While we were at breakfast on the following morning, Preston said to me:
'I think I had better leave Phylly and Rosey here till I can consult
with my wife; we have house servants enough, and Phylly can't work in
the field. It may be advisable to let her remain in Newbern.'
'And what will you do with the little yellow boy?'
'Oh, take him with us. There's always something the little fellows can
do. We'll call at his mother's and get him.'
We decided to set out for the plantation at once, and Preston ordered a
livery wagon to be got in readiness. While we were waiting for it, I
strolled out upon the piazza. I had not been there long before 'young
Joe,' Preston's only son, rode up to the hotel. He was a manly lad,
about twelve years of age, and in form, features, and manner, a
miniature edition of his father. He had grown amazingly since at my
house, two years before, and I did not at once recognize him; but as
soon as he caught sight of me, he shouted out in boyish glee, throwing
his bridle over the hitching post, and springing to the ground.
'Oh, Mr. Kirke! I'm so glad you've come; mother will be _so_ glad to see
you. We'll have such a nice time,' and he seized me by the hand, and
shook it energetically.
'Why, Joe, I thought you were at home!'
'Oh, no! I'm here at school, but father says I'm to have a vacation
while you're here. Why didn't you fetch Frank? You promised you would.'
'I know I did, Joe, but his mother wouldn't let him come; she thinks
he's too young to travel.'
'Pshaw! He's old enough--most as old as I am; but never mind, Mr. Kirke;
we'll have a fine time, hunting and fishing, and going to the races.
They're going to have a big one over to Trenton next week, and I'm dying
to go; it's _so_ lucky you've come.'
'Lord bless you, Joe, I never went to a race, and never shot a gun in my
life; besides, I can remain only a day or so.'
'Oh, yes, you can; father says you Yorkers are always in a hurry; but
you must take it easy now. I'll show you round, and learn you the
ropes.'
While I was laughing at the enthusiasm of the young lad, the wagon drove
up, and Preston soon appearing, we entered it and drove off. As Joe
bounded upon his spirited horse and led the way down the elm-shaded
street, I said to his father:
'How that boy rides; he's a perfect Centaur.'
'Yes, he _is_ a good horseman. He's been trained to it. You know we
think manly exercises an essential part of a gentleman's education.'
'And you let Joe keep his own horse?'
'Yes, it's awfully expensive; but old Joe raised the colt for the boy,
and I couldn't deny him.'
We rode on until we reached the outskirts of the town, when we stopped
before a small, tumble-down shanty, built of rough boards, and roofed
with the same material. In the narrow front yard, a large iron pot,
supported on two upright poles, was steaming over a light wood fire. The
boiling clothes it contained were being stirred by a brawny, coal black
negro woman, with an arm like the Farnese Hercules, and a form as stout
as Wouter Van Twiller's. The yellow boy, Ally, was heaping wood on the
fire.
'How do you do, aunty?' said Preston, as we drew up at the rickety gate.
'Right smart, massa, right smart,' replied the woman; then turning round
and recognizing the Squire, she added: 'Oh, massa Preston, am dat 'ou?
Oh! I'se so 'joiced 'ou got Ally; I'se _so_ 'joiced! De Lord hear my
prayer, massa--de Lord hear my prayer. I feel like I die wid joy, de
Lord so good ter me. Oh, He'm so good ter me!'
'The Lord is good to all who love Him; He never fails those that trust
in Him,' said Preston, solemnly.
'No more'n He doan't, massa; no more'n he doan't. De good missus tole me
dat jess af'er dey toted de pore chile 'way; but I couldn't b'lieve it,
massa, I couldn't b'lieve it. It 'peared like I neber see 'im
agin--neber see 'im agin, but I prayed de Lord, massa, I prayed de Lord
all de time--all de time dat de chile wus 'way; I hab no sleep, I eat
most nuffin, an' my heart grow so big, I fought it would clean broke;
but lass night, jess wen it 'peared like I couldn't stan' it no more;
wen I wus a cryin' an' a groanin' to de Lord wid all my might, den,
massa, de Lord, He hard me, an' He open de door, an' de little chile run
in, an' put him arms round my neck, and he telled me I need neber cry no
more, 'case de good massa Preston hab got him! Oh, it wus too much,
massa, fur 'ou's so good, de Lord's so good, massa! Oh, I feel like I
should die ob joy.' Here she sat down on a rude bench near by, covered
her face with her apron, and sobbed like a child. Preston's eyes filled
with tears, but brushing them hastily away, he asked, as if to change
the subject:
'Did you say the 'missus' had been down?'
'Yes, massa, de good missus come down jess so soon as she hard Phylly
war sold, an' wen she fine Ally war gwine too, she come ter see de ole
'ooman, she did, massa--and she try to comfut me. She say de good Lord
would fotch Ally back, and He hab, massa! Oh, He hab!'
'Well, Dinah, what shall we do with Ally? Do you want him to go to the
plantation?'
'Oh, yas, massa, I want de chile ter be wid 'ou. I'd _rudder_ he'd be
wid 'ou, massa; but massa'--and she spoke timidly, and with
hesitation--''ou knows ole massa promise ter sell Ally ter me--ter sell
'im ter me wen I'd a sabed up 'nuff ter buy 'im. An' will 'ou, massa,
will 'ou?'
'Yes, Dinah, of course I will,' said Preston.
'Oh! bress 'ou, massa; bress 'ou. It'm so good ob 'ou, _so_ good ob 'ou,
massa;' and she sobbed harder than before.
'How much have you saved up, aunty?'
'A hun'red and firteen, massa; an' dar's some more'n dat massa Blackwell
am ter gib fur de usin' on it. Massa Blackwell got it. How much shill I
pay fur Ally, massa?'
'Well, I don't know; the trader offered three hundred for him; you may
have him for half that.'
'How much 's dat, massa?'
'A hundred and fifty dollars.'
'He'm wuth more'n dat, massa Preston; ole massa say Ally wuth two
hun'red an' fifty or three hun'red ob any folks' money. He'm a likely
boy, massa.'
'Yes, I know that; I don't mean to undervalue him. I wouldn't sell him
to any one else for less than three hundred dollars.'
'Oh! tank 'ou, massa; it'm good ob 'ou; berry good ob 'ou, massa;' and
again her apron found the way to her eyes.
'Well,' said Preston, after a moment's thought, 'I think you'd better
take the boy now, aunty. I'm in some trouble, and I don't know how
things may turn with me; so you'd better take him now.'
'But I hain't money 'nuff now, massa.'
'Well, never mind; pay the rest when you can, but don't scrimp yourself
as you have, Dinah; I shan't care if you never pay it.'
The woman seemed bewildered, but said nothing. She evidently was
unaccustomed to Preston's mode of doing business. I mentioned to him
that he could not give a conveyance of the negro boy until the judgment
against him was cancelled.
'True,' he replied; 'I didn't think of that. Shall we attend to it now?'
'Yes, at once; further costs may accumulate if you delay.'
Preston told the negro woman to meet him by eleven o'clock, at the store
of the person who had charge of her money, and we rode at once to the
'Old State Bank.' Its doors were not then opened, but as the cashier
resided in the building, we soon secured notes in exchange for Preston's
draft on me, and in less than an hour had the judgment satisfied, and
Ally's free papers, properly made out and executed. It was not quite ten
o'clock when, as we were leaving the attorney's office, we noticed the
slave woman and her son seated on the steps of Mr. Blackwell's store.
'Are you all ready, aunty?' asked Preston.
'Yes, massa, I'se all ready; I'se got de gole all heah,' she replied,
holding up a small canvas bag; 'a hun'red an' twenty-sevin dollar an'
firty cents--so massa Blackwell say; I karn't reckon so much as dat,
massa.'
The woman had made an effort to 'spruce up' for the interview, by
putting on a clean white neckerchief, and a bran new pair of brogans,
but she still wore the tattered red and yellow turban, and the thin,
coarse Osnaburg gown, clean, but patched in many places--in which she
was arrayed when bending over the wash kettle.
The merchant then came to the door, and invited us in; Preston handed
him the papers to examine, and we all entered the store. As the woman
laid the gold on the counter, I said to her:
'Aunty, how long have you been in saving this money?'
'Four year, massa. Ole massa wouldn't'gree ter sell de chile till four
year ago.'
'And you've hired your time, and earned this by washing and ironing?'
'Yas, sar I'se had ter pay massa a hun'red and firty dollar ebery year,
'sides twenty fur rent; an' I'se had ter work bery hard, of'en till 'way
inter de night, but I wanted to hab de chile FREE, massa.'
'And have you had no husband to help you?'
'No, massa, I never had none; I never tuk ter de men folks.'
She was, as I have said, of a coal-black complexion, while Ally's skin
was a bright yellow. His father, therefore, must have been a white man.
'You have worked very hard, no doubt, aunty; are these the best clothes
you have?'
'Yas, massa, dese am _all_ I'se got.'
'Oh, tank'ou, massa. 'Ou's too good, massa; tank'ou bery much--but
'ou'll leff' me gib dis ter de Squire, massa, 'on't 'ou? I wants ter pay
fur Ally.'
'Yes, if he will take it, 'I replied, for I knew that he would not.
The merchant had examined the documents, and Preston had counted the
money and put it in his pocket, when, handing the papers to Dinah, the
latter said:
'Now, aunty, Ally's free, and I hope he'll prove a good boy, and worthy
of such a mother.'
'Oh, he will dat, massa; he'm a good chile; but heah'm ten dollar more
massa, it'm de good gemman's, an' he say I kin gib it ter 'on fur Ally.'
Preston laughed: 'I heard what he said. I can't take it, Dinah. You need
it to buy some winter clothes. I'll take the risk of what you owe me.'
The shopkeeper then said:
'Take it, Mr. Preston; I'll let Dinah have what she needs out of the
store; she knows her credit is good with me.'
'Well,' said Preston, taking the money, 'this makes one hundred and
thirty-seven dollars and thirty cents. You need not pay any more--Ally
is yours _now_.'
'Oh! am Ally _free_, massa? Am de chile FREE? she exclaimed, taking him
in her arms, and bursting into a hysterical fit of weeping.
Every eye was wet, but no one spoke. At last Dinah said:
'But, massa Preston, I wants 'ou ter take de chile. I wants 'ou ter
fetch him up. I karn't larn him nuffin. I doan't know nuffin massa. He
kin git larnin' wid 'ou.'
'But he's all you have. He'll be a help and a comfort, to you at home.'
'I doan't want no help, massa. He'm FREE now--I doan't want no help no
more.'
'Well, aunty, I'll take him, and pay you twenty dollars a year, till
he's fifteen. He's ten now, isn't he?'
'A'most ten, massa, a'most; but 'ou needn't pay me nuffin; jess gib de
chile what you likes. And massa, 'ou'll speak ter Boss Joe 'bout him,
woan't 'ou? 'Ou'll ax him ter see Ally gwoe ter de meetin's an' larn out
ob de books, woan't 'ou, massa? I wants him ter know suffin, massa.'
'Yes, I will, Dinah, and I'll keep an eye on him myself.'
'Tank 'ou, massa; an' p'raps' ou'll leff de chile come ter see him ole
mammy once'n a while?'
'Yes, he may--once a month. Come now, Dinah, get into the wagon; we go
right by your house.'
We entered the vehicle, and drove off. When we reached the shanty, the
negress got out, and, amid a shower of blessings from her, we rode on to
the plantation. For four long years she had worked fifteen hours a day,
and denied herself every comfort to buy her child; and when at last she
had secured his freedom, she was willing to part with him that he might
'larn suffin out ob de books.' Who that reads this truthful record of a
slave mother's love, will deny to her wretched race the instincts and
feelings that make _us_ human?
It was a clear, cold, sunshiny day--one of those days so peculiar to the
Southern climate, when the blood hounds through every vein as if
thrilled by electricity, and a man of lively temperament can scarcely
restrain his legs from dancing a 'breakdown.' We rode rapidly on through
a timbered country, where the tall trees grew up close by the roadside,
locking their huge arms high in the air, and the long, graceful, black
moss hung like mourning drapery from their great branches. The green
pine-tassels, which carpeted the ground, crackled beneath our horses'
feet, and breathed a grateful odor around us; and the soft autumn wind,
which rustled the leaves and swayed the tops of the old trees, sang a
pleasant song over our heads. Every pine bore the scars of the
turpentine axe, and here and there we came upon a patch of woods where
the negroes were gathering the 'last dipping;' and now and then we
passed an open clearing where a poor planter was at work with a few
field hands. Occasionally we forded a small stream, where, high up on
the bank, was a rude ferry, which served in the rainy season as a
miserable substitute for a bridge; and once in a while, far back from
the road, we caught sight of an old country-seat, whose dingy, unpainted
walls, broken down fences, and dilapidated surroundings reminded one
that shiftless working men, and careless, reckless proprietors, are the
natural products of slavery. Thus we rode on for several hours, till,
turning a slight bend in the road, we suddenly halted before the gateway
of my friend's plantation. I had observed for half a mile that the woods
which lined the wayside were clear of underbrush, the felled trees
trimmed, and their branches carefully piled in heaps, and the rails,
which in other places straggled about in the road, were doing their
appropriate duty on the fences; and I said to Preston:
'I am glad to see you are as good at planting as you are at preaching.'
'Bless you,' he replied, 'it isn't me--it's Joe. Joe is acknowledged to
be the best farmer in Jones county.'
At the gateway we met such a greeting as is unknown all the world over,
outside of a Southern plantation. Perched in the fences, swinging on the
gate, and hanging from the trees, were a score of young ebonies of both
sexes, who, as we came in sight, set up a chorus of discordant shouts
that made the woods ring. Among the noises I made out: 'Gorry, massa am
come!' 'Dar dey is.' 'Dat'm de strange gem-man.' 'How's 'ou, massa?'
'Glad 'ou's come, massa; 'peared like we'd neber see 'ou no more,
massa;' and a multitude of similiar exclamations, that told unmistakably
the character of the discipline to which they were accustomed. The young
chattels are an infallible barometer--they indicate the real state of
the weather on a plantation. One may never see among the older slaves of
even a cruel master, any but sunshiny faces, for they know the penalty
of surliness before a stranger; but the little darkies cannot be so
restrained. They will slink away into by-corners, or scamper out of
sight whenever their owner appears, if they are not treated kindly.
'Massa's well. Are you all well?'
'Yes, massa, we's right smart; an' all on we's good little nigs eber
sense 'ou's 'way.'
'I'm glad to hear it; now, scamper back to the house, and tell 'missus'
we're coming.'
'Missus knows 'ou's comin', massa; massa Joe am dar; missus knows 'ou's
I comin'.'
After a short drive over a narrow winding avenue, strewn with leaves and
shaded with the long branches of the pine, the oak, and the holly, we
came to the mansion, which stood on a gentle mound in the midst of a
green lawn, sloping gently down to a small lake. It had once been a
square, box-like structure; but Preston had so transformed it, that but
for its rustic surroundings and the thick groups of giant evergreens
which clustered at its sides, it might have been taken for a suburban
villa. Projecting eaves, large dormers, which sprang out from the
roof-line and rested on a broad porch and balcony, a rustic _porte
cochere_, and here and there a vine-covered bay or oriole window, broke
up the regularity of its outline, and proclaimed its designer a true
poet--and poetry, now-a-days, is more often written on the walls of
country houses than in the corners of country newspapers.
Nearly all of the 'family,' excepting the field hands, had gathered to
witness our arrival; but there was no shouting or noisy demonstrations.
After we had greeted Mrs. Preston and her two little daughters--her twin
roses, as she called them--my host turned to the assembled negroes, and
gave each one his hand and a kind word. The hearty 'Lord bress 'ou, good
massa,' and 'Glad 'ou's come, massa,' which broke from all of them,
would have gladdened the heart of even the bitterest opponent of the
peculiar institution. One old woman, whose head was as white as snow,
and whose bent form showed great age, sat on a lower step of the porch,
surrounded by a cluster of children. Her mistress raised her to her feet
as Preston approached; and throwing her trembling arms around his neck,
she sobbed out:
'Oh, massa Robert, ole nussy am happy now; she'll neber leff 'ou gwo
'way agin.'
Mrs. Preston shortly turned to lead the way into the house. As she did
so, I noticed peeping from out the folds of her dress, where she had
shyly hid away, a younger child, of strange and wonderful beauty. She
had not, like the others, the fair complexion and pure Grecian features
of her mother. Her skin was dark, and her hair, which fell in glossy
curls over her neck, was as black as the night when the clouds have shut
out the stars. Her cheeks seemed two rose leaves thinly sprinkled with
snow; her eyes, coals which held a smouldering flame. Her face was one
of those caught now and then by the old painters--a thing dreamed of,
but seldom seen: the pure expression of an ideal loveliness which is
more than human. She seemed some pure, spiritual being, which had left
its ethereal home and come to earth to make the world brighter and
better by its presence. I reached out my hands to her, and said:
'Come here, my little one. This is one I have not seen, Mrs. Preston.'
'No, sir; we have never taken her North; she is too young yet. Go to the
gentleman, my pet.'
The child came timidly toward me, and suffered me to lift her in my
arms:
'And what is your name, my little one?'
'Selly, sar,' she replied, with the soft, mellow accent, which the
planter's children acquire from the negroes.
'What an odd name!' I remarked,
'Yes, sir, it _is_ singular. Her full name is Selma,' replied her
mother.
'What! who have we here?' exclaimed Preston, as he turned away from the
negroes, and stepped up on the piazza.
'Why, Robert, it's Selly--don't you know your own child?'
Preston took the little girl in his arms, and said:
'It's like you, Lucy. No man ever had a wife like mine, Kirke.'
'No one but Mr. Kirke himself, you mean, Robert,' replied the lady,
smiling; then she added:
'Selly has been in Newbern for a time, Mr. Preston did not expect to
find her at home.'
We entered the house, and took seats in the drawing room to await
dinner. We had not been there long, when 'Master Joe' burst into the
apartment, and rushing up to me, exclaimed:
'Come, Mr. Kirke, Joe is outside; he wants to see you--come.'
'Tell Joe to wait; don't disturb Mr. Kirke now,' said his father,
'Oh no, Preston; let me see him at once;' and rising, I followed the lad
from the room.
Joe was a dark-colored mulatto, about fifty years of age. He was dressed
in a suit of 'butternut homespun,' and held in his hand the ordinary
slouched hat worn by the 'natives.' His hair, the short, crispy wool of
the African, was sprinkled with gray, and he had the thick lips and
broad, heavy features of his race. He was nearly six feet high, stoutly
and compactly built; and but for a disproportion in the size of his
legs, one of which was smaller and two or three inches shorter than the
other, he might have rated as a 'prime field hand.' There was nothing
about him but his high, massive head, clear, piercing eye, and a certain
self-poised manner, to indicate that he was more than an ordinary negro.
'Now, Joe, this is Mr. Kirke; make your best bow, old fellow,' shouted
the lad, as we opened the door, and stepped out on the piazza. Joe made
the requisite bow, and reaching out his hand, said:
'I'se bery glad ter see you, Mr. Kirke.'
'I'm very glad to see you, Joseph; I feel well acquainted with you,' I
replied, returning his cordial greeting.
'I feels well 'quainted wid _you_, sar. I'se wanted ter see you bery
much, Mr. Kirke. You'll 'scuse my sturbin' you; but de boy'--and he laid
his hand on the lad's head--' 'sisted ou my comin' ter onst.'
Before I could reply, his master came out of the house.
'Welcome home, massa Robert,' said the black man, taking Preston warmly
by the hand, and then adding in a quick, anxious tone:
'What luck in Virginny? Did you do it, massa Robert?'
'No,' said Preston, 'I couldn't get a dollar--not a dollar, Joe.'
'I feared dat--I feared dat, massa Robert. Nobody keer nuffin' fur you
but ole Joe--nobody but ole Joe, massa Robert!' His eyes moistened, and
he spoke in an inexpressibly tender tone--the tone of a mother when
speaking to her child.
'Nobody but Mr. Kirke, Joe. He has paid the judgment.'
'Bress you, Mr. Kirke, de Lord bress you, sar. But dar's more you knows,
massa Robert. You tole Mr. Kirke 'bout dem?'
'No, Joe. I know I ought to; but I couldn't.
'P'raps Mr. Kirke wouldn't hab paid dat, if he'd know'd de whole!' said
Joe, in a hesitating tone.
'Undoubtedly I would, Joe. It's no great matter, I'm sure,' I replied.
'Well, Joe, never mind this now. We'll talk affairs all over with Mr.
Kirke before he goes,' said Preston.
'Dat's right, massa Robert; gemman like Mr. Kirke knows 'bout dese tings
better'n you nor me.'
Saying we would see him again that day, Preston and I then reëntered the
mansion.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 4: This transaction, improbable as it may seem to Northern
readers, occurred literally as I have narrated it.--The AUTHOR.]
ENLISTING!
There's not a trade agoing,
Worth knowing or showing,
Like that from glory growing!
Says the bold soldier boy.
THE FREED MEN OF THE SOUTH.
A question of great magnitude, concerning the fate of vast numbers of
freed men in the South, and affecting material interests of world-wide
importance, is looming up and shaping itself among the clouds which
surround us, and is daily growing more pressing in its demand for
solution, and for wise and beneficent action. The entire social and
industrial arrangements of the South are likely to be completely
disorganized, and more or less permanently broken up. The civil war
itself, in its very nature, from its avowed principles and purposes, was
well calculated to produce this result; but the proclamation of the
President, declaring emancipation after the 1st of January next, in all
the rebellious States, comes in at this critical moment speedily to
perfect the work which the madness of the rebels had already begun.
We do not propose to consider the legal effect of that measure; its
conformity to the Constitution, or to the laws of war; its necessity and
propriety under existing circumstances; or its bearing and probable
influence on the duration of the war and the ultimate restoration of the
Union. It would be worse than useless to embarrass and cripple ourselves
with these questions, at the present time, when it is wholly beyond our
power to arrest the march of events, and prevent the consummation to
which they inevitably tend. The thunderbolt has been launched; and
although it pauses in the air or moves slowly in its ominous path, it
has been seen of all men, and cannot be effectually recalled. Its
inevitable results are already to a great extent secured. The idea of
his liberation has been imparted to the slave, and it takes hold of his
mind as a spark would adhere to dry wood in a high wind. Every breath of
air causes it to spread; it cannot be extinguished.
Whatever view may be taken of Mr. Lincoln's proclamation, and of its
effect on the mass of slaves in the rebellious States, a very large and
increasing number will certainly escape from bondage and force their way
into the lines of our army, with every advance which it makes into the
enemy's territory. Our Government invites them and the army will be
bound to receive them. It may be safely assumed that many thousands (it
is hardly possible to say how many) will throw themselves into our
power; and they will certainly have the strongest possible claim to the
care and protection of those who have lured them from such homes as they
possessed, from regular employment and adequate sustenance, and from all
fixed habits of their peculiar condition. Winter will be already upon
them, and they will be without homes, and in a great measure, too,
without food and clothes. It is not possible that the large numbers
destined to abandon their masters at the call of the President, can be
advantageously employed as laborers and servants in the army, and it
will therefore be absolutely necessary to find other useful and
appropriate occupations for them, sufficiently profitable to make them
sure of subsistence and of some degree of comfort, from the inception of
their new condition.
It must be remembered that the plantation negroes, and, indeed, the
negroes generally, in all the rebellious States, have never been
accustomed to take care of themselves, or even to direct their own daily
labors. They have not the least experience in the management of affairs,
except under the control of masters or overseers. They have neither
foresight nor enterprise, nor any cultivated capacity to provide for
their own wants or for those of their families. If they have lived as
families at all, the head of the domestic organization has never had
the responsibility which naturally belongs to that position, and,
consequently, has not acquired any of the manly and noble impulses which
the sense of that responsibility invariably gives. These unfortunate
creatures, deprived of all opportunity for education, never having known
the cares and blessings of independence, but receiving their daily
support from the hand which guided and compelled their labor, emerge
from this condition almost as helpless as children. Generally, in the
glimmering twilight of their intellects, they entertain no other idea of
liberty but that of living without work. Doubtless they will readily
arrive at a better understanding of their new condition; but it is of
immense importance that they shall be started in the right path and
tutored in the ways of freedom.
The authority which will have thus taken them, suddenly and without any
preparation, from their recent employments and their old modes of life,
must not leave them, helpless and without resources, to find such
occupations as they may. The sacred obligation rests upon us to give
them some suitable employment from which they can procure present
subsistence and commence that career of industry and improvement which,
it is to be hoped, will soon prove them to have been worthy of the boon
unintentionally bestowed upon them by the authors of this wicked and
insane rebellion. Some other governments, in seasons of distress arising
from ordinary causes, do not hesitate to acknowledge the duty of finding
work for the laboring masses, who would otherwise suffer and become
dangerous in their distress and desperation; but there is no case in
which the obligations of government toward an unfortunate people are
half so strong and imperative as those which, under existing
circumstances, rest upon the United States. They have the double
responsibility of past complication in the wrong of slavery, and of
present participation in the act of suddenly terminating it.
Doubtless an effective system of colonization, beyond our limits, will
be gradually established, and the Africans in this country will
eventually find it to be their interest to separate themselves from us
and to go in large numbers to Central America or to their native
continent. But this process must necessarily be slow, and cannot
properly take place on any very large scale until the negroes shall be
to some extent trained in the proper habits of freedom and prepared to
become citizens of some country in which their rights of equality will
be fully acknowledged, not merely theoretically and by profession, but
in substance and in actual practice. Moreover, they cannot be sent away
with advantage to us, or, indeed, by means of any available resources
applicable to that end, until their places shall be supplied by European
immigrants, or until the increase of our own white population shall
enable us to dispense with their services amongst us, and aid them in
finding and settling better homes, in which they may pursue their
destined course of progress, unhindered by that fatal competition and
unconquerable prejudice which meet them here. It is evident that no
possible scheme of colonization can relieve us from the duty of
providing for the present and immediate necessities of the vast numbers
of freed men who will shortly be thrown upon us by the progress of the
war, and as the direct result of the President's liberating
proclamation.
The vital and momentous question of cotton production, manufacture, and
exportation, is involved in this subject. Shall we continue to supply
the markets of the world with this indispensable commodity, the raw
material and the manufactured products; or shall we become importers of
the greatly inferior article from the East Indies at prices largely
enhanced, with the consequent destruction of our manufactures and the
loss of eight millions of exports of American goods with all the
prospective increase of this important branch of the national industry?
The annihilation of the cotton trade in the United States would change
the face of the world. It would diminish the power and importance of our
country among the nations to an incredible extent; and it would
seriously affect the relations of other powers among themselves. The
attitude of France and England toward us, at this moment, gives but a
faint indication of what we should suffer at their hands if the
organization of labor at the South should be so utterly destroyed as to
prevent the cultivation of the great staple which that favored region is
so preëminently fitted to produce. It is the influence imparted by this
production which the South has endeavored to use as its most formidable
weapon, against us in this gigantic rebellion; and whatever countenance
the rebels have received, or hereafter expect to receive from abroad, is
the result solely of their command of this indispensable production. It
is this which supplies them with arms and munitions of war at home, and
which builds the piratical ships with which they prey upon our commerce
on the high seas. Indeed, but for this all-powerful product of their
soil and labor, stimulating them and their foreign allies with the hope
of liberating the vast supplies now on hand, the war would, in all
probability, have been long since determined. But motives of still wider
scope and bearing instigate the unfriendly acts of England and France.
It is a question with these powers, whether they shall hold the
rebellious States by such obligations as shall make them a virtual
dependency for their own advantage, as the record shows they attempted
to do in the case of Texas in 1844; or whether these factious and
ambitious fragments of the Union shall be subdued by our own Government
and brought back to their true allegiance, with the effect of
reinstating our envied and dreaded power, and with our virtual monopoly
of cotton confirmed and consolidated. It is easy to see how dazzling is
the temptation which induces England and France to play the false and
dangerous part which they are so plainly acting, in this, the most
critical emergency which has arisen during the whole period of our
national existence. But the stake at issue, however valuable to them, is
of infinitely greater importance to us.
It is not merely a question of philanthropy to the liberated negroes of
our Southern section; nor do we approach the limits of the subject, when
we show how deeply the wealth and power of our country and its
commercial greatness are involved in it. There are other questions of
still greater importance necessarily arising out of it, and they concern
the rights and interests of the people of the loyal States, especially
of the great mass of laboring white men, in every part of the country,
North, South, East, and West. Destroy the labor of the South, cut off
its cotton crops, and a fatal blow will be struck at the commerce and
manufactures of the whole country. Every other branch of industry,
throughout all its minutest ramifications, will feel the shock and
languish accordingly. If, instead of using our fine Southern cotton at
ten cents per pound, we are compelled to go to a distance of ten or
twelve thousand miles, paying fifty or sixty cents for the inferior,
coarse, short-staple production of India, it is apparent that the whole
fabric of our prosperity would be prostrated, and remain so, until
industry and commerce should find new and profitable channels for their
enterprise. Clothing would be greatly enhanced in value, and this, to
the laboring man, would be equivalent to a corresponding diminution of
food and all the other comforts of life. Cleanliness and health,
necessarily dependent on the abundance and cheapness of clothing, would
be to some extent affected; and, indeed, every interest of society, in
all sections and among all classes, would suffer more or less from the
same causes. With the cotton production destroyed or materially injured,
our means of paying the vast debt which the war will leave against us
would be seriously impaired, and the burden of taxation would be to that
extent heavier and more intolerable to the masses of our people.
Thus this question of emancipation to the blacks is intimately connected
with that of justice to the whites. It involves in it all the most
important considerations which combine to control the prosperity of a
people; for it affects taxation, employment, wages, clothing, food, and
health, and, as a consequence necessarily resulting from these, the
proper education of the working classes, and the cause of free
government itself. Nor is it without much weight and importance that the
greater part of these effects extend beyond the limits of our own
country and affect similarly, and, in some instances, even more
severely, the laboring classes of other countries. We ought not to
forget the steady heroism and noble self-respect with which, in some
parts of England, the middle and working classes of the people, in the
midst of great sufferings, and in spite of them, have justly appreciated
our cause and have defended it against the selfish, sinister attacks of
aristocratic enemies--their own would-be leaders and instructors. To
these disinterested friends and sympathizers in our mighty struggle we
owe at least a grateful recognition; and it becomes us to do every thing
in our power to alleviate and shorten the sufferings which the rebellion
has brought on them in common with ourselves. No wild, inconsiderate,
and destructive schemes, in the guise of philanthropy, should receive
our assent or command our support. The crisis demands some wise,
practical, and efficient measure for the organization of the labor of
the freed negroes in the profitable and important occupations to which
they have mostly been accustomed.
Events are rapidly maturing their results, and developing the occasion
for the direct interference of our Government through its legislative
department. There is no time to be lost. Instant action is demanded.
Congress ought to take up the subject, without delay, immediately after
its meeting, and never cease the investigation until some proper measure
shall have been matured and adopted. The great fact must be recognized
that the Southern slaves will have been liberated by the agency of the
Government, as a means of suppressing the rebellion, by taking away its
chief cause and its most powerful support. These unfortunate men, placed
in their peculiar condition by no fault of their own, must necessarily
receive the protection and become the wards of the Government. Some
system of apprenticeship ought to be adopted, and rules and regulations
established by law for their government, education, and employment. They
ought to be employed in cultivating the soil of their native States for
the production of cotton and sugar, so that the former course of things
may be as little interrupted as possible, except in the altered
condition of the laborers. The lands which will fall into our possession
ought to be immediately prepared for cultivation, and the new system of
free labor put into practical operation at the earliest moment. The
improvement and education of the laborer ought to be considered quite as
carefully as the success and productiveness of his work. Our armies will
be able to give ample protection to the communities which may be
organized under this arrangement; the lands, by the confiscation act,
will easily be made available to carry out the scheme; and, doubtless,
any number of Union men will be found in all parts of the South, to
coöperate in this plan, by the inducement of a fair participation in its
legitimate profits. It will be easy to prevent the system from
degenerating so as to admit any of the old habits of slavery, or to
tolerate any of its oppressions and inhuman practices. In the course of
time, the present slaveholders themselves, humbled and subdued, as we
hope they soon will be, will find themselves compelled to acquiesce in
the policy of the Government, and, in the end, will acknowledge the
wisdom of the proceeding which substitutes paid and educated labor for
that pernicious system of slavery which has blinded and deluded them to
their own destruction. Eventually, though gradually, it may well be
anticipated, white labor will be employed in the growth of cotton. The
Africans will find their advantage in removing farther south, perhaps to
Central America, possibly to Africa; and, before many years, the
productions of the teeming South will far surpass what they have been,
or could be, under the reign of slavery.
We forbear to make any suggestion as to the details of the proposed
system. The wisdom of Congress, aided by the experience and the advice
of the Executive, will no doubt be sufficient for the great exigency.
But in any plan which may be adopted, certain general principles must
obtain. They must look to these cardinal points: the actual and complete
emancipation of the slave, and his education as far as possible; his
subordination to just and necessary, though humane laws which may be
made for his control; and, finally, the usefulness and productiveness of
his industry, with a fair proportion of the profits allowed to himself,
in some proper form, for his own benefit and improvement. With these
points securely guarded, we may safely look to the future without much
dread of that terrible confusion and disorganization which now threaten
the unhappy South. We may at least begin to plant the germs of a
reorganization which will speedily bring back again order and
prosperity, based on a better foundation than they have ever heretofore
had to rest upon.
WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?
'Do but grasp into the thick of human life! Every one lives it--to
not many is it known; and, seize it where you will, it is
interesting.'--_Goethe._
'SUCCESSFUL.--Terminating in accomplishing what is wished or
intended.'--_Webster's Dictionary._