,

recalling the mob in Indiana, seized a chair and laid about him with

a will. A flying stone struck him just above the eye, and a brickbat

grazed his head; but no one could get near him. It turned into a

free-for-all. Garrison from his place on the platform thundered

denunciations and rallied the people to their own defense. Gradually,

they routed the disturbers and peace was restored.

One might suppose that the exhausted audience would have called it

quits. But not so with this crowd which had come out to hear Frederick

Douglass. Scratches and wounds and broken heads were hurriedly tended;

cold cloths were applied. And finally, holding a damp handkerchief to

his head to stay the flow of blood, Douglass told his story. Far down

the street the would-be “nigger killers” heard the cheers.

Sunday morning and afternoon they spoke at Negro churches. White people

attended both times, and the meetings were unmolested. The Sunday

evening crowd at the Court House was doubled. There was no trouble.

“Always heared tell them nigger-loving Abolitionists was

chicken-hearted!” a man in a tavern complained morosely. “It’s a damn

lie!” He rubbed his aching head thoughtfully.

Monday morning they left for Pittsburgh, going by train as far as

Chambersburg, where they had to change to the stage. Here they were

told that there had been some mistake about the tickets. The one

Douglass held enabled him to go directly through on the two o’clock

stage, but Garrison would have to wait until eight in the evening.

Garrison told Douglas they would be expected and he might as well go

ahead.

The route over the Alleghenies was beautiful, but slow and difficult.

The stage was crowded, and it was a melting-hot day. When they drew up

at the taverns for meals, Douglass was not allowed to eat in the dining

room. He was told he might eat, if he stood outside. He preferred to go

hungry--for the better part of two days.

On arriving at Pittsburgh the stage was met by a committee of twenty

white and colored friends, with a brass band of colored men playing for

all they were worth! The stage was late. It pulled in at three o’clock

in the morning, but both committee and band had waited.

Douglass could not help relishing the consternation of his

fellow-travelers when, to the accompaniment of deafening blasts from

tuba and trumpet, he was literally lifted from the stage. How could

they have known that the quiet, dark man whom they had seen humiliated

and pushed aside, was a celebrity?

There was much about the dingy, smoke-covered city of Pittsburgh which

reminded Douglass and Garrison of manufacturing towns in England. These

people were down to bare necessities. They knew life and death could be

hard and violent. They wanted no part of slavery.

“No more slave states!” they shouted.

Their enthusiasm was in the English style. They expressed approval

without stint. At the close of the final meeting, they gave three

tremendous cheers--one for Garrison, one for Douglass, and one for the

local worker who had brought the speakers, A. K. Foster.

On Friday Garrison and Douglass took a steamer down the Ohio River.

They stopped off at New Brighton, a village of about eight hundred

people. They spoke in a barn, where, from barrels of flour piled on the

beams over their heads, specks sifted down, whitening their clothes.

They left aboard a canal boat, in the company of a young Negro named

Peck, a future graduate of Rush Medical College at Chicago.

The next stop was Youngstown, where they were the guests of a jovial

tavern keeper. He always took in Abolitionist lecturers free of charge.

There they spoke three times in a huge grove. By evening Douglass

was without voice. His throat was throbbing and he could not speak

above a whisper. Garrison carried on. New Lyme, Painesville, Munson,

Twinsburg--every town and hamlet on the way--in churches, halls, barns,

tents, in groves and on hillsides. Oberlin, which come next, was a

milestone for them both.

“You know that from the commencement of the Institution in Oberlin,”

Garrison wrote his wife, “I took a lively interest in its welfare,

particularly on account of its springing up in a wilderness, only

thirteen years since, through the indomitable and sublime spirit

of freedom by which the seceding students of Lane Seminary were

actuated....

“Oberlin has done much for the relief of the flying fugitives from the

Southern prison-house, multitudes of whom have found it a refuge from

their pursuers, and been fed, clad, sheltered, comforted, and kindly

assisted on their way out of this horrible land to Canada. It has also

promoted the cause of emancipation in various ways, and its church

refuses to be connected with any slaveholding or pro-slavery church by

religious fellowship....

“I think our visit was an important one.... Douglass and I have

been hospitably entertained by Hamilton Hill, the Treasurer of the

Institution, an English gentleman, who formerly resided in London,

and is well acquainted with George Thompson and other antislavery

friends.... Among others who called was Miss Lucy Stone, who has

just graduated, and who yesterday left for her home in Brookfield,

Massachusetts.... She is a very superior young woman, and has a soul as

free as air, and is preparing to go forth as a lecturer, particularly

in vindication of the rights of woman.... But I must throw down my pen,

as the carriage is at the door to take us to Richfield, where we are to

have a large meeting today under the Oberlin tent, which is capable of

holding four thousand persons.”[10]

It was Garrison who finally broke down.

Their first meeting in Cleveland was held in Advent Chapel. Hundreds

were turned away, and in the afternoon they moved out into a grove in

order to accommodate the crowd. It sprinkled occasionally during the

meeting, but no one seemed to mind. The next morning, however, Garrison

opened his eyes in pain. He closed them again and tried to move. He sat

up, dizzy and swaying. Douglass, seeing his face, rushed to his side.

The doctor ordered him to stay in bed for a few days. They were

scheduled to leave for Buffalo within the hour, and once more Garrison

urged Douglass to go on ahead.

“I’ll be along,” he said weakly.

Garrison did not join him at Buffalo. Douglass held the meetings

alone and it was the same at Waterloo and West Winfield. By the time

he reached Syracuse on September 24, Douglass had begun to worry.

There, however, he found word. Garrison had been very ill. He was now

recovering and would soon be in Buffalo. Somewhat relieved, Douglass

went on to Rochester, where he held large and enthusiastic meetings.

For a few days he visited with Gerrit Smith on his estate at Peterboro.

Only then did he realize how tired he was. The high-ceilinged, paneled

rooms of the fine old manor offered the perfect refuge from the rush

and noise and turmoil of the past weeks. Douglass stretched out in an

easy chair before an open fire and rested.

Something was bothering Douglass. Now that the cheering crowds were far

away he frowned. Gerrit Smith fingered a long-stemmed glass of sherry

and waited.

“They listened eagerly,” Douglass said at last, “they filled the halls

and afterward they cheered.” He stopped and Gerrit Smith nodded his

head.

“And what then?” Smith’s voice had asked the question in Douglass’ mind.

Douglass was silent a long moment. He spoke slowly.

“They did not need convincing. The people know that slavery is wrong.”

Again Smith nodded his head. Douglass frowned. “Is it that convictions

are not enough?”

Then Gerrit Smith leaned forward.

“Convictions are the final end we seek,” he said. “But even you

dare not pit your convictions against the slaveholder’s property.

Slaveholders are not concerned or bothered about cheering crowds north

of the Ohio river. They can laugh at them! But they will not laugh long

if the cheering crowds go marching to the ballot box. Convictions need

votes to back them up!”

The shadows in the room deepened. For a long time there was only

silence.

“There’s a man in Springfield you ought to know,” Gerrit Smith spoke

quietly. “His name is John Brown.”

And so Douglass first heard of John Brown, in whose plans he would be

involved for many years to come.

Upon the establishment of Oberlin College in 1839, Gerrit Smith had

given the school a large tract of land in Virginia. The small group in

Ohio hardly knew what to do with his gift until, in 1840, young John

Brown, son of one of the Oberlin trustees, wrote proposing to survey

the lands for a nominal price if he could buy some of it himself and

establish his family there.

“He said,” continued Smith, “that he planned to set up there a school

for both the Negroes and poor whites of the region.”

Titles to the Virginia lands were not clear because squatters were in

possession, and the Oberlin trustees welcomed Brown’s plan. Thus John

Brown first saw Virginia and looked over the rich and heavy lands which

roll westward to the misty Blue Ridge. The Oberlin lands lay about two

hundred miles west of Harper’s Ferry in the foothills and along the

valley of the Ohio.

“He wrote that he liked the country as well as he had expected and its

inhabitants even better,” Smith chuckled.

By the summer of 1840 the job was done, and Brown had picked out his

ground. It was good hill land on the right branch of a valuable spring,

with a growth of good timber and a sugar orchard. In August the Oberlin

trustees voted “that the Prudential Committee be authorized to perfect

negotiations and convey by deed to Brother John Brown of Hudson, one

thousand acres of our Virginia land on the conditions suggested in

the correspondence which has already transpired between him and the

Committee.”[11]

“But then”--Gerrit Smith’s voice took on new urgency--“all negotiations

stopped. The panic overthrew everybody’s calculations. Brown’s wool

business collapsed, and two years later he was bankrupt. He had

endorsed notes for a friend, and they sent him to jail. Then he entered

into partnership with a man named Perkins, with a view to carrying on

the sheep business extensively. Perkins was to furnish all the feed and

shelter for wintering, and Brown was to take care of the flock.” Smith

was silent for a few minutes, puffing on his pipe. “I think he loved

being a shepherd. Anyway, during those long, solitary days and nights

he developed a plan for furnishing cheap wool direct to consumers.

“He has a large store now in Springfield, Massachusetts. They say his

bales are firm, round, hard and true, almost as if they had been turned

out in a lathe. But the New England manufacturers are boycotting him.

He’s not playing according to the rules and he’s being squeezed out.

The truth of the matter is that John Brown has his own set of rules. He

says he has a mission to perform.” There was another long silence. Then

Gerrit Smith spoke and his voice was sad. “I wish I had it in my power

to give him that tract of land protected by the Blue Ridge Mountains. I

think that land lies at the core of all his planning.”

Gerrit Smith was right. John Brown had a plan. One thing alone

reconciled him to his Springfield sojourn and that was the Negroes whom

he met there. He had met black men singly here and there before. He was

consumed with an intense hatred of slavery, and in Springfield he found

a group of Negroes working manfully for full freedom. It was a small

body without conspicuous leadership. On that account it more nearly

approximated the great mass of their enslaved race. Brown sought them

in home, in church and on the street; he hired them in his business.

While Garrison and Douglass were touring Ohio, John Brown was saying to

his black porter and friend, “Come early in the morning so that we’ll

have time to talk.”

And so before the store was swept or the windows wiped, they carefully

reviewed their plans for the “Subterranean Pass Way.”

* * * * *

Amelia and Mrs. Royall did not make the trip north. Amelia’s

disappointment was tempered because she knew Frederick Douglass was

somewhere out West. Jack Haley laughed and said that was the reason

the old lady did not go. But Anne Royall said no newspaper woman could

leave Washington when news was fairly bristling in the air.

That last was true. Had not the South fought and paid for the gold

fields of California? Now the scratch of President Polk’s pen as

he signed the treaty with Mexico reverberated through the halls of

Congress. Tempers were short.

“And manners have been tossed out the window,” said Anne Royall.

Then Jefferson Davis was sent up from Mississippi. Mrs. Royall was

immediately intrigued by the tall, handsome war hero.

“Careful, Mrs. Royall!” warned Jack Haley, shaking his finger.

“Attend your own affairs, young man,” snapped the old lady. “Jefferson

Davis brings charm into this nest of cawing crows!”

Foreign consulates were rocking, too. Ambassadors dared not talk. For

this was a year of change--kings being overthrown; Garibaldi, Mazzini,

Kossuth emerging as heroes. Freedom had become an explosive word--to

be handled with care. They smashed the windows of the _National Era_

office and talked of running Gamaliel Bailey out of town. But it was

difficult to call out a mob within sight of the Capitol building. And

Gamaliel Bailey--facing his critics with that dazzling, supercilious,

knowing smile of his--sent them away gnashing their teeth but helpless.

The time had come for action. Oratory was not enough. Convictions,

however sound and pure, were not enough. Time was running out.

Frederick Douglass wrote a letter to John Brown in Springfield,

Massachusetts. Douglass told the wool merchant of his recent visit with

Gerrit Smith.

“I’d like to talk with you,” he wrote. And John Brown answered, “Come.”

Of that first visit with John Brown, Douglass says:

“At the time to which I now refer this man was a respectable merchant

in a populous and thriving city, and our first meeting was at his

store. This was a substantial brick building on a prominent, busy

street. A glance at the interior, as well as at the massive walls

without, gave me the impression that the owner must be a man of

considerable wealth. My welcome was all that I could have asked. Every

member of the family, young and old, seemed glad to see me, and I was

made much at home in a very little while. I was, however, surprised

with the appearance of the house and its location. After seeing the

fine store I was prepared to see a fine residence in an eligible

locality.... In fact, the house was neither commodious nor elegant,

nor its situation desirable. It was a small wooden building on a

back street, in a neighborhood chiefly occupied by laboring men and

mechanics. Respectable enough, to be sure, but not quite the place

where one would look for the residence of a flourishing and successful

merchant. Plain as was the outside of this man’s house, the inside was

plainer. Its furniture would have satisfied a Spartan. It would take

longer to tell what was not in this house than what was in it. There

was an air of plainness about it which almost suggested destitution.

“My first meal passed under the misnomer of tea.... It consisted of

beef-soup, cabbage, and potatoes--a meal such as a man might relish

after following the plow all day or performing a forced march of a

dozen miles over a rough road in frosty weather. Innocent of paint,

veneering, varnish, or table-cloth, the table announced itself

unmistakably of pine and of the plainest workmanship. There was no

hired help visible. The mother, daughters, and sons did the serving,

and did it well. They were evidently used to it, and had no thought of

any impropriety or degradation in being their own servants. It is said

that a house in some measure reflects the character of its occupants;

this one certainly did. In it there were no disguises, no illusions, no

make-believes. Everything implied stern truth, solid purpose, and rigid

economy. I was not long in company with the master of this house before

I discovered that he was indeed the master of it, and was likely to

become mine too if I stayed long enough with him....

“In person he was lean, strong and sinewy, of the best New England

mold, built for times of trouble and fitted to grapple with the

flintiest hardships. Clad in plain American woolen, shod in boots of

cowhide leather, and wearing a cravat of the same substantial material,

under six feet high, less than one hundred and fifty pounds in weight,

aged about fifty, he presented a figure straight and symmetrical as

a mountain pine. His bearing was singularly impressive. His head was

not large, but compact and high. His hair was coarse, strong, slightly

gray and closely trimmed, and grew low on his forehead. His face

was smoothly shaved, and revealed a strong, square mouth, supported

by a broad and prominent chin. His eyes were bluish-gray, and in

conversation they were full of light and fire. When on the street, he

moved with a long, springing, race-horse step, absorbed by his own

reflections, neither seeking nor shunning observation.

“After the strong meal already described, Captain Brown cautiously

approached the subject which he wished to bring to my attention; for he

seemed to apprehend opposition to his views. He denounced slavery in

look and language fierce and bitter, thought that slaveholders had

forfeited their right to live, that the slaves had the right to gain

their liberty in any way they could, did not believe that moral suasion

would ever liberate the slave, or that political action would abolish

the system.

“He said that he had long had a plan which could accomplish this end,

and he had invited me to his house to lay that plan before me. He had

observed my course at home and abroad and he wanted my co-operation.

His plan as it then lay in his mind had much to commend it. It did not,

as some suppose, contemplate a general rising among the slaves, and a

general slaughter of the slave-masters. An insurrection, he thought,

would only defeat the object; but his plan did contemplate the creating

of an armed force which should act in the very heart of the South. He

was not averse to the shedding of blood, and thought the practice of

carrying arms would be a good one for the colored people to adopt, as

it would give them a sense of manhood. No people, he said, could have

self-respect, or be respected, who would not fight for their freedom.

He called my attention to a map of the United States, and pointed out

to me the far-reaching Alleghenies, which stretch away from the borders

of New York into the Southern states. ‘These mountains,’ he said,

‘are the basis of my plan. God has given the strength of the hills to

freedom; they were placed there for the emancipation of the Negro race;

they are full of natural forts, where one man for defense will be equal

to a hundred for attack; they are full also of good hiding-places,

where large numbers of brave men could be concealed, and baffle and

elude pursuit for a long time. I know these mountains well, and could

take a body of men into them and keep them there despite of all the

efforts of Virginia to dislodge them. The true object to be sought is

first of all to destroy the money value of slave property; and that can

only be done by rendering such property insecure. My plan, then, is to

take at first about twenty-five picked men, and begin on a small scale;

supply them with arms and ammunition and post them in squads of five on

a line of twenty-five miles. The most persuasive and judicious of these

shall go down to the fields from time to time, as opportunity offers,

and induce the slaves to join them, seeking and selecting the most

restless and daring.’

“When I asked him how he would support these men, he said emphatically

that he would subsist them upon the enemy. Slavery was a state of war,

and the slave had a right to anything necessary to his freedom.... ‘But

you might be surrounded and cut off from your provisions or means of

subsistence.’ He thought this could not be done so they could not cut

their way out; but even if the worst came he could but be killed, and

he had no better use for his life than to lay it down in the cause of

the slave. When I suggested that we might convert the slaveholders, he

became much excited, and said that could never be. He knew their proud

hearts, and they would never be induced to give up their slaves, until

they felt a big stick about their heads.

“He observed that I might have noticed the simple manner in which he

lived, adding that he had adopted this method in order to save money to

carry out his purpose. This was said in no boastful tone, for he felt

that he had delayed already too long, and had no room to boast either

his zeal or his self-denial. Had some men made such display of rigid

virtue, I should have rejected it as affected, false and hypocritical;

but in John Brown, I felt it to be real as iron or granite. From this

night spent with John Brown in Springfield in 1847, while I continued

to write and speak against slavery, I became all the same less hopeful

of its peaceful abolition.”[12]

Soon after this visit with John Brown, Frederick Douglass decided on a

definite step. He would move to Rochester, New York, and there he would

set up his contemplated newspaper.

He had been dissuaded from starting a newspaper by two things. First,

as soon as he returned from England he had been called upon to exercise

to the fullest extent all his abilities as a speaker. Friends told him

that in this field he could render the best and most needed service.

They had discouraged the idea of his becoming an editor. Such an

undertaking took training and experience. Douglass, always quick to

acknowledge his own deficiencies, began to think his project far too

ambitious.

Second, William Lloyd Garrison needed whatever newspaper gifts Douglass

had for the _Liberator_. Garrison felt that a second antislavery paper

in the same region was not needed. He pointed out that the way of the

_Liberator_ was hard enough as it was. He did not think of Douglass as

a rival. But, quite frankly, he wanted the younger man to remain under

his wing. There was nothing more selfish here than what a father might

feel for his own son.

But Douglass was no longer a fledgling. The time had come for him to

strike out for himself.

Rochester was a young, new city. It was ideally located in the Genesee

valley, where the Genesee River flowed into Lake Ontario; it was a

terminus of the Erie Canal. Here was an ideal set-up for getting slaves

safely across into Canada! Day and night action--more action--was

what Douglass wanted now. There was already an intelligent and highly

respected group of Abolitionists in Rochester. It was composed of both

Negroes and whites. They would, he knew, gather round him. He would

not be working alone. In western New York his paper would in no way

interfere with the circulation of the _Liberator_.

And so on December 3, 1847, appeared in Rochester, New York, a new

paper--the _North Star_. Its editor was Frederick Douglass, its

assistant editor Martin R. Delaney, and its object “to attack slavery

in all its forms and aspects; advance Universal Emancipation; exact

the standard of public morality, promote the moral and intellectual

improvement of the colored people; and to hasten the day of freedom to

our three million enslaved fellow-countrymen.”

* * * * *

“Politics is an evil thing--it is not for us. We address ourselves to

men’s conscience!” Garrison had often said. But Frederick Douglass went

into politics.

The Free Soil party, formed in 1848, did not become a positive

political force under that name. But, assembling in August as the

election of 1852 drew near, it borrowed the name of “Free Democracy”

from the Cleveland Convention of May 2, 1849, and drew to itself

both Free Soilers and the remnants of the independent Liberty party.

Frederick Douglass, on motion of Lewis Tappan, was made one of the

secretaries. The platform declared for “no more slave states, no slave

territory, no nationalized slavery, and no national legislation for the

extradition of slaves.”

The most aggressive speech of the convention was made by Frederick

Douglass, who was for exterminating slavery everywhere. The lion had

held himself in rein for some time. The duties of editor and printer of

his paper had chained him to his desk. He had built onto his house to

make room for the fugitive slaves who now came in a steady stream to

Rochester, directed to “Douglass,” agent of the Underground Railroad,

who handled the difficult and dangerous job of getting the runaway

slaves into Canada.

Douglass was still a young man, yet that night as he stood with the

long, heavy bush of crinkly hair flowing back from his head like a

mane--thick, full beard and flashing eyes--there was about him a

timeless quality, embracing a long sweep of years, decades of suffering

and much accumulated wisdom.

“Americans! Your republican politics, not less than your republican

religion, are flagrantly inconsistent. You boast of your love of

liberty, your superior civilization, and your pure Christianity, while

the whole political power of the nation (as embodied in the two great

political parties) is solemnly pledged to support and perpetuate

the enslavement of three million of your countrymen. You hurl your

anathemas at the crowned headed tyrants of Russia and Austria and

pride yourselves on your democratic institutions, while you yourselves

consent to be the mere tools and bodyguards of the tyrants of Virginia

and Carolina. You invite to your shores fugitives of oppression

from abroad ... and pour out your money to them like water; but the

fugitives from your own land you advertise, hunt, arrest, shoot and

kill.... You shed tears over fallen Hungary, and make the sad story

of her wrongs the theme of your poets, statesmen and orators.... Your

gallant sons are ready to fly to arms to vindicate her cause against

the oppressor; but, in regard to the ten thousand wrongs of the

American slave, you would enforce the strictest silence.... You are all

on fire at the mention of liberty for France or for Ireland; but are

as cold as an iceberg at the thought of liberty for the enslaved of

America!”

The people went out along the streets of Pittsburgh repeating his

words. The convention delegates scattered to their states.

And out in Illinois a homely state legislator named Abraham Lincoln was

saying that it is “the sacred right of the people ... to rise up and

shake off the existing government, and form a new one that suits them

better.... It is the quality of revolutions not to go by old lines or

old laws, but to break up both and make new ones.”