The Rev. Theodore Sedgwick Wright--His Testimony against Caste--His
Funeral--Drs. Cox and Patton--The Service in the House--The
Procession--The Church--The Funeral Oration--Mrs. Wright.
During my stay at this time in New York, there died in that city the
Rev. Theodore Sedgwick Wright, a Presbyterian minister of colour. His
attainments and talents were very respectable; and for fifteen years he
had been the successful pastor of a church of coloured people in the
city.
Before you accompany me to his funeral, listen to his voice. Though
"dead, he yet speaketh." He had felt this cruel prejudice against the
colour of his skin as iron entering his soul. Here is his touching
testimony on the subject, delivered in a speech at Boston eleven years
before his death:--
"No man can really understand this prejudice, unless he feels it
crushing him to the dust, because it is a matter of feeling. It has
bolts, scourges, and bars, wherever the coloured man goes. It has bolts
in all the schools and colleges. The coloured parent, with the same
soul as a white parent, sends his child to the seats of learning; and
he finds the door bolted, and he sits down to weep beside his boy.
Prejudice stands at the door, and bars him out. Does the child of the
coloured man show a talent for mechanics, the heart of the parent beats
with hope. He sees the children of the white man engaged in employment;
and he trusts that there is a door open to his boy, to get an honest
living, and become a useful member of society. But, when he comes to
the workshop with his child, he finds a bolt there. But, even suppose
that he can get this first bolt removed, he finds other bars. He can't
work. Let him be ever so skilled in mechanics, up starts prejudice, and
says, 'I won't work in the shop if you do.' Here he is scourged by
prejudice, and has to go back, and sink down to some of the employments
which white men leave for the most degraded. He hears of the death of a
child from home, and he goes in a stage or a steam-boat. His money is
received, but he is scourged there by prejudice. If he is sick, he can
have no bed, he is driven on deck: money will not buy for him the
comforts it gets for all who have not his complexion. He turns to some
friend among the white men. Perhaps that white man had sat at his table
at home, but he does not resist prejudice here. He says, 'Submit. 'Tis
an ordinance of God,--you must be humble.' Sir, I have felt this. As a
minister, I have been called to pass often up and down the North River
in steam-boats. Many a night I have walked the deck, and not been
allowed to lie down in a bed. Prejudice would even turn money to dross
when it was offered for these comforts by a coloured man. Thus
prejudice scourges us from the table; it scourges us from the cabin,
from the stage-coach, from the bed. Wherever we go, it has for us
bolts, bars, and rods."
And now let us attend the speaker's funeral. Professor Whipple will be
our guide. As we proceed, crowds of coloured people are hastening in
the same direction from all quarters. We are at the house. But so great
is the throng that it is impossible to get in. Here, however, comes Dr.
Cox. "Make room for Dr. Cox!"--"Make room for Dr. Cox!" is now heard on
every hand. A path is opened for the great man, and we little men slip
in at his skirt. On reaching the room where the remains of the good man
lie, we find Dr. Patton and the Rev. Mr. Hatfield. They and Dr. Cox are
there in a semi-official capacity, as representing the Presbytery with
which Mr. Wright was connected. Louis Tappan, the long-tried and
faithful friend of the coloured race, is there also. I am asked to be a
pall-bearer: without at all reflecting on the duties and inconveniences
of the office, I good-naturedly consent. A _white_ cotton scarf is
instantly thrown over my shoulder. There is the coffin; and there is a
lifelike portrait of Mr. Wright hung up against the wall, and looking
as it were down upon that coffin. But you can see the face of Mr.
Wright himself. The coffin-lid is screwed down; but there is a square
of glass, like a little window, just over the face, as is generally the
case in America, and you can have a view of the whole countenance.
A black man reads a hymn, and, in connection with it, begins an address
in a very oracular style, and with very solemn pauses. A hint is given
him not to proceed. They sing. Mr. Hatfield delivers an appropriate
address. A coloured minister prays, sometimes using the first person
singular, and sometimes the first person plural; also talking about the
"meanderings of life," and a great deal of other nonsense.
We move down stairs. The immense procession starts. Drs. Cox and
Patton, Mr. Hatfield, and about half-a-dozen more white ministers, are
in it. As we pass on from street to street, and from crossing to
crossing, all sorts of people seem to regard the procession with the
utmost respect. The cabmen, 'busmen, and cartmen behave exceedingly
well. But did you overhear what those three or four low dirty men said
as we approached? I am ashamed to tell, because those men are not
Americans, but _Irishmen_,--"Here comes the dead nigger!" The boys, now
and then, are also overheard counting how many _white_ men there are in
the procession.
We are now at the church. After much delay and difficulty we enter. The
place, which is not large, is crammed. There must be about 600 people
in. Dr. Cox urges them to make room for more, and says there are not
more than one-tenth in of those who wish to enter. If so, there must be
a concourse of 6,000 people, and not more than twenty whites among them
all!
A coloured man gives out a hymn. Dr. Cox reads the Scriptures, and
makes a few remarks. Dr. Patton delivers an oration. In that oration,
while speaking of Mr. Wright's anti-slavery feelings as being very
strong, he adds, with very questionable taste, "But at the same time
our brother had no sympathy with those who indulged in _denunciation,
wrath, and blackguardism_. He would never touch the missiles which
_none but scoundrels use_." What a selection of words in a funeral
oration! In speaking of Mr. Wright's labours in connection with that
church for fifteen years, he says, "Our brother had difficulties which
other men have not. Two or three years ago he had to trudge about the
city, under the _full muzzle_ of a July or August sun, to beg money in
order to extricate this place from pecuniary difficulties. On one
occasion, after walking all the way to the upper part of the city to
call upon a gentleman from whom he hoped to receive a donation, he
found that he had just left his residence for his office in the city.
Our brother, though greatly exhausted, was compelled to walk the same
distance down again; for--to the shame, the everlasting shame of our
city be it spoken--our brother, on account of his colour, could not
avail himself of one of the public conveyances. The next week disease
laid hold of him, and he never recovered."
What a strong and unexpected testimony against that cruel prejudice!
According to this testimony, Theodore Sedgwick Wright fell a _victim_
to it. But who would have thought that Dr. Patton, who thus denounced
the cabmen and 'busmen of New York, had at the very time the "Negro
Pew" in his own church!
While on this subject, let me tell you another fact respecting poor Mr.
Wright. The life of his first wife was sacrificed to this heartless and
unmanly feeling. He was travelling with her by steam-boat between New
York and Boston. They had to be out all night, and a bitter cold
winter's night it was. Being coloured people, their only accommodation
was the "hurricane-deck." Mrs. Wright was delicate. Her husband offered
to pay any money, if they would only let her be in the kitchen or the
pantry. No,--she was a "nigger," and could not be admitted. Mr. Wright
wrapped her in his own cloak, and placed her against the chimney to try
to obtain for her a little warmth. But she took a severe cold, and soon
died. _His_ colour, it would seem, hastened his own exit to rejoin her
in that world where such absurd and inhuman distinctions are unknown.
Dr. Patton's oration is now ended. But--did you ever hear such a thing
at a funeral?--that minister in the table pew is actually giving out--
"Praise God, from whom all blessings flow!"
and they sing it to a funeral tune!
We start for the place of burial. But it is a long way off, and I had
better spare you the journey. The great men fell off one after another;
but my pall-bearing office compelled me to remain to the last. It was 4
o'clock P.M. before the solemnities were closed.