before me. I cannot close my eyes without seeing every detail of the
crowded room, dimly lighted, and the shadowy figures in the shady
corners leaning anxiously forward to catch the expression as well
as the words of an earnest old black man, who was questioned and
cross-questioned for hours on the witness stand. I know, mother, that
had it been I, I should certainly have made some mistake, but he did
not get greatly confused, only wandered slowly over and over again in
his statements and settled down upon what proved to be the absolute
truth.
It seems he was a small gardener in the neighborhood where the prisoner
worked, and had written down in his rough notebook the date of the
stranger’s arrival. This book was the only direct testimony in favor
of freedom, for all the other witnesses became confused, or else
exhibited clearly the falsity of their statements. As it turned out,
the good, conscientious gardener had made a mistake in his date, and
the commissioner suspected it, but as A. L. told us they could not go
behind the written facts and we all thought he was, indeed, greatly
harassed by the situation and was glad enough to be able “to give the
prisoner the benefit of the doubt,” which I suppose is a formal phrase
that applies to causes decided upon suspicious evidence, and thee
knows, it is often said that English law leans toward mercy.
Alas! that it should not always be based upon justice! And, mother
dear, thee will recall here a great deal that I have written thee
about the young men of New England with whom I have been thrown during
the year. I cannot bring myself back to the old thought that I bore
concerning them. I expected the H. and A. families were as eager for
the abolition of slavery as their forefathers were to found a “free and
independent nation,” and behold! they jeer at Garrison and Phillips and
hesitate to do any thing that will hurt Southern pride.
Thee has ever taught me to “judge not,” yet I would that the youth of
distinguished patriot families now enjoying every educational advantage
at the great seat of learning--Harvard College--might also feel the
throb of sympathy for the oppressed. But we must turn back to the
terrible slave trial.
At times, toward dawn especially, when the men grew weary, I suppose,
the pistols were flourished as if they were harmless things. I drew
very near to dear aunt once, but she quietly pointed to Lucretia
Mott, whose age required rest, but whose motion betrayed neither her
weariness nor deep concern. It was a relief when a little before nine
o’clock the court was adjourned. It seems there was some thought of
attempting a forcible capture of the man on trial, but his anti-slavery
friends gathered close about him and thus remained until he was in the
hands of the officers of the law.
Of course we were very tired, but nothing of small importance could
have kept us from rejoining the throng, for such it had now become,
when court opened again that afternoon.
What is called the “argument” began as soon as order was established.
First the lawyer on one side, a much disfigured man named B. B., tried
to show that all the evidence was in favor of the slaveholder. That is,
that the man claimed was really the escaped slave, and this being so,
the commissioner ought to give him up. Then the other, G. E., made a
most satisfactory response, stating that the only evidence to be relied
upon was the gardener’s account book, and that distinctly showed the
man to have been free at the time he was said to have run away. Oh,
mother! I wish thee could have heard him. I know it is dangerous to
allow one’s enthusiasm too great liberty, but I never felt so well
satisfied with any speaker before.
At last it was over and a long reading from the commissioner closed
the matter. Even aunt, I think, was in doubt how it might end, until
the very last sentence, and then--although I did not approve of the
sentiment--I could not help a touch of sympathy with a man near me who
shouted excitedly, “You have saved your soul, commissioner!”
_Such_ excitement! People shook hands and cried and--the slave had
disappeared! No one saw him go, no one seemed to know where he went,
but aunt whispered to me that it was all right, he was taken in charge
by a friend and would be immediately out of harm’s way. I think it was
an hour before we could get down to the street, so thronged was the
staircase, and everyone seemed happy over the result.
I am inclined to think my mind dwelt as much on the awful
responsibility of the commissioner as upon the released man. How
_can_ one bind himself by an oath to serve a government that has made
this iniquitous bond with the slaveholders? I _almost_ hope to learn
later that this dreadful experience has led to the resignation of
Commissioner L.
There was one other thing, mother dear, that gave me great joy. In the
midst of the enthusiasm, someone seized my hand. I was not astonished
at the movement for every heart seemed to be throbbing with sympathy
and brother love, but I assure thee I was very happy when I lifted my
eyes and saw bending over me the familiar face of Edward H.! What a
fine face it is! And on this occasion burning with newborn devotion to
principle! It is needless to say that he has since been to visit us,
and that he is going to return to Pennsylvania during the summer and
has kindly responded to my invitation to come to our home.
Thee cannot help loving him, I know, nor can dear father either, and
you will both rejoice that--for Edward has so expressed it--through
your simple Sallie’s teaching a strong man has been led to see the
enormity of our national sin, and pledged himself to leave no stone
unturned toward its abolishment.
In firm affection, I remain
THY DAUGHTER.
N. B.--I think perhaps I ought to tell thee about a letter I have
recently had from F. A. A kind letter, but with a tone of flattery
that I do not quite like, nor, indeed, understand. He speaks as if
I was much in his thought and--can it be, dear mother, that I gave
him a wrong impression of my friendship? My cheeks burn as I write
this, but it is delightful to know good Edward H. was thoroughly
inspired--through my mere suggestion that these are serious times--to
do a great deal of honest thinking. I shall be right glad to welcome
him within our home!
UNCLE JOSEPH.
One of the prominent figures in our meeting house for many years was
that of Uncle Joseph--for thus was he known by the young and old who
frequented our religious gatherings.
He occupied the second seat in the men’s gallery--and it was with him
that the Elder shook hands in sign that Friends should separate, when
it seemed likely that the spirit would move no others to utter gentle
words of blessing or stern warning against the wiles of the tempter.
As children we regarded Uncle Joseph in the light of a patriarch,
although I now know that his years, at the time of which I write, had
scarce reached the limit of a half century.
He was a comely man, straight and tall, his smooth-shaven face beaming
with good nature, and his soft blue eye lighted with sympathy, but he
was not intellectual. Slow of movement and uncertain in expression, his
hearers were often troubled to follow his excellent thought, and it
was no uncommon thing for my parents to refer to his ministrations as
being “labored.” We had a consciousness, based perhaps upon accidental
knowledge, that he was uncommonly well to do, and also that there was
considerable feeling in the society that Sarah Sidney, with her clear
insight and facile speech, would be a fit life companion for the good
man. But time wore on and there seemed no likelihood of a realization
of this desire.
I can remember one occasion when the subject really assumed the
importance that is usually given to gossip, but it was so lovingly and
conscientiously touched upon that I was greatly impressed.
My father and mother were in the way of inviting many friends to dine
with them on monthly meeting day. Quarterly meeting brought even more
persons from a distance, and among the children little unaccustomed
duties were distributed. I was frequently desired to remain for a time
in the front chamber and assist our women visitors in removing their
wraps and adjusting the cap crowns that often met with disaster beneath
the stiff bonnets. It was always a pleasurable duty, for Friends never
forget the young, and as each one grasped my little palm, she did not
neglect to speak an encouraging word.
On the occasion to which I have alluded, meeting broke up somewhat
later than usual. I hurried home, warmed my chilled fingers, and ran
upstairs, where a bright fire was burning on the hearth. I glanced
about to see that the wood box was full, and looked out of the window
where my eye rested upon a short line of carriages all bent in the
direction of our home. First came father and mother, grandfather and
the three younger children; then a vehicle well known to me as that of
Elias Chase from Derry Quarter; and thus I counted them off, as one by
one they drew up beside the horse-block.
I missed Sarah Sidney, who generally came with Theophilus Baldwin’s
family, and having seen her placid face in its usual place on the seat
beneath the gallery, fronting the meeting, I was at a loss to explain
her absence. She was tenderly attached to mother, and I could not
believe any light matter would take her to another’s table.
A gentle voice called me to my duties:
“Why, Katherine dear, thee must have been very spry to get home before
us. I was pleased to see thy interest in the meeting to-day.”
The good woman kissed me and thanked me for the little aid I was able
to give in unpinning her great shawl.
Directly afterward, sweet Jane Spencer came tripping up the stairs. She
was frequently spoken of as exhibiting “overmuch ardor” in all her
good works, but we children loved the enthusiastic little woman.
“O Katherine, I am glad to make use of thy quick fingers. My cap
strings are sadly awry. I have been most uncomfortable in them all
through meeting. Our breakfast was a trifle late this morning, and we
had far to drive.”
One and another arrived, each with a thought of me. “How thee grows,
child,” or “Thy mother is blessed in her little helpers.”
The room was well-nigh full, when someone asked the question that had
been trembling on my lips.
“Where is Sarah Sidney?”
No one directly replied, but after a moment’s reflection nearly all had
a suggestion or a little interest in her to express.
“Methought her face bore traces of anxiety this morning. I trust she
has met with no further financial disaster. Thee knows, Rhoda, she is
benevolent to a surprising degree in one whose purse is not lengthy,
and it is therefore a serious matter to be forced to curtail in her
giving.”
“Sarah is too true a follower of the Great Teacher to be long afflicted
by the things of this world,” replied an aged friend.
“Ah, Hannah dear,” answered the first speaker, “thee has never had the
bread and butter trouble, and therefore thee can hardly compass its
misery.”
I think we all felt the force of this argument, for Hannah was richly
dowered. Presently Jane Spencer sighed:
“I cannot help wishing that Uncle Joseph would recognize that the hand
of the Lord is pointing him to Sarah Sidney.”
“If such be the will of our Heavenly Father, I doubt not it will be
revealed in due time,” and Hannah spoke with great deliberation.
“That is quite true, and undoubtedly it is only those among us who
are a trifle worldly minded, that show a disposition to hasten these
things.” Jane Spencer was always very meek under reproof, and I felt
glad that others sustained her desire that Uncle Joseph should be a
little less deliberate in his action.
“I can hardly think that he realizes Sarah’s worth,” said a late comer.
“On the contrary,” it was Rhoda Longstreet’s voice, “I am sometimes
inclined to believe that his doubt rests upon his own merit. If he
were one of the world’s people I should say he was bashful. As it is,
I shall call him slow in perceiving his adaptation to any peculiar
calling.”
“Thee may be right,” responded Jane Spencer, and I was struck with the
note of merrymaking that accompanied her words. “If so, I can only wish
that somebody would give him a hint, for I really believe that Sarah
has perceived their true relationship, and that her spirit is troubled
with doubt since no sign is given unto her.”
“Ah,” interrupted Hannah, “shall we never learn that God does not wish
us to call upon him for _signs_?”
Now it had chanced, although none of those present were at that time
conscious of it, that Sarah Sidney had given up her seat in a friend’s
carriage to a person who was suffering from a weak limb, and had
walked briskly along the frozen road toward our house.
Uncle Joseph, too, had chosen to leave his vehicle at home, and seeing
in the distance a familiar plump little figure, he made haste to
overtake her.
For a few moments they talked together of the lesser things of life.
Then they fell into silence, which was at last broken by Uncle Joseph’s
voice.
“My mind has dwelt much to-day upon the Bible teaching of the relation
of Ruth and Boaz.”
I am sure the throbbing heart beneath the clear muslin kerchief of
Sarah Sidney must have bounded a little at this. He went on: “Has thee
ever thought it over, and applied the test to our own lives?”
It certainly was not strange that the good woman hesitated before she
answered:
“If thee means to ask whether it has been shown to me that I am chosen
of the Lord to be thy companion, I will admit that it has; but, Joseph,
thee is not an old man, nor am I a young hand-maiden.”
Uncle Joseph stopped short in his walk, and catching a frightened look
upon the honest face beside him, he gravely said:
“It was not upon _that_ relation my mind ran. I thought rather of the
increased duty in this day and generation which must belong to the
husbandman and his gleaners; or in other words the responsibility of
him upon whom the benefits of this world have been showered, and the
loud call that is ever sounding in my ear to extend help to those who
need; and it has been whispered to me that thy material goods have
been slipping from thee, and--and, I wished to offer my aid.”
Could one marvel if a feeling of faintness crept over the gentle Sarah,
or that a beseeching look set the seal upon the awful stillness that
followed? Her face grew first scarlet, then very, very white. Uncle
Joseph’s voice sounded strange in her ear. She feared she should fall,
but as the tones grew clearer, something else impressed her.
“Sarah, thee has a more receptive spirit than my own. I have sometimes
longed to see aright in regard to the formation of a closer bond with
thee, and I rejoice that through my own ill-chosen speech thee has been
led to point the way.”
He took her trembling hand between his own, and smiled down upon
the sweet but tearful face; then her lips were opened, the pain went
forever out of her heart, and she whispered only:
“Dear Joseph.”
But her trial was not quite over. We were already summoned to the
dining room when Uncle Joseph and Sarah Sidney entered the door
together. I glanced about me, and was certain that I saw more than one
look of satisfaction exchanged by the company present.
The moment of silent blessing was past. My mother moved as if to begin
serving the soup, but she caught Uncle Joseph’s eye, and awaited his
slow words:
“Dear friends,” he said with a little tremor in his voice, “rejoice
with me, for to-day has our beloved Sarah Sidney revealed to me the
message that the Lord has given into her keeping.”
He paused, and with a flush brightening her soft cheeks Sarah asked
calmly:
“Joseph, will thee kindly explain thyself?”
I never knew him to do anything so well as he now related to us the
manner in which he had obtained an insight into the secret knowledge of
Sarah Sidney’s heart.
As he ceased speaking, her own rhythmic tones filled the room in
tender thanksgiving to the Lord for his gift of companionship, and
this has evermore remained in my memory as one of the most beautiful
supplications I have been privileged to hear.
MY GRANDAME’S SECRET.
Almost a hundred years ago, there was born into a staid Quaker
household a child whose very physique set at defiance all the rules of
the orderly family.
The father, Daniel, and the mother, Lucretia Chester, were fair,
colorless persons, and the brown hair of the latter was severely banded
beneath her clear muslin cap. One can imagine the tinge of dismay that
must have clouded the fatherly affection for his firstborn, when Daniel
perceived that the babe was a dimpled, dark-eyed daughter, whose wealth
of raven locks fell into soft rings about her brow.
As she grew into recognition of her immediate surroundings, her
abounding vivacity made her singularly attractive. Her great eyes
sparkled as she cooed in sympathy with the soft-toned stroke of the
tall clock that had rung out the hour of her mother’s birth, and
the play of the firelight on the pale wall inspired her to feverish
exhibitions of delight. At such times Daniel laid his hand tenderly on
the refractory curls, and vainly smoothing away their pretty curves, he
said, “Alas, Lucretia, a very worldling has been given to our charge.
It behooves thee and me to keep an untiring watch over the little one.”
“She is the Lord’s own, is she not?” was the gentle reply. But to guide
and to guard her after the fashion of the stern orthodox rule was the
unrelenting training that the father practiced. More than once as the
years went on, he took the scissors from the hand of his wife, with a
strange misgiving lest she harbored a secret pleasure in the child’s
ringlets, and severely he cut away so much of the crowning glory as
scissors could cut, only to find an immediate renewal of nature’s
willfulness, and it was with something like reproach that he spoke of
her brilliant color.
“I wish, Dorcas, thee had more of the mother’s tint about thee,” he
said, emphasizing the plain Quaker name they had given the girl, as if
to counteract the impression of her brilliant beauty which increased
with time.
One day as she sat at dinner, flushed by a wild scamper across the lawn
with her playfellow, a soft-eyed collie, straight before her hung a
looking-glass which served her father in his frequent shaving trials,
and the child, catching the reflection of her bright face, cried out:
“I do not see, dear father, why thee should wish me to be pale like
mother. Mine is far the prettier color. She is a snowdrop, but I am the
rose.”
The pain Daniel felt darkened his brow. “Dorcas,” he said, “thee speaks
as the daughter of sin; thy words reveal the wiles of the devil.”
The sensitive girl trembled, then her brave spirit rose and despite her
tears she had answer:
“Did not our Heavenly Father make us _all_, and why may I not admire
myself, if I am his handiwork, as much as thee admires dear mother?”
Her innocence touched Lucretia, who made haste to forestall a severe
reproof from her husband:
“The love of the flesh is unholy, my daughter. We are bidden to strive
with all the might which the Lord vouchsafes against the things of this
world. To purify the heart through the working of the Holy Spirit, this
is the highest good.”
“I think I do not understand thee, mother. Is the rose blushing for its
sin in not being made like snowdrops?”
“Dorcas, restrain thy tongue; and, Lucretia, perhaps we are in error
not to take the child more persistently to meeting. That she is
restless and disturbing to the meditations of others must not be
allowed to have too much weight.”
From that time forward the active girl placed herself under bonds
to subdue her natural inclinations, and many a bright spring morning
she sighed as she watched the lambs frisking in the fields, and noted
the disappointment of the collie as she refused his invitation to a
race, and with dripping hands she smoothed and resmoothed her curls,
preparatory to the ride to meeting. It was hard work, too, for her
to keep awake during the long silence or the droning tones of the
preacher, that seemed arranged in order to lull the restless children
to sleep, but she formulated a private code of morals, under which
this trial figured as a dispensation to school the spirit in its early
encounters with the tempter.
Occasionally the sermon interested her. Far more frequent was her
retirement within herself, and in misery of spirit she recounted the
long list of her sins, sincerely soliciting aid from on high that they
might be overcome. Among the chief of her trials was to make the honest
confession that she was not averse to looking at her own image, and
from this constant sense of the enormity of the transgression grew
an absolute intolerance of her beauty. She would have become morbid
over it, but for the thoroughly healthful nature which reveled in
outdoor exercise, and was of no mean assistance to the busy father
in his lesser tasks. Dorcas was unselfish, too, and her mind turned
readily into other channels than that of self-consciousness. She was
a deft little housemaid, and imitated her mother’s kindly ways with
the servants; but perhaps the absence of childish companions gave her
an air of maturity hardly in accord with her years. She was dreamy
too. Somewhere in her nature lurked a drop of Southern blood; that
which colored her rich dark skin colored also her mental constitution.
She was filled with romance and yet she had never heard a fairy-tale
or listened to a troubadour’s song, but her soul was on fire at the
relation of a heroic deed, or the unspoken sentiment of a pair of
lovers.
Lucretia had chosen to teach the little maiden at home; perhaps the
staid father had hesitated to send the worldling into the midst of
temptations such as lurk behind the schoolroom door. His pride in her
ready insight must have been great for he did not scorn knowledge,
although he scorned honors, and Dorcas displayed a marvelous aptitude
for study. Even this bore a cross to him. “She is more like a boy than
a girl at books,” he thought, and cherished the memory of every gentle
womanly exhibition.
Daniel dearly loved Lucretia. She was to him a type of the true wife,
and undemonstrative as he was, little as she would have acknowledged
the wish, there lurked in the heart of each an unspeakable sorrow that
the only child which God had given to their arms should be so unlike
the meek and patient woman, the sweet orthodox saint, who had borne her.
In 1815 prison reform was a dim dream in the hearts of a few. Men
incline toward a theory of retributive justice, and are keen to assume
the judgment rôle and fasten a stigma to sin, forgetful that although
the sin may be outgrown, the stigma rarely is wiped away.
The orthodoxy of society was as fixed as the theological dogma of that
early day; leniency was license to the common mind; and the culprit was
faced with continual reminders of his guilt as a necessary step toward
repentance.
The wrath of man, like the wrath of God, was to be known and feared;
the evil-doer was beaten into the path of the righteous, not led by
the law of love. Too much of this spirit exists at the present time,
but seventy-five years ago the force of public opinion tended in that
direction.
The prisoners were permitted to come forth on Sabbath morning and
listen, many of them with bound limbs, to a long exhortation from the
strait-laced clergy, who pointed a finger of scorn as well as reproach
at the guilty, and it was little wonder that their hearts were hardened
by what they heard, and that when they went forth again into the world
it was often with a determination to revenge themselves on society at
large.