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Title: Three Years in Europe
Places I Have Seen and People I Have Met
Author: William Wells Brown
Release Date: May 15, 2005 [eBook #15830]
Language: English
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THREE YEARS IN EUROPE;
Or, Places I Have Seen and People I Have Met
by
W. WELLS BROWN
A Fugitive Slave.
With
A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR
by
WILLIAM FARMER, Esq.
London:
Charles Gilpin, 5, Bishopsgate Street, Without.
Edinburgh: Oliver and Boyd.
1852
[Illustration: W. Wells Brown.]
CONTENTS.
MEMOIR OF WILLIAM WELLS BROWN, _Page_ ix-xxix
AUTHOR'S PREFACE, xxxi-xxxii
LETTER I.
Departure from Boston--the Passengers--Halifax--the Passage--
First Sight of Land--Liverpool, 1-9
LETTER II.
Trip to Ireland--Dublin--Her Majesty's Visit--Illumination of the
City--the Birth-Place of Thomas Moore--a Reception, 9-21
LETTER III.
Departure from Ireland--London--Trip to Paris--Paris--The Peace
Congress: first day--Church of the Madeleine--Column Vendome--
the French, 21-38
LETTER IV.
Versailles--The Palace--Second Session of the Congress--Mr.
Cobden--Henry Vincent--M. Girardin--Abbe Duguerry--Victor Hugo:
his Speech, 38-49
LETTER V.
M. de Tocqueville's Grand Soiree--Madame de Tocqueville--Visit of
the Peace Delegates to Versailles--The Breakfast--Speechmaking--
The Trianons--Waterworks--St. Cloud--The Fete, 50-59
LETTER VI.
The Tuileries--Place de la Concorde--The Egyptian Obelisk--Palais
Royal--Residence of Robespierre--A Visit to the Room in which
Charlotte Corday killed Marat--Church de Notre Dame--Palais de
Justice--Hotel des Invalids--National Assembly--The Elysee, 59-73
LETTER VII.
The Chateau at Versailles--Private Apartments of Marie
Antoinette--The Secret Door--Paintings of Raphael and David--
Arc de Triomphe--Beranger the Poet, 73-82
LETTER VIII.
Departure from Paris--Boulogne--Folkstone--London--Geo. Thompson,
Esq., M.P.--Hartwell House--Dr. Lee--Cottage of the
Peasant--Windsor Castle--Residence of Wm. Penn--England's First
Welcome--Heath Lodge--The Bank of England, 83-104
LETTER IX.
The British Museum--A Portrait--Night Reading--A Dark Day--A
Fugitive Slave on the Streets of London--A Friend in the time
of need, 104-116
LETTER X.
The Whittington Club--Louis Blanc--Street Amusements--Tower of
London--Westminster Abbey--National Gallery--Dante--Sir Joshua
Reynolds, 117-134
LETTER XI.
York-Minster--The Great Organ--Newcastle-on-Tyne--The Labouring
Classes--The American Slave--Sheffield--James Montgomery, 134-145
LETTER XII.
Kirkstall Abbey--Mary the Maid of the Inn--Newstead Abbey:
Residence of Lord Byron--Parish Church of Hucknall--Burial Place
of Lord Byron--Bristol: "Cook's Folly"--Chepstow Castle and
Abbey--Tintern Abbey--Redcliffe Church, 145-162
LETTER XIII.
Edinburgh--The Royal Institute--Scott's Monument--John Knox's
Pulpit--Temperance Meeting--Glasgow--Great Meeting in the City
Hall, 163-176
LETTER XIV.
Stirling--Dundee--Dr. Dick--Geo. Gilfillan--Dr. Dick at home, 177-184
LETTER XV.
Melrose Abbey--Abbotsford--Dryburgh Abbey--The Grave of Sir
Walter Scott--Hawick--Gretna Green--Visit to the Lakes, 185-196
LETTER XVI.
Miss Martineau--"The Knoll"--"Ridal Mount"--"The Dove's
Nest"--Grave of William Wordsworth, Esq.--The English Peasant, 196-207
LETTER XVII.
A Day in the Crystal Palace, 207-219
LETTER XVIII.
The London Peace Congress--Meeting of Fugitive Slaves--
Temperance Demonstration--The Great Exhibition: Last Visit, 219-226
LETTER XIX.
Oxford--Martyrs' Monument--Cost of the Burning of the Martyrs--
The Colleges--Dr. Pusey--Energy, the Secret of Success, 227-235
LETTER XX.
Fugitive Slaves in England, 236-250
LETTER XXI.
A Chapter on American Slavery, 250-273
LETTER XXII.
A Narrative of American Slavery, 273-305
LETTER XXIII.
Aberdeen--Passage by Steamer--Edinburgh--Visit to the
College--William and Ellen Craft, 305-312
MEMOIR OF WILLIAM WELLS BROWN.
A narrative of the life of the author of the present work has been most
extensively circulated in England and America. The present memoir will,
therefore, simply comprise a brief sketch of the most interesting
portion of Mr. Brown's history while in America, together with a short
account of his subsequent cisatlantic career. The publication of his
adventures as a slave, and as a fugitive from slavery in his native
land, has been most valuable in sustaining a sound anti-slavery spirit
in Great Britain. His honourable reception in Europe may be equally
serviceable in America, as another added to the many practical protests
previously entered from this side of the Atlantic, against the absolute
bondage of three millions and a quarter of the human race, and the
semi-slavery involved in the social and political proscription of
600,000 free coloured people in that country.
William Wells Brown was born at Lexington, in the state of Kentucky, as
nearly as he can tell in the autumn of 1814. In the Southern States of
America, the pedigree and age of a horse or a dog are carefully
preserved, but no record is kept of the birth of a slave. All that Mr.
Brown knows upon the subject is traditionally, that he was born "about
corn-cutting time" of that year. His mother was a slave named Elizabeth,
the property of Dr. Young, a physician. His father was George Higgins, a
relative of his master.
The name given to our author at his birth, was "William"--no second or
surname being permitted to a slave. While William was an infant, Dr.
Young removed to Missouri, where, in addition to his profession as a
physician, he carried on the--to European notions--incongruous
avocations of miller, merchant, and farmer. Here William was employed as
a house servant, while his mother was engaged as a field hand. One of
his first bitter experiences of the cruelties of slavery, was his
witnessing the infliction of ten lashes upon the bare back of his
mother, for being a few minutes behind her time at the field--a
punishment inflicted with one of those peculiar whips in the
construction of which, so as to produce the greatest amount of torture,
those whom Lord Carlisle has designated "the chivalry of the South" find
scope for their ingenuity.
Dr. Young subsequently removed to a farm near St. Louis, in the same
State. Having been elected a Member of the Legislature, he devolved the
management of his farm upon an overseer, having, what to his unhappy
victims must have been the ironical name of "Friend Haskall." The mother
and child were now separated. The boy was levied to a Virginian named
Freeland, who bore the military title of Major, and carried on the
plebeian business of a publican. This man was of an extremely brutal
disposition, and treated his slaves with most refined cruelty. His
favourite punishment, which he facetiously called "Virginian play," was
to flog his slaves severely, and then expose their lacerated flesh to
the smoke of tobacco stems, causing the most exquisite agony. William
complained to his owner of the treatment of Freeland, but, as in almost
all similar instances, the appeal was in vain. At length he was induced
to attempt an escape, not from that love of liberty which subsequently
became with him an unconquerable passion, but simply to avoid the
cruelty to which he was habitually subjected. He took refuge in the
woods, but was hunted and "traced" by the blood-hounds of a Major
O'Fallon, another of "the chivalry of the South," whose gallant
occupation was that of keeping an establishment for the hire of
ferocious dogs with which to hunt fugitive slaves. The young slave
received a severe application of "Virginia play" for his attempt to
escape. Happily the military publican soon afterwards failed in
business, and William found a better master and a more congenial
employment with Captain Cilvers, on board a steam-boat plying between
St. Louis and Galena. At the close of the sailing season he was levied
to an hotel-keeper, a native of a free state, but withal of a class
which exist north as well as south--a most inveterate negro hater. At
this period of William's history, a circumstance occurred, which,
although a common incident in the lives of slaves, is one of the keenest
trials they have to endure--the breaking up of his family circle. Her
master wanted money, and he therefore sold Elizabeth and six of her
children to seven different purchasers. The family relationship is
almost the only solace of slavery. While the mother, brothers, and
sisters are permitted to meet together in the negro hut after the hour
of labour, the slaves are comparatively content with their oppressed
condition; but deprive them of this, the only privilege which they as
human beings are possessed of, and nothing is left but the animal part
of their nature--the living soul is extinguished within them. With them
there is nothing to love--everything to hate. They feel themselves
degraded to the condition not only of mere animals, but of the most
ill-used animals in the creation.
Not needing the services of his young relative, Dr. Young hired him to
the proprietor of the _St. Louis Times_, the best master William ever
had in slavery. Here he gained the scanty amount of education he
acquired at the South. This kind treatment by his editorial master
appears to have engendered in the heart of William a consciousness of
his own manhood, and led him into the commission of an offence similar
to that perpetrated by Frederick Douglass, under similar
circumstances--the assertion of the right of self-defence. He gallantly
defended himself against the attacks of several boys older and bigger
than himself, but in so doing was guilty of the unpardonable sin of
lifting his hand against white lads; and the father of one of them,
therefore, deemed it consistent with his manhood to lay in wait for the
young slave, and beat him over the head with a heavy cane till the
blood gushed from his nose and ears. From the effects of that treatment
the poor lad was confined to his bed for five weeks, at the end of which
time he found that, to his personal sufferings, were superadded the
calamity of the loss of the best master he ever had in slavery.
His next employment was that of waiter on board a steam-boat plying on
the Mississippi. Here his occupation again was pleasant, and his
treatment good; but the freedom of action enjoyed by the passengers in
travelling whithersoever they pleased, contrasted strongly in his mind
with his own deprivation of will as a slave. The natural result of this
comparison was an intense desire for freedom--a feeling which was never
afterwards eradicated from his breast. This love of liberty was,
however, so strongly counteracted by affection for his mother and
sisters, that although urgently entreated by one of the latter to take
advantage of his present favourable opportunity for escape, he would not
bring himself to do so at the expense of a separation for life from his
beloved relatives.
His period of living on board the steamer having expired, he was again
remitted to field labour, under a burning sun. From that labour, from
which he suffered severely, he was soon removed to the lighter and more
agreeable occupation of house-waiter to his master. About this time Dr.
Young, in the conventional phraseology of the locality, "got religion."
The fruit of his alleged spiritual gain, was the loss of many material
comforts to the slaves. Destitute of the resources of education, they
were in the habit of employing their otherwise unoccupied minds on the
Sunday in fishing and other harmless pursuits; these were now all put an
end to. The Sabbath became a season of dread to William: he was required
to drive the family to and from the church, a distance of four miles
either way; and while they attended to the salvation of their souls
within the building, he was compelled to attend to the horses without
it, standing by them during divine service under a burning sun, or
drizzling rain. Although William did not get the religion of his master,
he acquired a family passion which appears to have been strongly
intermixed with the devotional exercises of the household of Dr.
Young--a love of sweet julep. In the evening, the slaves were required
to attend family worship. Before commencing the service, it was the
custom to hand a pitcher of the favourite beverage to every member of
the family, not excepting the nephew, a child of between four and five
years old. William was in the habit of watching his opportunity during
the prayer and helping himself from the pitcher, but one day letting it
fall, his propensity for this intoxicating drink was discovered, and he
was severely punished for its indulgence.
In 1830, being then about sixteen years of age, William was hired to a
slave-dealer named Walker. This change of employment led the youth away
south and frustrated, for a time, his plans for escape. His experience
while in this capacity furnishes some interesting, though painful,
details of the legalized traffic in human beings carried on in the
United States. The desperation to which the slaves are driven at their
forced separation from husband, wife, children, and kindred, he found to
be a frequent cause of suicide. Slave-dealers he discovered were as
great adepts at deception in the sale of their commodity as the most
knowing down-easter, or tricky horse dealer. William's occupation on
board the steamer, as they steamed south, was to prepare the stock for
the market, by shaving off whiskers and blacking the grey hairs with a
colouring composition.
At the expiration of the period of his hiring with Walker, William
returned to his master rejoiced to have escaped an employment so
repugnant to his feelings. But this joy was not of long duration. One of
his sisters who, although sold to another master had been living in the
same city with himself and mother, was again sold to be sent away south,
never in all probability to meet her sorrowing relatives. Dr. Young
also, wanting money, intimated to his young kinsman that he was about to
sell him. This intimation determined William, in conjunction with his
mother, to attempt their escape. For ten nights they travelled
northwards, hiding themselves in the woods by day. The mother and son at
length deemed themselves safe from re-capture, and, although weary and
foot-sore, were laying down sanguine plans for the acquisition of a farm
in Canada, the purchase of the freedom of the six other members of the
family still in slavery, and rejoicing in the anticipated happiness of
their free home in Canada. At that moment three men made up to and
seized them, bound the son and led him, with his desponding mother,
back to slavery. Elizabeth was sold and sent away south, while her son
became the property of a merchant tailor named Willi. Mr. Brown's
description of the final interview between himself and his mother, is
one of the most touching portions of his narrative. The mother, after
expressing her conviction of the speedy escape from slavery by the hand
of death, enjoined her child to persevere in his endeavours to gain his
freedom by flight. Her blessing was interrupted by the kick and curse
bestowed by her dehumanized master upon her beloved son.
After having been hired for a short time to the captain of the
steam-boat _Otto_, William was finally sold to Captain Enoch Price for
650 dollars. That the quickness and intelligence of William rendered him
very valuable as a slave, is favoured by the evidence of Enoch Price
himself, who states that he was offered 2000 dollars for Sanford (as he
was called), in New Orleans. William was strongly urged by his new
mistress to marry. To facilitate this object, she even went so far as to
purchase a girl for whom she fancied he had an affection. He himself,
however, had secretly resolved never to enter into such a connexion
while in slavery, knowing that marriage, in the true and honourable
sense of the term, could not exist among slaves. Notwithstanding the
multitude of petty offences for which a slave is severely punished, it
is singular that one crime--bigamy--is visited upon a white with
severity, while no slave has ever yet been tried for it. In fact, the
man is allowed to form connections with as many women, and the women
with as many men, as they please.
At St. Louis, William was employed as coachman to Mr. Price; but when
that gentleman subsequently took his family up the river to Cincinnati,
Sanford acted as appointed steward. While lying off this city, the
long-looked-for opportunity of escape presented itself; and on the 1st
of January, 1834--he being then almost twenty years of age--succeeded in
getting from the steamer to the wharf, and thence to the woods, where he
lay concealed until the shades of night had set in, when he again
commenced his journey northwards. While with Dr. Young, a nephew of that
gentleman, whose christian name was William, came into the family: the
slave was, therefore, denuded of the name of William, and thenceforth
called Sanford. This deprivation of his original name he had ever
regarded as an indignity, and having now gained his freedom he resumed
his original name; and as there was no one by whom he could be addressed
by it, he exultingly enjoyed the first-fruits of his freedom by calling
himself aloud by his old name "William!" After passing through a variety
of painful vicissitudes, on the eighth day he found himself destitute of
pecuniary means, and unable, from severe illness, to pursue his journey.
In that condition he was discovered by a venerable member of the Society
of Friends, who placed him in a covered waggon and took him to his own
house. There he remained about fifteen days, and by the kind treatment
of his host and hostess, who were what in America are called
"Thompsonians," he was restored to health, and supplied with the means
of pursuing his journey. The name of this, his first kind benefactor,
was "Wells Brown." As William had risen from the degradation of a slave
to the dignity of a man, it was expedient that he should follow the
customs of other men, and adopt a second name. His venerable friend,
therefore, bestowed upon him his own name, which, prefixed by his former
designation, made him "William Wells Brown," a name that will live in
history, while those of the men who claimed him as property would, were
it not for his deeds, have been unknown beyond the town in which they
lived. In nine days from the time he left Wells Brown's house, he
arrived at Cleveland, in the State of Ohio, where he found he could
remain comparatively safe from the pursuit of the man-stealer. Having
obtained employment as a waiter, he remained in that city until the
following spring, when he procured an engagement on board a steam-boat
plying on Lake Erie. In that situation he was enabled, during seven
months, to assist no less than sixty-nine slaves to escape to Canada.
While a slave he had regarded the whites as the natural enemies of his
race. It was, therefore, with no small pleasure that he discovered the
existence of the salt of America, in the despised Abolitionists of the
Northern States. He read with assiduity the writings of Benjamin Lundy,
William Lloyd Garrison, and others; and after his own twenty years'
experience of slavery, it is not surprising that he should have
enthusiastically embraced the principles of "total and immediate
emancipation," and "no union with slaveholders."
In proportion as his mind expanded under the more favourable
circumstances in which he was placed, he became anxious, not merely for
the redemption of his race from personal slavery, but for the moral
elevation of those among them who were free. Finding that habits of
intoxication were too prevalent amongst his coloured brethren, he, in
conjunction with others, commenced a temperance reformation in their
body. Such was the success of their efforts that in three years, in the
city of Buffalo alone, a society of upwards of 500 members was raised
out of a coloured population of 700. Of that society Mr. Brown was
thrice elected President.
The intellectual powers of our author, coupled with his intimate
acquaintance with the workings of the slave system, recommended him to
the Abolitionists as a man eminently qualified to arouse the attention
of the people of the Northern States to the great national sin of
America. In 1843 he was engaged as a lecturer by the Western New-York
Anti-Slavery Society. From 1844 to 1847 he laboured in the anti-slavery
cause in connection with the American Anti-Slavery Society, and from
that period up to the time of his departure for Europe, in 1849, he was
an agent of the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society. The records of those
societies furnish abundant evidence of the success of his labours. From
the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society he early received the following
testimony:--
"Since Mr. Brown became an agent of the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery
Society, he has lectured in very many of the towns of this
Commonwealth, and won for himself general respect and approbation. He
combines true self-respect with true humility, and rare judiciousness
with great moral courage. Himself a fugitive slave, he can
experimentally describe the situation of those in bonds as bound with
them; and he powerfully illustrates the diabolism of that system which
keeps in chains and darkness a host of minds, which, if free and
enlightened, would shine among men like stars in a firmament."
Another member of that Society speaks thus of him:--"I need not attempt
any description of the ability and efficiency which characterized his
speaking throughout the meetings. To you who know him so well, it is
enough to say that his lectures were worthy of himself. He has left an
impression on the minds of the people, that few could have done. Cold,
indeed, must be the heart that could resist the appeals of so noble a
specimen of humanity, in behalf of a crushed and despised race."
Notwithstanding the celebrity Mr. Brown had acquired in the north, as a
man of genius and talent, and the general respect his high character had
gained him, the slave spirit of America denied him the rights of a
citizen. By the constitution of the United States, he was every moment
liable to be seized and sent back to slavery. He was in daily peril of a
gradual legalized murder, under a system one of whose established
economical principles is, that it is more profitable to work up a slave
on a plantation in a short time, by excessive labour and cheap food,
than to obtain a lengthened remuneration by moderate work and humane
treatment. His only protection from such a fate was the anomaly of the
ascendancy of the public opinion over the law of the country. So
uncertain, however, was that tenure of liberty, that even before the
passage of the Fugitive Slave Law, it was deemed expedient to secure the
services of Frederick Douglass to the anti-slavery cause by the purchase
of his freedom. The same course might have been taken to secure the
labours of Mr. Brown, had he not entertained an unconquerable repugnance
to its adoption. On the 10th of January, 1848, Enoch Price wrote to Mr.
Edmund Quincy offering to sell Mr. Brown to himself or friends for 325
dollars. To this communication the fugitive returned the following pithy
and noble reply:--
"I cannot accept of Mr. Price's offer to become a purchaser of my body
and soul. God made me as free as he did Enoch Price, and Mr. Price shall
never receive a dollar from me or my friends with my consent."
There were, however, other reasons besides his personal safety which led
to Mr. Brown's visit to Europe. It was thought desirable always to have
in England some talented man of colour who should be a living lie to the
doctrine of the inferiority of the African race: and it was moreover
felt that none could so powerfully advocate the cause of "those in
bonds" as one who had actually been "bound with them." This had been
proved in the extraordinary effect produced in Great Britain by
Frederick Douglass in 1845 and 1846. The American Committee in
connection with the Peace Congress were also desirous of sending to
Europe coloured representatives of their Society, and Mr. Brown was
selected for that purpose, and duly accredited by them to the Paris
Congress.
On the 18th of July, 1849, a large meeting of the coloured citizens of
Boston was held in Washington Hall to bid him farewell. At that meeting
the following resolutions were unanimously adopted:--
"_Resolved_,--That we bid our brother, William Wells Brown, God speed in
his mission to Europe, and commend him to the hospitality and
encouragement of all true friends of humanity.
"_Resolved_,--That we forward by him our renewed protest against the
American Colonization Society; and invoke for him a candid hearing
before the British public, in reply to the efforts put forth there
by the Rev. Mr. Miller, or any other agent of said Society."
Two days afterwards he sailed for Europe, encountering on his voyage his
last experience of American prejudice against colour.
On the 28th of August he landed at Liverpool, a time and place memorable
in his life as the first upon which he could truly call himself a free
man upon God's earth. In the history of nations, as of individuals,
there is often singular retributive mercy as well as retributive
justice. In the seventeenth century the victims of monarchical tyranny
in Great Britain found social and political freedom when they set foot
upon Plymouth Rock in New England: in the nineteenth century the victims
of the oppressions of the American Republic find freedom and social
equality upon the shores of monarchical England. Liverpool, which
seventy years back was so steeped in the guilt of negro slavery that
Paine expressed his surprise that God did not sweep it from the face of
the earth, is now to the hunted negro the Plymouth Rock of Old England.
From Liverpool he proceeded to Dublin where he was warmly received by
Mr. Haughton, Mr. Webb, and other friends of the slave, and publicly
welcomed at a large meeting presided over by the first named gentleman.
The reception of Mr. Brown at the Peace Congress in Paris was most
flattering. In a company, comprising a large portion of the _elite_ of
Europe, he admirably maintained his reputation as a public speaker. His
brief address, upon that "war spirit of America which holds in bondage
three million of his brethren," produced a profound sensation. At its
conclusion the speaker was warmly greeted by Victor Hugo, the Abbe
Duguerry, Emile de Girardin, the Pastor Coquerel, Richard Cobden, and
every man of note in the Assembly. At the soiree given by M. De
Tocqueville, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, and the other fetes given
to the Members of the Congress, Mr. Brown was received with marked
attention.
Having finished his Peace mission in France, he commenced an
Anti-slavery tour in England and Scotland. With that independence of
feeling which those who are acquainted with him know to be his chief
characteristic, he rejected the idea of anything like eleemosynary
support. He determined to maintain himself and family by his own
exertions--by his literary labours, and the honourable profession of a
public lecturer. His first metropolitan reception in England was at a
large, influential, and enthusiastic meeting in the Music Hall, Stone
Street. The members of the Whittington Club--an institution numbering
nearly 2000 members, among whom are Lords Brougham, Dudley Coutts
Stuart, and Beaumont; Charles Dickens, Douglass Jerrold, Martin
Thackeray, Charles Lushington, M.P., Monckton Milnes, M.P., and several
other of the most distinguished legislators and literary men and women
in this country--elected Mr. Brown an honorary member of the Club, as a
mark of respect to his character; and, as the following extract from the
Secretary, Mr. Stundwicke, will show, as a protest against the
distinctions made between man and man on account of colour in
America:--"I have much pleasure in conveying to you the best thanks of
the managing committee of this institution for the excellent lecture you
gave here last evening on the subject of 'Slavery in America,' and also
in presenting you in their names with an honorary membership of the
Club. It is hoped that you will often avail yourself of its privileges
by coming amongst us. You will then see, by the cordial welcome of the
members, that they protest against the odious distinctions made between
man and man, and the abominable traffic of which you have been the
victim."
For the last three years Mr. Brown has been engaged in visiting and
holding meetings in nearly all the large towns in the kingdom upon the
question of American Slavery, Temperance, and other subjects. Perhaps no
coloured individual, not excepting that extraordinary man, Frederick
Douglass, has done more good in disseminating anti-slavery principles in
England, Scotland, and Ireland.
In the spring of 1851, two most interesting fugitives, William and Ellen
Craft, arrived in England. They had made their escape from the South,
the wife disguised in male attire, and the husband in the capacity of
her slave. William Craft was doing a thriving business in Boston, but in
1851 was driven with his wife from that city by the operation of the
Fugitive Slave Law. For several months they travelled in company with
Mr. Brown in this country, deepening the disgust created by Mr. Brown's
eloquent denunciation of slavery by their simple but touching narrative.
At length they were enabled to gratify their thirst for education by
gaining admission to Lady Byron's school at Oakham, Surrey. In the month
of May, Mr. Brown and Mr. and Mrs. Craft were taken by a party of
anti-slavery friends to the Great Exhibition. The honourable manner in
which they were received by distinguished persons to whom their history
was known, and the freedom with which they perambulated the American
department, was a salutary rebuke to the numerous Americans present, in
regard to the great sin of their country--slavery; and its great
folly--prejudice of colour. A curious circumstance occurred during the
Exhibition. Among the hosts of American visitors to this country was Mr.
Brown's late master, Enoch Price, who made diligent inquiry after his
lost piece of property--not, of course, with any view to its
reclamation--but, to the mutual regret of both parties, without success.
It is gratifying to state that the master spoke highly of, and expressed
a wish for the future prosperity of, his fugitive slave; a fact which
tends to prove that prejudice of colour is to a very great extent a
thing of locality and association. Had Mr. Price, however, left behind
him letters of manumission for Mr. Brown, enabling him, if he chose, to
return to his native land, he would have given a more practical proof of
respect, and of the sincerity of his desire for the welfare of Mr.
Brown.
It would extend these pages far beyond their proposed length were
anything like a detailed account of Mr. Brown's anti-slavery labours in
this country to be attempted. Suffice it to say that they have
everywhere been attended with benefit and approbation. At Bolton an
admirable address from the ladies was presented to him, and at other
places he has received most honourable testimonials.
Since Mr. Brown left America, the condition of the fugitive slaves in
his own country has, through the operation of the Fugitive Slave Law,
been rendered so perilous as to preclude the possibility of return
without the almost certain loss of liberty. His expatriation has,
however, been a gain to the cause of humanity in this country, where an
intelligent representative of the oppressed coloured Americans is
constantly needed, not only to describe, in language of fervid
eloquence, the wrongs inflicted upon his race in the United States, but
to prevent their bonds being strengthened in this country by holding
fellowship with slave-holding and slave-abetting ministers from America.
In his lectures he has clearly demonstrated the fact, that the sole
support of the slavery of the United States is its churches. This
knowledge of the standing of American ministers in reference to slavery
has, in the case of Dr. Dyer, and in many other instances, been most
serviceable, preventing their reception into communion with British
churches. Last year Mr. Brown succeeded in getting over to this country
his daughters, two interesting girls twelve and sixteen years of age
respectively, who are now receiving an education which will qualify them
hereafter to become teachers in their turn--a description of education
which would have been denied them in their native land. In 1834 Mr.
Brown married a free coloured woman, who died in January of the present
year.
The condition of escaped slaves has engaged much of his attention while
in this country. He found that in England no anti-slavery organization
existed whose object was to aid fugitive slaves in obtaining an
honourable subsistence in the land of their exile. In most cases they
are thrown upon the support of a few warm-hearted anti-slavery advocates
in this country, pre-eminent among whom stands Mr. Brown's earliest
friend, Mr. George Thompson, M.P., whose house is rarely free from one
or more of those who have acquired the designation of his "American
constituents." This want has recently been attempted to be supplied,
partly through Mr. Brown's exertions, and partly by the establishment of
the Anglo-American Anti-Slavery Association.
On the 1st of August, 1851, a meeting of the most novel character was
held at the Hall of Commerce, London, being a soiree given by fugitive
slaves in this country to Mr. George Thompson, on his return from his
American mission on behalf of their race. That meeting was most ably
presided over by Mr. Brown, and the speeches made upon the occasion by
fugitive slaves were of the most interesting and creditable description.
Although a residence in Canada is infinitely preferable to slavery in
America, yet the climate of that country is uncongenial to the
constitutions of the fugitive slaves, and their lack of education is an
almost insuperable barrier to their social progress. The latter evil Mr.
Brown attempted to remedy by the establishment of a Manual Labour School
in Canada.
A public meeting, attended by between 3000 and 4000 persons, was
convened by Mr. Brown, on the 6th of January, 1851, in the City Hall,
Glasgow, presided over by Mr. Hastie, one of the representatives of that
city, at which meeting a resolution was unanimously passed approving of
Mr. Brown's scheme, which scheme, however, never received that amount of
support which would have enabled him to bring it into practice; and the
plan at present only remains as an evidence of its author's ingenuity
and desire for the elevation of his depressed race. Mr. Brown
subsequently made, through the columns of the _Times_ newspaper, a
proposition for the emigration of American fugitive slaves, under fair
and honourable terms, to the West Indies, where there is a great lack of
that tillage labour which they are so capable of undertaking. This
proposition has hitherto met with no better fate than its predecessor.
Mr. Brown's literary abilities may be partly judged of from the
following pages. The amount of knowledge and education he has acquired
under circumstances of no ordinary difficulty, is a striking proof of
what can be done by combined genius and industry. His proficiency as a
linguist, without the aid of a master, is considerable. His present work
is a valuable addition to the stock of English literature. The honour
which has hitherto been paid, and which, so long as he resides upon
British soil, will no doubt continue to be paid to his character and
talents, must have its influence in abating the senseless prejudice of
colour in America, and hastening the time when the object of his
mission, the abolition of the slavery of his native country, shall be
accomplished, and that young Republic renouncing with penitence its
national sin, shall take its proper place amongst the most free,
civilized, and Christian nations of the earth.
W.F.
PREFACE.
While I feel conscious that most of the contents of these Letters will
be interesting chiefly to American readers, yet I may indulge the hope,
that the fact of their being the first production of a Fugitive Slave,
as a history of travels, may carry with them novelty enough to secure
for them, to some extent, the attention of the reading public of Great
Britain. Most of the letters were written for the private perusal of a
few personal friends in America; some were contributed to "Frederick
Douglass's paper," a journal published in the United States. In a
printed circular sent some weeks since to some of my friends, asking
subscriptions to this volume, I stated the reasons for its publication:
these need not be repeated here. To those who so promptly and kindly
responded to that appeal, I tender my most sincere thanks. It is with no
little diffidence that I lay these letters before the public; for I am
not blind to the fact, that they must contain many errors; and to those
who shall find fault with them on that account, it may not be too much
for me to ask them kindly to remember, that the author was a slave in
one of the Southern States of America, until he had attained the age of
twenty years; and that the education he has acquired, was by his own
exertions, he never having had a day's schooling in his life.
W. WELLS BROWN.
22, CECIL STREET, STRAND,
LONDON.
LETTER I.
_Departure from Boston--the Passengers--Halifax--the Passage--First
Sight of Land--Liverpool._
LIVERPOOL, _July 28_.
On the 18th July, 1849, I took passage in the steam-ship _Canada_,
Captain Judkins, bound for Liverpool. The day was a warm one; so much
so, that many persons on board, as well as several on shore, stood with
their umbrellas up, so intense was the heat of the sun. The ringing of
the ship's bell was a signal for us to shake hands with our friends,
which we did, and then stepped on the deck of the noble craft. The
_Canada_ quitted her moorings at half-past twelve, and we were soon in
motion. As we were passing out of Boston Bay, I took my stand on the
quarter-deck, to take a last farewell (at least for a time), of my
native land. A visit to the old world, up to that time had seemed but a
dream. As I looked back upon the receding land, recollections of the
past rushed through my mind in quick succession. From the treatment that
I had received from the Americans as a victim of slavery, and the
knowledge that I was at that time liable to be seized and again reduced
to whips and chains, I had supposed that I would leave the country
without any regret; but in this I was mistaken, for when I saw the last
thread of communication cut off between me and the land, and the dim
shores dying away in the distance, I almost regretted that I was not on
shore.
An anticipated trip to a foreign country appears pleasant when talking
about it, especially when surrounded by friends whom we love; but when
we have left them all behind, it does not seem so pleasant. Whatever may
be the fault of the government under which we live, and no matter how
oppressive her laws may appear, yet we leave our native land (if such
it be) with feelings akin to sorrow. With the steamer's powerful engine
at work, and with a fair wind, we were speedily on the bosom of the
Atlantic, which was as calm and as smooth as our own Hudson in its
calmest aspect. We had on board above one hundred passengers, forty of
whom were the "Viennese children"--a troop of dancers. The passengers
represented several different nations, English, French, Spaniards,
Africans, and Americans. One man who had the longest pair of mustaches
that mortal man was ever doomed to wear, especially attracted my
attention. He appeared to belong to no country in particular, but was
yet the busiest man on board. After viewing for some time the many
strange faces around me, I descended to the cabin to look after my
luggage, which had been put hurriedly on board. I hope that all who take
a trip of so great a distance may be as fortunate as I was, in being
supplied with books to read on the voyage. My friends had furnished me
with literature, from "Macaulay's History of England" to "Jane Eyre," so
that I did not want for books to occupy my time.
A pleasant passage of about thirty hours, brought us to Halifax, at six
o'clock in the evening. In company with my friend the President of the
Oberlin Institute, I took a stroll through the town; and from what
little I saw of the people in the streets, I am sure that the taking of
the Temperance pledge would do them no injury. Our stay at Halifax was
short. Having taken in a few sacks of coals, the mails, and a limited
number of passengers, we were again out, and soon at sea. After a
pleasant run of seven days more, and as I was lying in my bed, I heard
the cry of "Land a-head." Although our passage had been unprecedentedly
short, yet I need not inform you that this news was hailed with joy by
all on board. For my own part, I was soon on deck. Away in the distance,
and on our larboard quarter, were the grey hills of Ireland. Yes! we
were in sight of the land of Emmett and O'Connell. While I rejoiced with
the other passengers at the sight of land, and the near approach to the
end of the voyage, I felt low spirited, because it reminded me of the
great distance I was from home. But the experience of above twenty
years' travelling, had prepared me to undergo what most persons must lay
their account with, in visiting a strange country. This was the last day
but one that we were to be on board; and as if moved by the sight of
land, all seemed to be gathering their different things
together--brushing up their old clothes and putting on their new ones,
as if this would bring them any sooner to the end of their journey.
The last night on board was the most pleasant, apparently, that we had
experienced; probably, because it was the last. The moon was in her
meridian splendour, pouring her broad light over the calm sea; while
near to us, on our starboard side, was a ship with her snow-white sails
spread aloft, and stealing through the water like a thing of life. What
can present a more picturesque view, than two vessels at sea on a
moonlight night, and within a few rods of each other? With a gentle
breeze, and the powerful engine at work, we seemed to be flying to the
embrace of our British neighbours.
The next morning I was up before the sun, and found that we were within
a few miles of Liverpool. The taking of a pilot on board at eleven
o'clock, warned us to prepare to quit our ocean palace and seek other
quarters. At a little past three o'clock, the ship cast anchor, and we
were all tumbled, bag and baggage, into a small steamer, and in a few
moments were at the door of the Custom-House. The passage had only been
nine days and twenty-two hours, the quickest on record at that time, yet
it was long enough. I waited nearly three hours before my name was
called, and when it was, I unlocked my trunks and handed them over to
one of the officers, whose dirty hands made no improvement on the work
of the laundress. First one article was taken out, and then another,
till an _Iron Collar_ that had been worn by a female slave on the banks
of the Mississippi, was hauled out, and this democratic instrument of
torture became the centre of attraction; so much so, that instead of
going on with the examination, all hands stopped to look at the "Negro
Collar."
Several of my countrymen who were standing by, were not a little
displeased at answers which I gave to questions on the subject of
Slavery; but they held their peace. The interest created by the
appearance of the Iron Collar, closed the examination of my luggage. As
if afraid that they would find something more hideous, they put the
Custom-House mark on each piece, and passed them out, and I was soon
comfortably installed at Brown's Temperance Hotel, Clayton Square.
No person of my complexion can visit this country without being struck
with the marked difference between the English and the Americans. The
prejudice which I have experienced on all and every occasion in the
United States, and to some extent on board the _Canada_, vanished as
soon as I set foot on the soil of Britain. In America I had been bought
and sold as a slave, in the Southern States. In the so-called free
States, I had been treated as one born to occupy an inferior
position,--in steamers, compelled to take my fare on the deck; in
hotels, to take my meals in the kitchen; in coaches, to ride on the
outside; in railways, to ride in the "negro car;" and in churches, to
sit in the "negro pew." But no sooner was I on British soil, than I was
recognised as a man, and an equal. The very dogs in the streets
appeared conscious of my manhood. Such is the difference, and such is
the change that is brought about by a trip of nine days in an Atlantic
steamer.
I was not more struck with the treatment of the people, than with the
appearance of the great seaport of the world. The grey appearance of the
stone piers and docks, the dark look of the magnificent warehouses, the
substantial appearance of every thing around, causes one to think
himself in a new world instead of the old. Every thing in Liverpool
looks old, yet nothing is worn out. The beautiful villas on the opposite
side of the river, in the vicinity of Birkenhead, together with the
countless number of vessels in the river, and the great ships to be seen
in the stream, give life and animation to the whole scene.
Every thing in and about Liverpool seems to be built for the future as
well as the present. We had time to examine but few of the public
buildings, the first of which was the Custom-House, an edifice that
would be an ornament to any city in the world.
For the first time in my life, I can say "I am truly free." My old
master may make his appearance here, with the Constitution of the United
States in his pocket, the Fugitive Slave Law in one hand and the chains
in the other, and claim me as his property, but all will avail him
nothing. I can here stand and look the tyrant in the face, and tell him
that I am his equal! England is, indeed, the "land of the free, and the
home of the brave."
LETTER II.
_Trip to Ireland--Dublin--Her Majesty's Visit--Illumination of the
City--the Birth-Place of Thomas Moore--a Reception._
DUBLIN, _August 6_.
After remaining in Liverpool two days, I took passage in the little
steamer _Adelaide_ for this city. The wind being high on the night of
our voyage, the vessel had scarcely got to sea ere we were driven to
our berths; and though the distance from Liverpool to Dublin is short,
yet, strange to say, I witnessed more effects of the sea and rolling of
the steamer upon the passengers, than was to be seen during the whole of
our voyage from America. We reached Kingstown, five miles below Dublin,
after a passage of nearly fifteen hours, and were soon seated on a car,
and on our way to the city. While coming into the bay, one gets a fine
view of Dublin and the surrounding country. Few sheets of water make a
more beautiful appearance than Dublin Bay. We found it as still and
smooth as a mirror, with a soft mist on its surface--a strange contrast
to the boisterous sea that we had left a moment before.
The curious phrases of the Irish sounded harshly upon my ear, probably,
because they were strange to me. I lost no time on reaching the city in
seeking out some to whom I had letters of introduction, one of whom gave
me an invitation to make his house my home during my stay, an invitation
which I did not think fit to decline.
Dublin, the Metropolis of Ireland, is a city of above two hundred
thousand inhabitants, and is considered by the people of Ireland to be
the second city in the British Empire. The Liffey, which falls into
Dublin Bay a little below the Custom-House, divides the town into two
nearly equal parts. The streets are--some of them--very fine, especially
upper Sackville Street, in the centre of which stands a pillar erected
to Nelson, England's most distinguished Naval Commander. The Bank of
Ireland, to which I paid a visit, is a splendid building, and was
formerly the Parliament House. This magnificent edifice fronts College
Green, and near at hand stands a bronze statue of William III. The Bank
and the Custom-House are two of the finest monuments of architecture in
the city; the latter of which stands near the river Liffey, and its
front makes an imposing appearance, extending to three hundred and
seventy-five feet. It is built of Portland stone, and is adorned with a
beautiful portico in the centre, consisting of four Doric columns
supporting an enriched entablature, decorated with a group of figures in
alto-relievo, representing Hibernia and Britannia presenting emblems of
peace and liberty. A magnificent dome, supporting a cupola, on whose
apex stands a colossal figure of Hope, rises nobly from the centre of
the building to a height of one hundred and twenty-five feet. It is,
withal, a fine specimen of what man can do.
From this noble edifice, we bent our steps to another part of the city,
and soon found ourselves in the vicinity of St. Patrick's, where we had
a heart-sickening view of the poorest of the poor. All the recollections
of poverty which I had ever beheld, seemed to disappear in comparison
with what was then before me. We passed a filthy and noisy market, where
fruit and vegetable women were screaming and begging those passing by to
purchase their commodities; while in and about the market-place were
throngs of beggars fighting for rotten fruit, cabbage stocks, and even
the very trimmings of vegetables. On the side walks, were great numbers
hovering about the doors of the more wealthy, and following strangers,
importuning them for "pence to buy bread." Sickly and emaciated-looking
creatures, half naked, were at our heels at every turn. After passing
through a half dozen, or more, of narrow and dirty streets, we returned
to our lodgings, impressed with the idea that we had seen enough of the
poor for one day.
In our return home, we passed through a respectable looking street, in
which stands a small three storey brick building, which was pointed out
to us as the birth-place of Thomas Moore, the poet. The following verse
from one of Moore's poems was continually in my mind while viewing this
house:--
"Where is the slave, so lowly,
Condemn'd to chains unholy,
Who, could he burst
His bonds at first,
Would pine beneath them slowly?"
* * * * *
Yesterday was the Sabbath, but it had more the appearance of a holiday
than a day of rest. It had been announced the day before, that the Royal
fleet was expected, and at an early hour on Sunday, the entire town
seemed to be on the move towards Kingstown, and as the family with whom
I was staying followed the multitude, I was not inclined to remain
behind, and so went with them. On reaching the station we found it
utterly impossible to get standing room in any of the trains, much less
a seat, and therefore determined to reach Kingstown under the plea of a
morning's walk; and in this we were not alone, for during the walk of
five miles the road was filled with thousands of pedestrians and a
countless number of carriages, phaetons, and vehicles of a more humble
order.
We reached the lower town in time to get a good dinner, and rest
ourselves before going to make further searches for Her Majesty's fleet.
At a little past four o'clock, we observed the multitude going towards
the pier, a number of whom were yelling at the top of their voices,
"It's coming, it's coming;" but on going to the quay, we found that a
false alarm had been given. However, we had been on the look-out but a
short time, when a column of smoke rising as it were out of the sea,
announced that the Royal fleet was near at hand. The concourse in the
vicinity of the pier was variously estimated at from eighty to one
hundred thousand.
It was not long before the five steamers were entering the harbour, the
one bearing Her Majesty leading the way. As each vessel had a number of
distinguished persons on board, the people appeared to be at a loss to
know which was the Queen; and as each party made its appearance on the
promenade deck, they were received with great enthusiasm, the party
having the best looking lady being received with the greatest applause.
The Prince of Wales, and Prince Alfred, while crossing the deck were
recognised and greeted with three cheers; the former taking off his hat
and bowing to the people, showed that he had had some training as a
public man although not ten years of age. But not so with Prince Alfred;
for, when his brother turned to him and asked him to take off his hat
and make a bow to the people, he shook his head and said, "No." This was
received with hearty laughter by those on board, and was responded to by
the thousands on shore. But greater applause was yet in store for the
young prince; for the captain of the steamer being near by, and seeing
that the Prince of Wales could not prevail on his brother to take off
his hat, stepped up to him and undertook to take it off for him, when,
seemingly to the delight of all, the prince put both hands to his head
and held his hat fast. This was regarded as a sign of courage and future
renown, and was received with the greatest enthusiasm--many crying out,
"Good, good: he will make a brave king when his day comes."
After the greetings and applause had been wasted on many who had
appeared on deck, all at once, as if by some magic power, we beheld a
lady rather small in stature, with auburn or reddish hair, attired in a
plain dress, and wearing a sky-blue bonnet, standing on the larboard
paddle-box, by the side of a tall good-looking man, with mustaches. The
thunders of applause that now rent the air, and cries of "The Queen, the
Queen," seemed to set at rest the question of which was Her Majesty. But
a few moments were allowed to the people to look at the Queen, before
she again disappeared; and it was understood that she would not be seen
again that evening. A rush was then made for the railway, to return to
Dublin.
* * * * *
_August 8_.
Yesterday was a great day in Dublin. At an early hour the bells began
their merry peals, and the people were soon seen in groups in the
streets and public squares. The hour of ten was fixed for the procession
to leave Kingstown, and it was expected to enter the city at eleven. The
windows of the houses in the streets through which the Royal train was
to pass, were at a premium, and seemed to find ready occupants.
Being invited the day previous to occupy part of a window in Upper
Sackville Street, I was stationed at my allotted place, at an early
hour, with an out-stretched neck and open eyes. My own colour differing
from those about me, I attracted not a little attention from many; and
often, when gazing down the street to see if the Royal procession was in
sight, would find myself eyed by all around. But neither while at the
window, or in the streets, was I once insulted. This was so unlike the
American prejudice, that it seemed strange to me. It was near twelve
o'clock before the procession entered Sackville Street, and when it did
all eyes seemed to beam with delight. The first carriage contained only
Her Majesty and the Prince Consort; the second, the Royal children; and
the third, the Lords in Waiting. Fifteen carriages were used by those
that made up the Royal party. I had a full view of the Queen and all who
followed in the train. Her Majesty--whether from actual love for her
person, or the novelty of the occasion, I know not which--was received
everywhere with the greatest enthusiasm. One thing, however, is certain,
and that is--Queen Victoria is beloved by her subjects.
But the grand _fete_ was reserved for the evening. Great preparations
had been made to have a grand illumination on the occasion, and hints
were thrown out that it would surpass anything ever witnessed in London.
In this they were not far out of the way; for all who witnessed the
scene admitted that it could scarcely have been surpassed. My own idea
of an illumination, as I had seen it in the backwoods of my own native
land, dwindled into nothing when compared with this magnificent affair.
In company with a few friends, and a lady under my charge, I undertook
to pass through Sackville and one or two other streets, about eight
o'clock in the evening, but we found it utterly impossible to proceed.
Masses thronged the streets, and the wildest enthusiasm seemed to
prevail. In our attempt to cross the bridge, we were wedged in and lost
our companions; and on one occasion I was separated from the lady, and
took shelter under a cart standing in the street. After being jammed and
pulled about for nearly two hours, I returned to my lodgings, where I
found part of my company, who had come in one after another. At eleven
o'clock we had all assembled, and each told his adventures and
"hairbreadth escapes;" and nearly every one had lost a pocket
handkerchief or something of the kind: my own was among the missing.
However, I lost nothing; for a benevolent lady, who happened to be one
of the company, presented me with one which was of far more value than
the one I had lost.
Every one appeared to enjoy the holiday which the Royal visit had
caused. But the Irish are indeed a strange people. How varied their
aspect--how contradictory their character. Ireland, the land of genius
and degradation--of great resources and unparalleled poverty--noble
deeds and the most revolting crimes--the land of distinguished poets,
splendid orators, and the bravest of soldiers--the land of ignorance and
beggary! Dublin is a splendid city, but its splendour is that of
chiselled marble rather than real life. One cannot behold these
architectural monuments without thinking of the great men that Ireland
has produced. The names of Burke, Sheridan, Flood, Grattan, O'Connell,
and Shiel, have become as familiar to the Americans as household words.
Burke is known as the statesman; Sheridan for his great speech on the
trial of Warren Hastings; Grattan for his eloquence; O'Connell as the
agitator; and Shiel as the accomplished orator.
But of Ireland's sons, none stands higher in America than Thomas Moore,
the Poet. The vigour of his sarcasm, the glow of his enthusiasm, the
coruscations of his fancy, and the flashing of his wit, seem to be as
well understood in the new world as the old; and the support which his
pen has given to civil and religious liberty throughout the world,
entitled the Minstrel of Erin to this elevated position.
Before leaving America I had heard much of the friends of my enslaved
countrymen residing in Ireland; and the reception I met with on all
hands while in public, satisfied me that what I had heard had not been
exaggerated. To the Webbs, Allens, and Haughtons, of Dublin, the cause
of the American slave is much indebted.
I quitted Dublin with a feeling akin to leaving my native land.
LETTER III.
_Departure from Ireland--London--Trip to Paris--Paris--The Peace
Congress: first day--Church of the Madeleine--Column Vendome--the
French._
PARIS, _August 23_.
After a pleasant sojourn of three weeks in Ireland, I took passage in
one of the mail steamers for Liverpool, and arriving there was soon on
the road to the metropolis. The passage from Dublin to Liverpool was an
agreeable one. The rough sea that we passed through on going to Ireland
had given way to a dead calm, and our noble little steamer, on quitting
the Dublin wharf, seemed to understand that she was to have it all her
own way. During the first part of the evening, the boat appeared to feel
her importance, and, darting through the water with majestic strides,
she left behind her a dark cloud of smoke suspended in the air like a
banner; while, far astern in the wake of the vessel, could be seen the
rippled waves sparkling in the rays of the moon, giving strength and
beauty to the splendour of the evening.
On reaching Liverpool, and partaking of a good breakfast, for which we
paid double price, we proceeded to the railway station, and were soon
going at a rate unknown to those accustomed to travel on one of our
American railways. At a little past two o'clock in the afternoon, we saw
in the distance the out-skirts of London. We could get but an indistinct
view, which had the appearance of one architectural mass, extending all
round to the horizon, and enveloped in a combination of fog and smoke;
and towering above every other object to be seen, was the dome of St.
Paul's Cathedral.
A few moments more, and we were safely seated in a "Hansom's Patent,"
and on our way to Hughes's--one of the politest men of the George Fox
stamp we have ever met. Here we found forty or fifty persons, who, like
ourselves, were bound for the Peace Congress. The Sturges, the Wighams,
the Richardsons, the Allens, the Thomases, and a host of others not less
distinguished as friends of peace, were of the company--many of whom I
had heard of, but none of whom I had ever seen; yet I was not an entire
stranger to many, especially to the abolitionists. In company with a
friend, I sallied forth after tea to take a view of the city. The
evening was fine--the dense fog and smoke having to some extent passed
away, left the stars shining brightly, while the gas light from the
street lamps and the brilliant shop windows gave it the appearance of
day-light in a new form. "What street is this?" we asked. "Cheapside,"
was the reply. The street was thronged, and every body seemed to be
going at a rapid rate, as if there was something of importance at the
end of the journey. Flying vehicles of every description passing each
other with a dangerous rapidity, men with lovely women at their sides,
children running about as if they had lost their parents--all gave a
brilliancy to the scene scarcely to be excelled. If one wished to get
jammed and pushed about, he need go no farther than Cheapside. But every
thing of the kind is done with a degree of propriety in London, that
would put the New Yorkers to blush. If you are run over in London, they
"beg your pardon;" if they run over you in New York, you are "laughed
at:" in London, if your hat is knocked off it is picked up and handed to
you; if, in New York, you must pick it up yourself. There is a lack of
good manners among Americans that is scarcely known or understood in
Europe. Our stay in the great metropolis gave us but little opportunity
of seeing much of the place; for in twenty-four hours after our arrival
we joined the rest of the delegates, and started on our visit to our
Gallic neighbours.
We assembled at the London Bridge Railway Station on Tuesday morning the
21st, a few minutes past nine, to the number of 600. The day was fine,
and every eye seemed to glow with enthusiasm. Besides the delegates,
there were probably not less than 600 more, who had come to see the
company start. We took our seats and appeared to be waiting for nothing
but the iron-horse to be fastened to the train, when all at once, we
were informed that we must go to the booking-office and change our
tickets. At this news every one appeared to be vexed. This caused great
trouble; for on returning to the train many persons got into the wrong
carriages; and several parties were separated from their friends, while
not a few were calling out at the top of their voices, "Where is my
wife? Where is my husband? Where is my luggage? Who's got my boy? Is
this the right train?" "What is that lady going to do with all these
children?" asked the guard. "Is she a delegate: are all the children
delegates?" In the carriage where I had taken my seat was a
good-looking lady who gave signs of being very much annoyed. "It is just
so when I am going anywhere: I never saw the like in my life," said she.
"I really wish I was at home again."
An hour had now elapsed, and we were still at the station. However, we
were soon on our way, and going at express speed. In passing through
Kent we enjoyed the scenery exceedingly, as the weather was altogether
in our favour; and the drapery which nature hung on the trees, in the
part through which we passed, was in all its gaiety. On our arrival at
Folkstone, we found three steamers in readiness to convey the party to
Boulogne. As soon as the train stopped, a general rush was made for the
steamers; and in a very short time the one in which I had embarked was
passing out of the harbour. The boat appeared to be conscious that we
were going on a holy mission, and seemed to be proud of her load. There
is nothing in this wide world so like a thing of life as a steamer, from
the breathing of her steam and smoke, the energy of her motion, and the
beauty of her shape; while the ease with which she is managed by the
command of a single voice, makes her appear as obedient as the horse is
to the rein.
When we were about half way between the two great European Powers, the
officers began to gather the tickets. The first to whom he applied, and
who handed out his "Excursion Ticket," was informed that we were all in
the wrong boat. "Is this not one of the boats to take over the
delegates?" asked a pretty little lady, with a whining voice. "No,
Madam," said the captain. "You must look to the committee for your pay,"
said one of the company to the captain. "I have nothing to do with
committees," the captain replied. "Your fare, Gentlemen, if you please."
Here the whole party were again thrown into confusion. "Do you hear
that? We are in the wrong boat." "I knew it would be so," said the Rev.
Dr. Ritchie, of Edinburgh. "It is indeed a pretty piece of work," said a
plain-looking lady in a handsome bonnet. "When I go travelling again,"
said an elderly looking gent with an eye-glass to his face, "I will take
the phaeton and old Dobbin." Every one seemed to lay the blame on the
committee, and not, too, without some just grounds. However, Mr. Sturge,
one of the committee, being in the boat with us, an arrangement was
entered into, by which we were not compelled to pay our fare the second
time.
As we neared the French coast, the first object that attracted our
attention was the Napoleon Pillar, on the top of which is a statue of
the Emperor in the Imperial robes. We landed, partook of refreshment
that had been prepared for us, and again repaired to the railway
station. The arrangements for leaving Boulogne were no better than those
at London. But after the delay of another hour, we were again in motion.
It was a beautiful country through which we passed from Boulogne to
Amiens. Straggling cottages which bespeak neatness and comfort abound on
every side. The eye wanders over the diversified views with unabated
pleasure, and rests in calm repose upon its superlative beauty. Indeed,
the eye cannot but be gratified at viewing the entire country from the
coast to the metropolis. Sparkling hamlets spring up as the steam horse
speeds his way, at almost every point--showing the progress of
civilization, and the refinement of the nineteenth century.
We arrived at Paris a few minutes past twelve o'clock at night, when,
according to our tickets, we should have been there at nine. Elihu
Burritt, who had been in Paris some days, and who had the arrangements
there pretty much his own way, was at the station waiting the arrival of
the train, and we had demonstrated to us, the best evidence that he
understood his business. In no other place on the whole route had the
affairs been so well managed; for we were seated in our respective
carriages and our luggage placed on the top, and away we went to our
hotels without the least difficulty or inconvenience. The champion of an
"Ocean Penny Postage" received, as he deserved, thanks from the whole
company for his admirable management.
The silence of the night was only disturbed by the rolling of the wheels
of the omnibus, as we passed through the dimly lighted streets. Where, a
few months before was to be seen the flash from the cannon and the
musket, and the hearing of the cries and groans behind the barricades,
was now the stillness of death--nothing save here and there a _gens
d'arme_ was to be seen going his rounds in silence.
The omnibus set us down at the hotel Bedford, Rue de L'Arend, where,
although near one o'clock, we found a good supper waiting for us; and,
as I was not devoid of an appetite, I did my share towards putting it
out of the way.
The next morning I was up at an early hour, and out on the Boulevards to
see what might be seen. As I was passing from the Bedford to the Place
de La Concord, all at once, and as if by some magic power, I found
myself in front of the most splendid edifice imaginable, situated at the
end of the Rue Nationale. Seeing a number of persons entering the church
at that early hour, and recognising among them my friend the President
of the Oberlin (Ohio) Institute, and wishing not to stray too far from
my hotel before breakfast, I followed the crowd and entered the
building. The church itself consisted of a vast nave, interrupted by
four pews on each side, fronted with lofty fluted Corinthian columns
standing on pedestals, supporting colossal arches, bearing up cupolas,
pierced with skylights and adorned with compartments gorgeously gilt;
their corners supported with saints and apostles in _alto relievo_. The
walls of the church were lined with rich marble. The different paintings
and figures, gave the interior an imposing appearance. On inquiry, I
found that I was in the Church of the Madeleine. It was near this spot
that some of the most interesting scenes occurred during the Revolution
of 1848, which dethroned Louis Philippe. Behind the Madeleine is a small
but well supplied market; and on an esplanade east of the edifice, a
flower market is held on Tuesdays and Fridays.
* * * * *
The first session of the Peace Congress is over.
The Congress met this morning at 11 o'clock, in the Salle St. Cecile,
Rue de la St. Lazare. The Parisians have no "Exeter Hall:" in fact,
there is no private hall in the city of any size, save this, where such
a meeting could be held. This hall has been fitted up for the occasion.
The room is long, and at one end has a raised platform; and at the
opposite end is a gallery, with seats raised one above another. On one
side of the hall was a balcony with sofas, which were evidently the
"reserved seats."
The hall was filled at an early hour with the delegates, their friends,
and a good sprinkling of the French. Occasionally, small groups of
gentlemen would make their appearance on the platform, until it soon
appeared that there was little room left for others; and yet the
officers of the Convention had not come in. The different countries
were, many of them, represented here. England, France, Belgium, Germany,
Switzerland, Greece, Spain, and the United States, had each their
delegates. The Assembly began to give signs of impatience, when very
soon the train of officials made their appearance amid great applause.
Victor Hugo led the way, followed by M. Duguerry, curé of the Madeleine,
Elihu Burritt, and a host of others of less note. Victor Hugo took the
chair as President of the Congress, supported by Vice-presidents from
the several nations represented. Mr. Richard, the Secretary, read a dry
report of the names of societies, committees, &c., which was deemed the
opening of the Convention.
The President then arose, and delivered one of the most impressive and
eloquent appeals in favour of peace that could possibly be imagined. The
effect produced upon the minds of all present was such as to make the
author of "_Notre Dame de Paris_" a great favourite with the Congress.
An English gentleman near me said to his friend, "I can't understand a
word of what he says, but is it not good?" Victor Hugo concluded his
speech amid the greatest enthusiasm on the part of the French, which was
followed by hurrahs in the old English style. The Convention was
successively addressed by the President of the Brussels Peace Society;
President Mahan of the Oberlin (Ohio) Institute, U.S.; Henry Vincent;
and Richard Cobden. The latter was not only the _lion_ of the English
delegation, but the great man of the Convention. When Mr. Cobden speaks,
there is no want of hearers. The great power of this gentleman lies in
his facts and his earnestness, for he cannot be called an eloquent
speaker. Mr. Cobden addressed the Congress first in French, then in
English; and, with the single exception of Mr. Ewart, M.P., was the only
one of the English delegation that could speak to the French in their
own language.
The Congress was brought to a close at five o'clock, when the numerous
audience dispersed--the citizens to their homes, and the delegates to
see the sights.
I was not a little amused at an incident that occurred at the close of
the first session. On the passage from America, there were in the same
steamer with me, several Americans, and among these, three or four
appeared to be much annoyed at the fact that I was a passenger, and
enjoying the company of white persons; and although I was not openly
insulted, I very often heard the remark, that "That nigger had better be
on his master's farm," and "What could the American Peace Society be
thinking about to send a black man as a delegate to Paris." Well, at the
close of the first sitting of the Convention, and just as I was leaving
Victor Hugo, to whom I had been introduced by an M.P., I observed near
me a gentleman with his hat in hand, whom I recognized as one of the
passengers who had crossed the Atlantic with me in the _Canada_, and who
appeared to be the most horrified at having a negro for a fellow
passenger. This gentleman, as I left M. Hugo, stepped up to me and said,
"How do you do, Mr. Brown?" "You have the advantage of me," said I. "Oh,
don't you know me; I was a fellow passenger with you from America; I
wish you would give me an introduction to Victor Hugo and Mr. Cobden." I
need not inform you that I declined introducing this pro-slavery
American to these distinguished men. I only allude to this, to show what
a change comes over the dreams of my white American brother, by crossing
the ocean. The man who would not have been seen walking with me in the
streets of New York, and who would not have shaken hands with me with a
pair of tongs while on the passage from the United States, could come
with hat in hand in Paris, and say, "I was your fellow-passenger." From
the Salle de St. Cecile, I visited the Column Vendome, from the top of
which I obtained a fine view of Paris and its environs. This is the
Bunker Hill Monument of Paris. On the top of this pillar is a statue of
the Emperor Napoleon, eleven feet high. The monument is built with
stone, and the outside covered with a metallic composition, made of
cannons, guns, spikes, and other warlike implements taken from the
Russians and Austrians by Napoleon. Above 1200 cannons were melted down
to help to create this monument of folly, to commemorate the success of
the French arms in the German Campaign. The column is in imitation of
the Trajan pillar at Rome, and is twelve feet in diameter at the base.
The door at the bottom of the pillar, and where we entered, was
decorated above with crowns of oak, surmounted by eagles, each weighing
500 lbs. The bas-relief of the shaft pursues a spiral direction to the
capitol, and displays, in a chronological order, the principal actions
of the French army, from the departure of the troops from Boulogne to
the battle of Austerlitz. The figures are near three feet high, and
their number said to be two thousand. This sumptuous monument stands on
a plinth of polished granite, surmounted by an iron railing; and, from
its size and position, has an imposing appearance when seen from any
part of the city.
Everything here appears strange and peculiar--the people not less so
than their speech. The horses, carriages, furniture, dress, and manners,
are in keeping with their language. The appearance of the labourers in
caps, resembling nightcaps, seemed particularly strange to me. The women
without bonnets, and their caps turned the right side behind, had
nothing of the look of our American women. The prettiest woman I ever
saw was without a bonnet, walking on the Boulevards. While in Ireland,
and during the few days I was in England, I was struck with the marked
difference between the appearance of the women from those of my own
country. The American women are too tall, too sallow, and too
long-featured to be called pretty. This is most probably owing to the
fact that in America the people come to maturity earlier than in most
other countries.
My first night in Paris was spent with interest. No place can present
greater street attractions than the Boulevards of Paris. The countless
number of cafés, with tables before the doors, and these surrounded by
men with long moustaches, with ladies at their sides, whose very smiles
give indication of happiness, together with the sound of music from the
gardens in the rear, tell the stranger that he is in a different country
from his own.
LETTER IV.
_Versailles--The Palace--Second Session of the Congress--Mr.
Cobden--Henry Vincent--M. Girardin--Abbe Duguerry--Victor Hugo: his
Speech._
VERSAILLES, _August 24_.
After the Convention had finished its sittings yesterday, I accompanied
Mrs. M. C---- and sisters to Versailles, where they are residing during
the summer. It was really pleasing to see among the hundreds of strange
faces in the Convention, those distinguished friends of the slave from
Boston.
Mrs. C----'s residence is directly in front of the great palace where
so many kings have made their homes, the prince of whom was Louis XIV.
The palace is now unoccupied. No ruler has dared to take up his
residence here since Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette were driven from it
by the mob from Paris on the 8th of October, 1789. The town looks like
the wreck of what it once was. At the commencement of the first
revolution, it contained one hundred thousand inhabitants; now it has
only about thirty thousand. It seems to be going back to what it was in
the time of Louis XIII., when in 1624 he built a small brick chateau,
and from it arose the magnificent palace which now stands here, and
which attracts strangers to it from all parts of the world.
I arose this morning before the sun, and took a walk through the grounds
of the Palace, and remained three hours among the fountains and statuary
of this more than splendid place. But as I intend spending some days
here, and shall have better opportunities of seeing and judging, I will
defer my remarks upon Versailles for the present.
Yesterday was a great day in the Congress. The session was opened by a
speech from M. Coquerel, the Protestant clergyman in Paris. His speech
was received with much applause, and seemed to create great sensation in
the Congress, especially at the close of his remarks, when he was seized
by the hand by the Abbe Duguerry, amid the most deafening and
enthusiastic applause of the entire multitude. The meeting was then
addressed in English by a short gentleman, of florid complexion. His
words seemed to come without the least difficulty, and his jestures,
though somewhat violent, were evidently studied; and the applause with
which he was greeted by the English delegation, showed that he was a man
of no little distinction among them. His speech was one continuous flow
of rapid, fervid eloquence, that seemed to fire every heart; and
although I disliked his style, I was prepossessed in his favour. This
was Henry Vincent, and his speech was in favour of disarmament.
Mr. Vincent was followed by M. Emile de Girardin, the editor of _La
Presse_, in one of the most eloquent speeches that I ever heard; and his
exclamation of "Soldiers of Peace," drew thunders of applause from his
own countrymen. M. Girardin is not only the leader of the French press,
but is a writer on politics of great distinction, and a leader of no
inconsiderable party in the National Assembly; although still a young
man, apparently not more than thirty-eight or forty years of age.
After a speech from Mr. Ewart, M.P., in French, and another from Mr.
Cobden in the same language, the Convention was brought to a close for
the day. I spent the morning yesterday, in visiting some of the lions of
the French capital, among which was the Louvre. The French Government
having kindly ordered, that the members of the Peace Congress should be
admitted free, and without ticket, to all the public works, I had
nothing to do but present my card of membership, and was immediately
admitted.
The first room I entered, was nearly a quarter of a mile in length; is
known as the "Long Gallery," and contains some of the finest paintings
in the world. On entering this superb palace, my first impression was,
that all Christendom had been robbed, that the Louvre might make a
splendid appearance. This is the Italian department, and one would
suppose by its appearance that but few paintings had been left in Italy.
The entrance end of the Louvre was for a long time in an unfinished
state, but was afterwards completed by that master workman, the Emperor
Napoleon. It was long thought that the building would crumble into
decay, but the genius of the great Corsican rescued it from ruin.
During our walk through the Louvre, we saw some twenty or thirty artists
copying paintings; some had their copies finished and were going out,
others half done, while many had just commenced. I remained some minutes
near a pretty French girl, who was copying a painting of a dog rescuing
a child from a stream of water into which it had fallen.
I walked down one side of the hall and up the other, and was about
leaving, when I was informed that this was only one room, and that a
half-dozen more were at my service; but a clock on a neighbouring church
reminded me that I must quit the Louvre for the Salle de St. Cecile.
* * * * *
This morning the Hall was filled at an early hour with rather a more
fashionable looking audience than on any former occasion, and all
appeared anxious for the Congress to commence its session, as it was
understood to be the last day. After the reading of several letters from
gentlemen, apologising for their not being able to attend, the speech of
Elihu Burritt was read by a son of M. Coquerel. I felt somewhat
astonished that my countryman, who was said to be master of fifty
languages, had to get some one to read his speech in French.
The Abbe Duguerry now came forward amid great cheering, and said that
"the eminent journalist, Girardin, and the great English logician, Mr.
Cobden, had made it unnecessary for any further advocacy in that
assembly of the Peace cause--that if the principles laid down in the
resolutions were carried out, the work would be done. He said that the
question of general pacification was built on truth--truth which
emanated from God--and it were as vain to undertake to prevent air from
expanding as to check the progress of truth. It must and would
prevail."
A pale, thin-faced gentleman next ascended the platform (or tribune, as
it was called) amid shouts of applause from the English, and began his
speech in rather a low tone, when compared with the sharp voice of
Vincent, or the thunder of the Abbe Duguerry. An audience is not apt to
be pleased or even contented with an inferior speaker, when surrounded
by eloquent men, and I looked every moment for manifestations of
disapprobation, as I felt certain that the English delegation had made a
mistake in applauding this gentleman who seemed to make such an
unpromising beginning. But the speaker soon began to get warm on the
subject, and even at times appeared as if he had spoken before. In a
very short time, with the exception of his own voice, the stillness of
death prevailed throughout the building. The speaker, in the delivery of
one of the most logical speeches made in the Congress, and despite of
his thin, sallow look, interested me much more than any whom I had
before heard. Towards the close of his remarks, he was several times
interrupted by manifestations of approbation; and finally concluded amid
great cheering. I inquired the gentleman's name, and was informed that
it was Edward Miall, editor of the _Nonconformist_.
After speeches from several others, the great Peace Congress of 1849,
which had brought men together from nearly all the governments of
Europe, and many from America, was brought to a final close by a speech
from the President, returning thanks for the honour that had been
conferred upon him. He said, "My address shall be short, and yet I have
to bid you adieu! How resolve to do so? Here, during three days, have
questions of the deepest import been discussed, examined, probed to the
bottom; and during these discussions, counsels have been given to
governments which they will do well to profit by. If these days'
sittings are attended with no other result, they will be the means of
sowing in the minds of those present, gems of cordiality which must
ripen into good fruit. England, France, Belgium, Europe, and America,
would all be drawn closer by these sittings. Yet the moment to part has
arrived, but I can feel that we are strongly united in heart. But before
parting I may congratulate you and myself on the result of our
proceedings. We have been all joined together without distinction of
country; we have all been united in one common feeling during our three
days' communion. The good work cannot go back, it must advance, it must
be accomplished. The course of the future may be judged of by the sound
of the footsteps of the past. In the course of that day's discussion, a
reminiscence had been handed up to one of the speakers, that this was
the anniversary of the dreadful massacre of St. Bartholomew: the rev.
gentleman who was speaking turned away from the thought of that
sanguinary scene with pious horror, natural to his sacred calling. But
I, who may boast of firmer nerve, I take up the remembrance. Yes, it was
on this day, two hundred and seventy-seven years ago, that Paris was
roused from slumber by the sound of that bell which bore the name of
_cloche d'argent_. Massacre was on foot, seeking with keen eye for its
victim--man was busy in slaying man. That slaughter was called forth by
mingled passions of the worst description. Hatred of all kinds was there
urging on the slayer--hatred of a religious, a political, a personal
character. And yet on the anniversary of that same day of horror, and in
that very city whose blood was flowing like water, has God this day
given a rendezvous to men of peace, whose wild tumult is transformed
into order, and animosity into love. The stain of blood is blotted out,
and in its place beams forth a ray of holy light. All distinctions are
removed, and Papist and Huguenot meet together in friendly communion.
(Loud cheers.) Who that thinks of these amazing changes can doubt of the
progress that has been made? But whoever denies the force of progress
must deny God, since progress is the boon of Providence, and emanated
from the great Being above. I feel gratified for the change that has
been effected, and, pointing solemnly to the past, I say let this day be
ever held memorable--let the 24th of August, 1572, be remembered only
for the purpose of being compared with the 24th of August, 1849; and
when we think of the latter, and ponder over the high purpose to which
it has been devoted--the advocacy of the principles of peace--let us not
be so wanting in reliance on Providence as to doubt for one moment of
the eventful success of our holy cause."
The most enthusiastic cheers followed this interesting speech. A vote of
thanks to the government, and three times three cheers, with Mr. Cobden
as "fugleman," ended the great Peace Congress of 1849.
Time for separating had arrived, yet all seemed unwilling to leave the
place, where for three days men of all creeds and of no creed had met
upon one common platform. In one sense the meeting was a glorious
one--in another, it was mere child's play; for the Congress had been
restricted to the discussion of certain topics. They were permitted to
dwell on the blessings of peace, but were not allowed to say anything
about the very subjects above all others that should have been brought
before the Congress. A French army had invaded Rome and put down the
friends of political and religious freedom, yet not a word was said in
reference to it. The fact is, the Committee permitted the Congress to
be _gagged_, before it had met. They put padlocks upon their own mouths,
and handed the keys to the government. And this was sorely felt by many
of the speakers. Richard Cobden, who had thundered his anathemas against
the Corn Laws of his own country, and against wars in every clime, had
to sit quiet in his fetters. Henry Vincent, who can make a louder speech
in favour of peace, than almost any other man, and whose denunciations
of "all war," have gained him no little celebrity with peace men, had to
confine himself to the blessings of peace. Oh! how I wished for a
Massachusetts atmosphere, a New England Convention platform, with
Wendell Phillips as the speaker, before that assembled multitude from
all parts of the world.
But the Congress is over, and cannot now be made different; yet it is to
be hoped that neither the London Peace Committee, nor any other men
having the charge of getting up such another great meeting, will commit
such an error again.
LETTER V.
_M. de Tocqueville's Grand Soiree--Madame de Tocqueville--Visit of the
Peace Delegates to Versailles--The Breakfast--Speechmaking--The
Trianons--Waterworks--St. Cloud--The Fête._
VERSAILLES, _August 24_.
The day after the close of the Congress, the delegates and their friends
were invited to a soirée by M. de Tocqueville, Minister for Foreign
Affairs, to take place on the next evening (Saturday); and, as my
coloured face and curly hair did not prevent my getting an invitation, I
was present with the rest of my peace brethren.
Had I been in America, where colour is considered a crime, I would not
have been seen at such a gathering, unless as a servant. In company with
several delegates, we left the Bedford Hotel for the mansion of the
Minister of Foreign Affairs; and, on arriving, we found a file of
soldiers drawn up before the gate. This did not seem much like peace:
however, it was merely done in honour of the company. We entered the
building through massive doors and resigned ourselves into the hands of
good-looking waiters in white wigs; and, after our names were duly
announced, were passed from room to room till I was presented to Madame
de Tocqueville, who was standing near the centre of the large
drawing-room, with a bouquet in her hand. I was about passing on, when
the gentleman who introduced me intimated that I was an "American
slave." At the announcement of this fact the distinguished lady extended
her hand and gave me a cordial welcome--at the same time saying, "I hope
you feel yourself free in Paris." Having accepted an invitation to a
seat by the lady's side, who seated herself on a sofa, I was soon what I
most dislike, "the observed of all observers." I recognised among many
of my own countrymen, who were gazing at me, the American Consul, Mr.
Walsh. My position did not improve his looks. The company present on
this occasion were variously estimated at from one thousand to fifteen
hundred. Among these were the Ambassadors from the different countries
represented at the French metropolis, and many of the _elite_ of Paris.
One could not but be interested with the difference in dress, looks, and
manners of this assemblage of strangers whose language was as different
as their general appearance. Delight seemed to beam in every countenance
as the living stream floated from one room to another. The house and
gardens were illuminated in the most gorgeous manner. Red, yellow, blue,
green, and many other coloured lamps, suspended from the branches of the
trees in the gardens, gave life and animation to the whole scene out of
doors. The soirée passed off satisfactorily to all parties; and by
twelve o'clock I was again at my Hotel.
* * * * *
Through the politeness of the government the members of the Congress
have not only had the pleasure of seeing all the public works free, and
without special ticket, but the palaces of Versailles and St. Cloud,
together with their splendid grounds, have been thrown open, and the
water-works set to playing in both places. This mark of respect for the
Peace movement is commendable in the French; and were I not such a
strenuous friend of free speech, this act would cause me to overlook the
padlocks that the government put upon our lips in the Congress.
Two long trains left Paris at nine o'clock for Versailles; and at each
of the stations the company were loudly cheered by the people who had
assembled to see them pass. At Versailles, we found thousands at the
station, who gave us a most enthusiastic welcome. We were blessed with a
goodly number of the fair sex, who always give life and vigour to such
scenes. The train had scarcely stopped, ere the great throng were
wending their ways in different directions, some to the cafés to get
what an early start prevented their getting before leaving Paris, and
others to see the soldiers who were on review. But most bent their steps
towards the great palace.
At eleven o'clock we were summoned to the _dejeuner_, which had been
prepared by the English delegates in honour of their American friends.
About six hundred sat down at the tables. Breakfast being ended, Mr.
Cobden was called to the chair, and several speeches were made. Many
who had not an opportunity to speak at the Congress, thought this a
good chance; and the written addresses which had been studied during the
passage from America, with the hope that they would immortalize their
authors before the great Congress, were produced at the breakfast table.
But speech-making was not the order of the day. Too many thundering
addresses had been delivered in the Salle de St. Cecile, to allow the
company to sit and hear dryly written and worse delivered speeches in
the Teniscourt.
There was no limited time given to the speakers, yet no one had been on
his feet five minutes, before the cry was heard from all parts of the
house, "Time, time." One American was hissed down, another took his seat
with a red face, and a third opened his bundle of paper, looked around
at the audience, made a bow, and took his seat amid great applause. Yet
some speeches were made, and to good effect, the best of which was by
Elihu Burritt, who was followed by the Rev. James Freeman Clark. I
regretted very much that the latter did not deliver his address before
the Congress, for he is a man of no inconsiderable talent, and an
acknowledged friend of the slave.
The cry of "The water-works are playing," "The water is on," broke up
the meeting, without even a vote of thanks to the Chairman; and the
whole party were soon revelling among the fountains and statues of Louis
XIV. Description would fail to give a just idea of the grandeur and
beauty of this splendid place. I do not think that any thing can surpass
the fountain of Neptune, which stands near the Grand Trianon. One may
easily get lost in wandering through the grounds of Versailles, but he
will always be in sight of some life-like statue. These monuments,
erected to gratify the fancy of a licentious king, make their appearance
at every turn. Two lions, the one overturning a wild boar, the other a
wolf, both the production of Fillen, pointed out to us the fountain of
Diana. But I will not attempt to describe to you any of the very
beautiful sculptured gods and goddesses here.
With a single friend I paid a visit to the two Trianons. The larger was,
we were told, just as king Louis Philippe left it. One room was
splendidly fitted up for the reception of Her Majesty Queen Victoria;
who, it appeared, had promised a visit to the French Court; but the
French Monarch ran away from his throne before the time arrived. The
Grand Trianon is not larger than many noblemen's seats that may be seen
in a day's ride through any part of the British empire. The building has
only a ground floor, but its proportions are very elegant.
We next paid our respects to the Little Trianon. This appears to be the
most Republican of any of the French palaces. I inspected this little
palace with much interest, not more for its beauty than because of its
having been the favourite residence of that purest of Princesses, best
of Queens, and most affectionate of mothers, Marie Antoinette. The
grounds and building may be said to be only a palace in miniature, and
this makes it still a more lovely spot. The building consists of a
square pavilion two stories high, and separated entirely from the
accessory buildings, which are on the left, and among them a pretty
chapel. But a wish to be with the multitude, who were roving among the
fountains, cut short my visit to the trianons.
The day was very fine, and the whole party seemed to enjoy it. It was
said that there were more than one hundred thousand persons at
Versailles during the day. The company appeared to lose themselves with
the pleasure of walking among the trees, flower beds, fountains, and
statues. I met more than one wife seeking a lost husband, and _vice
versa_. Many persons were separated from their friends and did not meet
them again till at the hotels in Paris. In the train returning to Paris,
an old gentleman who was seated near me said, "I would rest contented if
I thought I should ever see my wife again!"
At four o'clock we were _en route_ to St. Cloud, the much loved and
favourite residence of the Emperor Napoleon. It seemed that all Paris
had come out to St. Cloud to see how the English and Americans would
enjoy the playing of the water-works. Many kings and rulers of the
French have made St. Cloud their residence, but none have impressed
their images so indelibly upon it as Napoleon. It was here he was first
elevated to power, and here Josephine spent her most happy hours.
The apartments where Napoleon was married to Marie Louise; the private
rooms of Josephine and Marie Antoinette, were all in turn shown to us.
While standing on the balcony looking at Paris one cannot wonder that
the Emperor should have selected this place as his residence, for a more
lovely spot cannot be found than St. Cloud.
The palace is on the side of a hill, two leagues from Paris, and so
situated that it looks down upon the French capital. Standing, as we
did, viewing Paris from St. Cloud, and the setting sun reflecting upon
the domes, spires, and towers of the city of fashion, made us feel that
this was the place from which the monarch should watch his subjects.
From the hour of arrival at St. Cloud till near eight o'clock, we were
either inspecting the splendid palace or roaming the grounds and
gardens, whose beautiful walks and sweet flowers made it appear a very
Paradise on earth.
At eight o'clock the water-works were put in motion, and the variagated
lamps with their many devices, displaying flowers, stars, and wheels,
all with a brilliancy that can scarcely be described, seemed to throw
everything in the shade we had seen at Versailles. At nine o'clock the
train was announced, and after a good deal of jamming and pushing about,
we were again on the way to Paris.
LETTER VI.
_The Tuileries--Place de la Concorde--The Egyptian Obelisk--Palais
Royal--Residence of Robespierre--A Visit to the Room in which Charlotte
Corday killed Marat--Church de Notre Dame--Palais de Justice--Hotel des
Invalids--National Assembly--The Elysee._
PARIS, _August 28_.
Yesterday morning I started at an early hour for the Palace of the
Tuileries. A show of my card of membership of the Congress (which had
carried me through so many of the public buildings) was enough to gain
me immediate admission. The attack of the mob on the palace, on the 20th
of June, 1792, the massacre of the Swiss guard on the 10th of August of
the same year, the attack by the people in July 1830, together with the
recent flight of king Louis Philippe and family, made me anxious to
visit the old pile.
We were taken from room to room, until the entire building had been
inspected. In front of the Tuileries, are a most magnificent garden and
grounds. These were all laid out by Louis XIV., and are left nearly as
they were during that monarch's reign. Above fifty acres surrounded by
an iron rail fence, fronts the Place de la Concorde, and affords a place
of promenade for the Parisians. I walked the pleasing grounds, and saw
hundreds of well dressed persons walking under the shade of the great
chestnuts, or sitting on chairs which were kept to let at two sous a
piece. Near by is the Place de Carrousel, noted for its historical
remembrances. Many incidents connected with the several revolutions
occurred here, and it is pointed out as the place where Napoleon
reviewed that formidable army of his before its departure for Russia.
From the Tuileries, I took a stroll through the Place de la Concorde,
which has connected with it so many acts of cruelty, that it made me
shudder as I passed over its grounds. As if to take from one's mind the
old associations of this place, the French have erected on it, or rather
given a place to, the celebrated obelisk of Luxor, which now is the
chief attraction on the grounds. The obelisk was brought from Egypt at
an enormous expense; for which purpose a ship was built, and several
hundred men employed above three years in its removal. It is formed of
the finest red syenite, and covered on each side with three lines of
hieroglyphic inscriptions, commemorative of Sesostris--the middle lines
being the most deeply cut and most carefully finished; and the
characters altogether number more than 1600. The obelisk is of a single
stone, is 72 feet in height, weighs 500,000 lbs., and stands on a block
of granite that weighs 250,000 lbs. He who can read Latin will see that
the monument tells its own story, but to me its characters were all
blank.
It would be tedious to follow the history of this old and venerated
stone, which was taken from the quarry 1550 years before the birth of
Christ; placed in Thebes; its removal; the journey to the Nile, and
down the Nile; thence to Cherbourg, and lastly its arrival in Paris on
the 23d of December, 1833--just one year before I escaped from slavery.
The obelisk was raised on the spot where it now stands, on the 25th of
October, 1836, in the presence of Louis Philippe and amid the greetings
of 160,000 persons.
Having missed my dinner, I crossed over to the Palais Royal, to a dining
saloon, and can assure you that a better dinner may be had there for
five francs, than can be got in New York for twice that sum, and
especially if the person who wants the dinner is a coloured man. I found
no prejudice against my complexion in the Palais Royal.
Many of the rooms in this once abode of Royalty, are most splendidly
furnished, and decorated with valuable pictures. The likenesses of
Madame de Stael, J.J. Rousseau, Cromwell, and Francis I., are among
them.
* * * * *
After several unsuccessful attempts to-day, in company with R.D. Webb,
Esq., to seek out the house where once resided the notorious
Robespierre, I was fortunate enough to find it, but not until I had
lost the company of my friend. The house is No. 396, Rue St. Honore,
opposite the Church of the Assumption. It stands back, and is reached by
entering a court. During the first revolution it was occupied by M.
Duplay, with whom Robespierre lodged. The room used by the great man of
the revolution, was pointed out to me. It is small, and the ceiling low,
with two windows looking out upon the court. The pin upon which the blue
coat once hung, is still in the wall. While standing there, I could
almost imagine that I saw the great "Incorruptible," sitting at the
small table composing those speeches which gave him so much power and
influence in the Convention and the Clubs.
Here, the disciple of Rousseau sat and planned how he should outdo his
enemies and hold on to his friends. From this room he went forth,
followed by his dog Brunt, to take his solitary walk in a favourite and
neighbouring field, or to the fiery discussions of the National
Convention. In the same street, is the house in which Madame Roland--one
of Robespierre's victims--resided.
A view of the residence of one of the master spirits of the French
revolution inclined me to search out more, and therefore I proceeded to
the old town, and after winding through several small streets--some of
them so narrow as not to admit more than one cab at a time--I found
myself in the Rue de L'Ecole de Medecine, and standing in front of house
No. 20. This was the residence, during the early days of the revolution,
of that bloodthirsty demon in human form, Marat.
I said to a butcher, whose shop was underneath, that I wanted to see La
Chambre de Marat. He called out to the woman of the house to know if I
could be admitted, and the reply was, that the room was used as a
sleeping apartment, and could not be seen.
As this was private property, my blue card of membership to the Congress
was not available. But after slipping a franc into the old lady's hand,
I was informed that the room was now ready. We entered a court and
ascended a flight of stairs, the entrance to which is on the right; then
crossing to the left, we were shown into a moderate-sized room on the
first floor, with two windows looking out upon a yard. Here it was where
the "Friend of the People" (as he styled himself,) sat and wrote those
articles that appeared daily in his journal, urging the people to "hang
the rich upon lamp posts." The place where the bath stood, in which he
was bathing at the time he was killed by Charlotte Corday, was pointed
out to us; and even something representing an old stain of blood was
shown as the place where he was laid when taken out of the bath. The
window, behind whose curtains the heroine hid, after she had plunged the
dagger into the heart of the man whom she thought was the cause of the
shedding of so much blood by the guillotine, was pointed out with a
seeming degree of pride by the old woman.
With my Guide Book in hand, I again went forth to "hunt after new
fancies."
* * * * *
After walking over the ground where the guillotine once stood, cutting
off its hundred and fifty heads per day, and then visiting the place
where some of the chief movers in that sanguinary revolution once
lived, I felt little disposed to sleep, when the time for it had
arrived. However, I was out this morning at an early hour, and on the
Champs Elysees; and again took a walk over the place where the
guillotine stood, when its fatal blade was sending so many unprepared
spirits into eternity. When standing here, you have the Palace of the
Tuileries on one side, the arch on the other; on a third, the classic
Madeleine; and on the fourth, the National Assembly. It caused my blood
to chill, the idea of being on the identical spot where the heads of
Louis XVI. and his Queen, after being cut off, were held up to satisfy
the blood-thirsty curiosity of the two hundred thousand persons that
were assembled on the Place de la Revolution. Here Royal blood flowed as
it never did before or since. The heads of patricians and plebians, were
thrown into the same basket, without any regard to birth or station.
Here Robespierre and Danton had stood again and again, and looked their
victims in the face as they ascended the scaffold; and here, these same
men had to mount the very scaffold that they had erected for others. I
wandered up the Seine, till I found myself looking at the statue of
Henry the IV. over the principal entrance of the Hotel de Ville. When we
take into account the connection of the Hotel de Ville with the
different revolutions, we must come to the conclusion, that it is one of
the most remarkable buildings in Paris. The room was pointed out where
Robespierre held his counsels, and from the windows of which he could
look out upon the Place de Greve, where the guillotine stood before its
removal to the Place de la Concorde. The room is large, with gilded
hangings, splendid old-fashioned chandeliers, and a chimney-piece with
fine antiquated carvings, that give it a venerable appearance. Here
Robespierre not only presided at the counsels that sent hundreds to the
guillotine; but from this same spot, he, with his brother St. Just and
others, were dragged before the Committee of Public Safety, and thence
to the guillotine, and justice and revenge satisfied.
The window from which Lafayette addressed the people in 1830, and
presented to them Louis Philippe, as the king, was shown to us. Here the
poet, statesman, philosopher and orator, Lamartine, stood in February
1848, and, by the power of his eloquence, succeeded in keeping the
people quiet. Here he forced the mob, braved the bayonets presented to
his breast, and, by his good reasoning, induced them to retain the
tri-coloured flag, instead of adopting the red flag, which he considered
the emblem of blood.
Lamartine is a great heroic genius, dear to liberty and to France; and
successive generations, as they look back upon the revolution of 1848,
will recall to memory the many dangers which nothing but his dauntless
courage warded off. The difficulties which his wisdom surmounted, and
the good service that he rendered to France, can never be adequately
estimated or too highly appreciated. It was at the Hotel de Ville that
the Republic of 1848 was proclaimed to the people.
I next paid my respects to the Column of July that stands on the spot
formerly occupied by the Bastile. It is 163 feet in height, and on the
top is the Genius of Liberty, with a torch in his right hand, and in the
left a broken chain. After a fatiguing walk up a winding stair, I
obtained a splendid view of Paris from the top of the column.
I thought I should not lose the opportunity of seeing the Church de
Notre Dame while so near to it, and, therefore, made it my next rallying
point. No edifice connected with religion has had more interesting
incidents occurring in it than this old church. Here Pope Pius VII.
placed the Imperial Crown on the head of the Corsican--or rather
Napoleon took the Crown from his hands and placed it on his own head.
Satan dragging the wicked to ----; the rider on the red horse at the
opening of the second seal; the blessedness of the saints; and several
other striking sculptured figures were among the many curiosities in
this splendid place. A hasty view from the gallery concluded my visit to
the Notre Dame.
Leaving the old church I strayed off in a direction towards the Seine,
and passed by an old looking building of stately appearance, and
recognised, among a throng passing in and out, a number of the members
of the Peace Congress. I joined a party entering, and was soon in the
presence of men with gowns on, and men with long staffs in their
hands--and on inquiry found that I was in the Palais de Justice;
beneath which is the Conciergerie, a noted prison. Louis XVI. and Marie
Antoinette were tried and condemned to death here.
A bas-relief, by Cortat, representing Louis in conference with his
Counsel, is here seen. But I had visited too many places of interest
during the day to remain long in a building surrounded by officers of
justice, and took a stroll upon the Boulevards.
The Boulevards may be termed the Regent Street of Paris, or a New Yorker
would call them Broadway. While passing a café, my German friend Faigo,
whose company I had enjoyed during the passage from America, recognised
me, and I sat down and took a cup of delicious coffee for the first time
on the side walk, in sight of hundreds who were passing up and down the
street every hour. From three till eleven o'clock, P.M., the Boulevards
are lined with men and women sitting before the doors of the saloons
drinking their coffee or wines, or both at the same time, as fancy may
dictate. All Paris appeared to be on the Boulevards, and looking as if
the great end of this life was enjoyment.
* * * * *
Anxious to see as much as possible of Paris in the limited time I had to
stay in it, I hired a cab yesterday morning and commenced with the Hotel
des Invalids, a magnificent building, within a few minutes' walk of the
National Assembly. On each side of the entrance gate are figures
representing nations conquered by Louis XIV., with colossal statues of
Mars and Minerva. The dome on the edifice is the loftiest in Paris--the
height from the ground being 323 feet.
Immediately below the dome is the tomb of the man at whose word the
world turned pale. A statue of the Emperor Napoleon stands in the second
piazza, and is of the finest bronze.
This building is the home of the pensioned soldiers of France. It was
enough to make one sick at the idea of war, to look upon the mangled
bodies of these old soldiers. Men with arms and no legs; others had legs
but no arms; some with canes and crutches, and some wheeling themselves
about in little hand carts. About three thousand of the decayed soldiers
were lodged in the Hotel des Invalids, at the time of my visit. Passing
the National Assembly on my return, I spent a moment or two in it. The
interior of this building resembles an amphitheatre. It is constructed
to accommodate 900 members, each having a separate desk. The seat upon
which the Duchesse of Orleans, and her son, the Comte de Paris, sat,
when they visited the National Assembly after the flight of Louis
Philippe, was shown with considerable alacrity. As I left the building,
I heard that the President of the Republic was on the point of leaving
the Elysee for St. Cloud, and with the hope of seeing the "Prisoner of
Ham," I directed my cabman to drive me to the Elysee.
In a few moments we were between two files of soldiers, and entering the
gates of the palace. I called out to the driver and told him to stop;
but I was too late, for we were now in front of the massive doors of the
palace, and a liveried servant opened the cab door, bowed, and asked if
I had an engagement with the President. You may easily "guess" his
surprise when I told him no. In my best French, I asked the cabman why
he had come to the palace, and was answered, "You told me to." By this
time a number had gathered round, all making inquiries as to what I
wanted. I told the driver to retrace his steps, and, amid the shrugs of
their shoulders, the nods of their heads, and the laughter of the
soldiers, I left the Elysee without even a sight of the President's
mustaches for my trouble. This was only one of the many mistakes I made
while in Paris.
LETTER VII.
_The Chateau at Versailles--Private apartments of Marie Antoinette--The
Secret Door--Paintings of Raphael and David--Arc de Triomphe--Beranger
the Poet._
VERSAILLES, _August 31_.
Here I am, within ten leagues of Paris, spending the time pleasantly in
viewing the palace and grounds of the great Chateau of Louis XIV.
Fifty-seven years ago, a mob, composed of men, women, and boys, from
Paris, stood in front of this palace and demanded that the king should
go with them to the capital. I have walked over the same ground where
the one hundred thousand stood on that interesting occasion. I have been
upon the same balcony, and stood by the window from which Maria
Antoinette looked out upon the mob that were seeking her life.
Anxious to see as much of the palace as I could, and having an offer of
the company of my young friend, Henry G. Chapman, to go through the
palace with me, I set out early yesterday morning, and was soon in the
halls that had often been trod by Royal feet. We passed through the
private, as well as the public, apartments, through the secret door by
which Marie Antoinette had escaped from the mob of 1792, and viewed the
room in which her faithful guards were killed, while attempting to save
their Royal mistress. I took my seat in one of the little parlour
carriages that had been used in days of yore for the Royal children;
while my friend, H.G. Chapman, drew me across the room. The superb
apartments are not now in use. Silence is written upon these walls,
although upon them are suspended the portraits of men of whom the world
has heard.
Paintings, representing Napoleon in nearly all his battles, are here
seen; and wherever you see the Emperor, there you will also find Murat,
with his white plume waving above. Callot's painting of the battle of
Marengo, Hue's of the retaking of Genoa, and Bouchat's of the 18th
Brumaire, are of the highest order; while David has transmitted his fame
to posterity, by his splendid painting of the Coronation of Napoleon and
Josephine in Notre Dame. When I looked upon the many beautiful paintings
of the last named artist, that adorn the halls of Versailles, I did not
wonder that his fame should have saved his life, when once condemned and
sentenced to death during the reign of terror. The guillotine was robbed
of its intended victim, but the world gained a great painter. As Boswell
transmitted his own name to posterity with his life of Johnson, so has
David left his, with the magnificent paintings that are now suspended
upon the walls of the palaces of the Louvre, the Tuileries, St. Cloud,
Versailles, and even the little Elysee.
After strolling from room to room, we found ourselves in the Salle du
Sacre, Diane, Salon de Mars, de Mercure, and d'Apollon. I gazed with my
eyes turned to the ceiling till I was dizzy. The Salon de la Guerre is
covered with the most beautiful representations that the mind of man
could conceive, or the hand accomplish. Louis XIV. is here in all his
glory. No Marie Antoinette will ever do the honours in these halls
again.
After spending a whole day in the Palace and several mornings in the
Gardens, I finally bid adieu to the bronze statue of Louis XIV. that
stands in front of the Palace, and left Versailles, probably for ever.
* * * * *
PARIS, _September 2_.
I am now on the point of quitting the French Metropolis. I have occupied
the last two days in visiting places of note in the city. I could not
resist the inclination to pay a second visit to the Louvre. Another hour
was spent in strolling through the Italian Hall and viewing the
master-workmanship of Raphael, the prince of painters. Time flies, even
in such a place as the Louvre with all its attractions; and before I had
seen half that I wished, a ponderous clock near by reminded me of an
engagement, and I reluctantly tore myself from the splendours of the
place.
During the rest of the day I visited the Jardin des Plantes, and spent
an hour and a half pleasantly in walking among plants, flowers, and in
fact everything that could be found in any garden in France. From this
place we passed by the column of the Bastile, and paid our respects to
the Bourse, or Exchange, one of the most superb buildings in the city.
The ground floor and sides of the Bourse, are of fine marble, and the
names of the chief cities in the world are inscribed on the medallions,
which are under the upper cornice. The interior of the edifice has a
most splendid appearance as you enter it.
The Cemetery of Père la Chaise was too much talked of by many of our
party at the Hotel for me to pass it by, so I took it after the Bourse.
Here lie many of the great marshals of France--the resting place of each
marked by the monument that stands over it, except one, which is marked
only by a weeping willow and a plain stone at its head. This is the
grave of Marshal Ney. I should not have known that it was his, but some
unknown hand had written with black paint, "Bravest of the Brave," on
the unlettered stone that stands at the head of the man who followed
Napoleon through nearly all his battles, and who was shot after the
occupation of Paris by the allied army. Peace to his ashes. During my
ramble through this noted place, I saw several who were hanging fresh
wreaths of everlasting flowers on the tombs of the departed.
A ride in an omnibus down the Boulevards, and away up the Champs
Elysees, brought me to the Arc de Triomphe; and after ascending a flight
of one hundred and sixty-one steps, I was overlooking the city of
statuary. This stupendous monument was commenced by Napoleon in 1806;
and in 1811 it had only reached the cornice of the base, where it
stopped, and it was left for Louis Philippe to finish. The first stone
of this monument was laid on the 15th of August, 1806, the birth-day of
the man whose battles it was intended to commemorate. A model of the
arch was erected for Napoleon to pass through as he was entering the
city with Maria Louisa, after their marriage. The inscriptions on the
monument are many, and the different scenes here represented are all of
the most exquisite workmanship. The genius of War is summoning the
obedient nations to battle. Victory is here crowning Napoleon after his
great success in 1810. Fame stands here recording the exploits of the
warrior, while conquered cities lie beneath the whole. But it would take
more time than I have at command to give anything like a description of
this magnificent piece of architecture.
That which seems to take most with Peace Friends, is the portion
representing an old man taming a bull for agricultural labour; while a
young warrior is sheathing his sword, a mother and children sitting at
his feet, and Minerva crowned with laurels, stands shedding her
protecting influence over them. The erection of this regal monument is
wonderful, to hand down to posterity the triumphs of the man whom we
first hear of as a student in the military school at Brienne, whom in
1784 we see in the Ecole Militaire, founded by Louis XV. in 1751; whom
again we find at No. 5, Quai de Court, near Rue de Mail; and in 1794 as
a lodger at No. 19, Rue de la Michandère. From this he goes to the Hotel
Mirabeau, Rue du Dauphin, where he resided when he defeated his enemies
on the 13th Vendimaire. The Hotel de la Colonade, Rue Neuve des
Capuchins is his next residence, and where he was married to Josephine.
From this hotel he removed to his wife's dwelling in the Rue
Chanteriene, No. 52. In 1796 the young general started for Italy, where
his conquests paved the way for the ever memorable 18th Brumaire, that
made him dictator of France. Napoleon was too great now to be satisfied
with private dwellings, and we next trace him to the Elysee, St. Cloud,
Versailles, the Tuileries, Fontainbleau, and finally, came his decline,
which I need not relate to you.
After visiting the Gobelins, passing through its many rooms, seeing here
and there a half-finished piece of tapestry; and meeting a number of the
members of the late Peace Congress, who, like myself had remained behind
to see more of the beauties of the French capital than could be
overtaken during the Convention week. I accepted an invitation to dine
with a German gentleman at the Palais Royal, and was soon revelling amid
the luxuries of the table. I was glad that I had gone to the Palais
Royal, for here I had the honour of an introduction to M. Beranger, the
poet; and although I had to converse with him through an interpreter, I
enjoyed his company very much. "The people's poet," as he is called, is
apparently about seventy years of age, bald on the top of the head, and
rather corpulent, but of active look, and in the enjoyment of good
health. Few writers in France have done better service to the cause of
political and religious freedom, than Pierre Jean de Beranger. He is the
dauntless friend and advocate of the down-trodden poor and oppressed,
and has often incurred the displeasure of the Government by the arrows
that he has thrown into their camp. He felt what he wrote; it came
straight from his heart, and went directly to the hearts of the people.
He expressed himself strongly opposed to slavery, and said, "I don't
see how the Americans can reconcile slavery with their professed love of
freedom." Dinner out of the way, a walk through the different
apartments, and a stroll over the court, and I bade adieu to the Palais
Royal, satisfied that I should partake of many worse dinners than I had
helped to devour that day.
Few nations are more courteous than the French. Here the stranger, let
him come from what country he may, and be ever so unacquainted with the
people and language, he is sure of a civil reply to any question that he
may ask. With the exception of the egregious blunder I have mentioned of
the cabman driving me to the Elysee, I was not laughed at once while in
France.
LETTER VIII.
_Departure from Paris--Boulogne--Folkstone--London--Geo. Thompson, Esq.,
M.P.--Hartwell House--Dr. Lee--Cottage of the Peasant--Windsor
Castle--Residence of Wm. Penn--England's First Welcome--Heath Lodge--The
Bank of England._
LONDON, _Sept. 8th_.
The sun had just appeared from behind a cloud and was setting, and its
reflection upon the domes and spires of the great buildings in Paris
made everything appear lovely and sublime, as the train, with almost
lightning speed, was bringing me from the French metropolis. I gazed
with eager eyes to catch a farewell glance of the tops of the regal
palaces through which I had passed, during a stay of fifteen days in the
French capital.
A pleasant ride of four hours brought us to Boulogne, where we rested
for the night. The next morning I was up at an early hour, and out
viewing the town. Boulogne could present but little attraction, after a
fortnight spent in seeing the lions of Paris. A return to the hotel, and
breakfast over, we stepped on board the steamer, and were soon crossing
the channel. Two hours more, and I was safely seated in a railway
carriage, _en route_ to the English metropolis. We reached London at
mid-day, where I was soon comfortably lodged at 22, Cecil Street,
Strand. As the London lodging-houses seldom furnish dinners, I lost no
time in seeking out a dining-saloon, which I had no difficulty in
finding in the Strand. It being the first house of the kind I had
entered in London, I was not a little annoyed at the politeness of the
waiter. The first salutation I had, after seating myself in one of the
stalls, was, "Ox tail, Sir; gravy soup; carrot soup, Sir; roast beef;
roast pork; boiled beef; roast lamb; boiled leg of mutton, Sir, with
caper sauce; jugged hare, Sir; boiled knuckle of veal and bacon; roast
turkey and oyster sauce; sucking pig, Sir; curried chicken; harrico
mutton, Sir." These, and many other dishes which I have forgotten, were
called over with a rapidity that would have done credit to one of our
Yankee pedlars, in crying his wares in a New England village. I was so
completely taken by surprise, that I asked for a "bill of fare," and
told him to leave me. No city in the world furnishes a cheaper, better,
and quicker meal for the weary traveller, than a London eating-house.
* * * * *
After spending a day in looking about through this great thoroughfare,
the Strand, I sallied forth with letters of introduction, with which I
had been provided by my friends before leaving America; and following
the direction of one, I was soon at No. 6, A, Waterloo Place. A moment
more, and I was in the presence of one of whom I had heard much, and
whose name is as familiar to the friends of the slave in the United
States, as household words. Although I had never seen him before, yet I
felt a feeling akin to love for the man who had proclaimed to the
oppressors of my race in America, the doctrine of _immediate
emancipation_ for the slaves of the great Republic. On reaching the
door, I sent in my letter; and it being fresh from the hands of William
Lloyd Garrison, the champion of freedom in the New World, was calculated
to insure me a warm reception at the hands of the distinguished M.P. for
the Tower Hamlets. Mr. Thompson did not wait for the servant to show me
in; but met me at the door himself, and gave me a hearty shake of the
hand, at the same time saying, "Welcome to England. How did you leave
Garrison." I need not add, that Mr. T. gave me the best advice, as to my
course in Great Britain; and how I could best serve the cause of my
enslaved countrymen. I never enjoyed three hours more agreeably than
those I spent with Mr. T. on the occasion of my first visit. George
Thompson's love of freedom, his labours in behalf of the American slave,
the negroes of the West Indies, and the wronged millions of India, are
too well known to the people of both hemispheres, to need a word of
comment from me. With the single exception of the illustrious Garrison,
no individual is more loved and honoured by the coloured people of
America, and their friends than Mr. Thompson.
A few days after my arrival in London, I received an invitation from
John Lee, Esq., LL.D., whom I had met at the Peace Congress in Paris, to
pay him a visit at his seat, near Aylesbury; and as the time was "fixed"
by the Dr., I took the train on the appointed day, on my way to Hartwell
House.
I had heard much of the aristocracy of England, and must confess that I
was not a little prejudiced against them. On a bright sunshine day,
between the hours of twelve and two, I found myself seated in a
carriage, my back turned upon Aylesbury, the vehicle whirling rapidly
over the smooth macadamised road, and I on my first visit to an English
gentleman. Twenty minutes' ride, and a turn to the right, and we were
amid the fine old trees of Hartwell Park; one having suspended from its
branches, the national banners of several different countries; among
them, the "Stars and Stripes. I felt glad that my own country's flag had
a place there, although Campbell's lines"--
"United States, your banner wears,
Two emblems,--one of fame;
Alas, the other that it bears,
Reminds us of your shame.
The white man's liberty in types,
Stands blazoned by your stars;
But what's the meaning of your stripes,
They mean your Negro-scars"--
were at the time continually running through my mind. Arrived at the
door, and we received what every one does who visits Dr. Lee--a hearty
welcome. I was immediately shown into a room with a lofty ceiling, hung
round with fine specimens of the Italian masters, and told that this was
my apartment. Hartwell House stands in an extensive park, shaded with
trees, that made me think of the oaks and elms in an American forest,
and many of whose limbs had been trimmed and nursed with the best of
care. This was for seven years the residence of John Hampden the
patriot, and more recently that of Louis XVIII., during his exile in
this country. The house is built on a very extensive scale, and is
ornamented in the interior with carvings in wood of many of the kings
and princes of bygone centuries. A room some 60 feet by 25 contains a
variety of articles that the Dr. has collected together--the whole
forming a museum that would be considered a sight in the Western States
of America.
The morning after my arrival at Hartwell I was up at an early hour--in
fact, before any of the servants--wandering about through the vast
halls, and trying to find my way out, in which I eventually succeeded,
but not, however, without aid. It had rained the previous night, and the
sun was peeping through a misty cloud as I strolled through the park,
listening to the sweet voices of the birds that were fluttering in the
tops of the trees, and trimming their wings for a morning flight. The
silence of the night had not yet been broken by the voice of man; and I
wandered about the vast park unannoyed, except by the dew from the grass
that wet my slippers. Not far from the house I came abruptly upon a
beautiful little pond of water, where the gold fish were flouncing
about, and the gentle ripples glittering in the sunshine looked like so
many silver minnows playing on the surface.
While strolling about with pleasure, and only regretting that my dear
daughters were not with me to enjoy the morning's walk, I saw the
gardener on his way to the garden. I followed him, and was soon feasting
my eyes upon the richest specimens of garden scenery. There were the
peaches hanging upon the trees that were fastened to the wall;
vegetables, fruit, and flowers were there in all their bloom and beauty;
and even the variegated geranium of a warmer clime, was there in its
hothouse home, and seemed to have forgotten that it was in a different
country from its own. Dr. Lee shows great taste in the management of his
garden. I have seldom seen a more splendid variety of fruits and flowers
in the southern States of America, than I saw at Hartwell House.
I should, however, state that I was not the only guest at Hartwell
during my stay. Dr. Lee had invited several others of the American
delegation to the Peace Congress, and two or three of the French
delegates who were on a visit to England, were enjoying the Doctor's
hospitality. Dr. Lee is a staunch friend of Temperance, as well as of
the cause of universal freedom. Every year he treats his tenantry to a
dinner, and I need not add that these are always conducted on the
principle of total abstinence.
During the second day we visited several of the cottages of the work
people, and in these I took no little interest. The people of the United
States know nothing of the real condition of the labouring classes of
England. The peasants of Great Britain are always spoken of as belonging
to the soil. I was taught in America that the English labourer was no
better off than the slave upon a Carolina rice-field. I had seen the
slaves in Missouri huddled together, three, four, and even five families
in a single room not more than 15 by 25 feet square, and I expected to
see the same in England. But in this I was disappointed. After visiting
a new house that the Doctor was building, he took us into one of the
cottages that stood near the road, and gave us an opportunity, of
seeing, for the first time, an English peasant's cot. We entered a low
whitewashed room, with a stone floor that showed an admirable degree of
cleanness. Before us was a row of shelves filled with earthen dishes and
pewter spoons, glittering as if they had just come from under the hand
of a woman of taste. A Cobden loaf of bread, that had just been left by
the baker's boy, lay upon an oaken table which had been much worn away
with the scrubbing brush; while just above lay the old family bible that
had been handed down from father to son, until its possession was
considered of almost as great value as its contents. A half-open door,
leading into another room, showed us a clean bed; the whole presenting
as fine a picture of neatness, order, and comfort, as the most
fastidious taste could wish to see. No occupant was present, and
therefore I inspected everything with a greater degree of freedom. In
front of the cottage was a small grass plot, with here and there a bed
of flowers, cheated out of its share of sunshine by the tall holly that
had been planted near it. As I looked upon the home of the labourer, my
thoughts were with my enslaved countrymen. What a difference, thought I,
there is between the tillers of the soil in England and America. There
could not be a more complete refutation of the assertion that the
English labourer is no better off than the American slave, than the
scenes that were then before me. I called the attention of one of my
American friends to a beautiful rose near the door of the cot, and said
to him, "The law that will protect that flower will also guard and
protect the hand that planted it." He knew that I had drank deep of the
cup of slavery, was aware of what I meant, and merely nodded his head in
reply. I never experienced hospitality more genuine, and yet more
unpretending, than was meted out to me while at Hartwell. And the
favourable impression made on my own mind, of the distinguished
proprietor of Hartwell Park, was nearly as indelible as my humble name
that the Doctor had engraven in a brick, in the vault beneath the
Observatory in Hartwell House.
On my return to London I accepted an invitation to join a party on a
visit to Windsor Castle; and taking the train at the Waterloo Bridge
Station, we were soon passing through a pleasant part of the country.
Arrived at the castle, we committed ourselves into the hands of the
servants, and were introduced into Her Majesty's State apartments,
Audience Chamber, Vandyck Room, Waterloo Chambers, St. George's Hall,
Gold Pantry, and many others whose names I have forgotten. In wandering
about the different apartments I lost my company, and in trying to find
them, passed through a room in which hung a magnificent portrait of
Charles I., by Vandyck. The hum and noise of my companions had ceased,
and I had the scene and silence to myself. I looked in vain for the
king's evil genius (Cromwell), but he was not in the same room. The
pencil of Sir Peter Lely has left a splendid full-length likeness of
James II. George IV. is suspended from a peg in the wall, looking as if
it was fresh from the hands of Sir Thomas Lawrence, its admirable
painter. I was now in St. George's Hall, and I gazed upward to view the
beautiful figures on the ceiling, until my neck was nearly out of joint.
Leaving this room, I inspected with interest the ancient _keep_ of the
castle. In past centuries this part of the palace was used as a prison.
Here James the First of Scotland was detained a prisoner for eighteen
years. I viewed the window through which the young prince had often
looked to catch a glimpse of the young and beautiful Lady Jane,
daughter of the Earl of Somerset, with whom he was enamoured.
From the top of the Round Tower I had a fine view of the surrounding
country. Stoke Park, once the residence of that great friend of humanity
and civilization, William Penn, was among the scenes that I viewed with
pleasure from Windsor Castle. Four years ago, when in the city of
Philadelphia, and hunting up the places associated with the name of this
distinguished man, and more recently when walking over the farm once
occupied by him on the banks of the Delaware, examining the old malt
house which is now left standing, because of the veneration with which
the name of the man who built it is held, I had no idea that I should
ever see the dwelling which he had occupied in the Old World. Stoke Park
is about four miles from Windsor, and is now owned by the Right Hon.
Henry Labouchere.
The castle, standing as it does on an eminence, and surrounded by a
beautiful valley covered with splendid villas, has the appearance of
Gulliver looking down upon the Lilliputians. It rears its massive
towers and irregular walls over and above every other object; it stands
like a mountain in the desert. How full this old palace is of material
for thought! How one could ramble here alone, or with one or two
congenial companions, and enjoy a recapitulation of its history! But an
engagement to be at Croydon in the evening cut short my stay at Windsor,
and compelled me to return to town in advance of my party.
* * * * *
Having met with John Morland, Esq., of Heath Lodge, at Paris, he gave me
an invitation to visit Croydon, and deliver a lecture on American
Slavery; and last evening, at eight o'clock, I found myself in a fine
old building in the town, and facing the first English audience that I
had seen in the sea-girt isle. It was my first welcome in England. The
assembly was an enthusiastic one, and made still more so by the
appearance of George Thompson, Esq., M.P., upon the platform. It is not
my intention to give accounts of my lectures or meetings in these pages.
I therefore merely say, that I left Croydon with a good impression of
the English, and Heath Lodge with a feeling that its occupant was one
of the most benevolent of men.
The same party with whom I visited Windsor being supplied with a card of
admission to the Bank of England, I accepted an invitation to be one of
the company. We entered the vast building at a little past twelve
o'clock to-day. The sun threw into the large halls a brilliancy that
seemed to light up the countenances of the almost countless number of
clerks, who were at their desks, or serving persons at the counters. As
nearly all my countrymen who visit London pay their respects to this
noted institution, I shall sum up my visit to it, by saying that it
surpassed my highest idea of a bank. But a stroll through this monster
building of gold and silver brought to my mind an incident that occurred
to me a year after my escape from slavery.
In the autumn of 1835, having been cheated out of the previous summer's
earnings, by the captain of the steamer in which I had been employed
running away with the money, I was, like the rest of the men, left
without any means of support during the winter, and therefore had to
seek employment in the neighbouring towns. I went to the town of
Monroe, in the state of Michigan, and while going through the principal
streets looking for work, I passed the door of the only barber in the
town, whose shop appeared to be filled with persons waiting to be
shaved. As there was but one man at work, and as I had, while employed
in the steamer, occasionally shaved a gentleman who could not perform
that office himself, it occurred to me that I might get employment here
as a journeyman barber. I therefore made immediate application for work,
but the barber told me he did not need a hand. But I was not to be put
off so easily, and after making several offers to work cheap, I frankly
told him, that if he would not employ me I would get a room near to him,
and set up an opposition establishment. This threat, however, made no
impression on the barber; and as I was leaving, one of the men who were
waiting to be shaved said, "If you want a room in which to commence
business, I have one on the opposite side of the street." This man
followed me out; we went over, and I looked at the room. He strongly
urged me to set up, at the same time promising to give me his
influence. I took the room, purchased an old table, two chairs, got a
pole with a red stripe painted around it, and the next day opened, with
a sign over the door, "Fashionable Hair-dresser from New York, Emperor
of the West." I need not add that my enterprise was very annoying to the
"shop over the way"--especially my sign, which happened to be the most
expensive part of the concern. Of course, I had to tell all who came in
that my neighbour on the opposite side did not keep clean towels, that
his razors were dull, and, above all, he had never been to New York to
see the fashions. Neither had I. In a few weeks I had the entire
business of the town, to the great discomfiture of the other barber.
At this time, money matters in the Western States were in a sad
condition. Any person who could raise a small amount of money was
permitted to establish a bank, and allowed to issue notes for four times
the sum raised. This being the case, many persons borrowed money merely
long enough to exhibit to the bank inspectors, and the borrowed money
was returned, and the bank left without a dollar in its vaults, if,
indeed, it had a vault about its premises. The result was, that banks
were started all over the Western States, and the country flooded with
worthless paper. These were known as the "Wild Cat Banks." Silver coin
being very scarce, and the banks not being allowed to issue notes for a
smaller amount than one dollar, several persons put out notes from 6 to
75 cents in value; these were called "Shinplasters." The Shinplaster was
in the shape of a promissory note, made payable on demand. I have often
seen persons with large rolls of these bills, the whole not amounting to
more than five dollars. Some weeks after I had commenced business on my
"own hook," I was one evening very much crowded with customers; and
while they were talking over the events of the day, one of them said to
me, "Emperor, you seem to be doing a thriving business. You should do as
other business men, issue your Shinplasters." This, of course, as it was
intended, created a laugh; but with me it was no laughing matter, for
from that moment I began to think seriously of becoming a banker. I
accordingly went a few days after to a printer, and he, wishing to get
the job of printing, urged me to put out my notes, and showed me some
specimens of engravings that he had just received from Detroit. My head
being already filled with the idea of a bank, I needed but little
persuasion to set the thing finally afloat. Before I left the printer
the notes were partly in type, and I studying how I should keep the
public from counterfeiting them. The next day my Shinplasters were
handed to me, the whole amount being twenty dollars, and after being
duly signed were ready for circulation. At first my notes did not take
well; they were too new, and viewed with a suspicious eye. But through
the assistance of my customers, and a good deal of exertion on my own
part, my bills were soon in circulation; and nearly all the money
received in return for my notes was spent in fitting up and decorating
my shop.
Few bankers get through this world without their difficulties, and I was
not to be an exception. A short time after my money had been out, a
party of young men, either wishing to pull down my vanity, or to try
the soundness of my bank, determined to give it "a run." After
collecting together a number of my bills, they came one at a time to
demand other money for them, and I, not being aware of what was going
on, was taken by surprise. One day as I was sitting at my table,
strapping some new razors I had just got with the avails of my
"Shinplasters," one of the men entered and said, "Emperor, you will
oblige me if you will give me some other money for these notes of
yours." I immediately cashed the notes with the most worthless of the
Wild Cat money that I had on hand, but which was a lawful tender. The
young man had scarcely left when a second appeared with a similar
amount, and demanded payment. These were cashed, and soon a third came
with his roll of notes. I paid these with an air of triumph, although I
had but half a dollar left. I began now to think seriously what I should
do, or how to act, provided another demand should be made. While I was
thus engaged in thought, I saw the fourth man crossing the street, with
a handful of notes, evidently my "Shinplasters." I instantaneously shut
the door, and looking out of the window, said, "I have closed business
for the day: come to-morrow and I will see you." In looking across the
street, I saw my rival standing in his shop-door, grinning and clapping
his hands at my apparent downfall. I was completely "done _Brown_" for
the day. However, I was not to be "used up" in this way; so I escaped by
the back door, and went in search of my friend who had first suggested
to me the idea of issuing notes. I found him, told him of the difficulty
I was in, and wished him to point out a way by which I might extricate
myself. He laughed heartily, and then said, "You must act as all bankers
do in this part of the country." I inquired how they did, and he said,
"When your notes are brought to you, you must redeem them, and then send
them out and get other money for them; and, with the latter, you can
keep cashing your own Shinplasters." This was indeed a new job to me. I
immediately commenced putting in circulation the notes which I had just
redeemed, and my efforts were crowned with so much success, that before
I slept that night my "Shinplasters" were again in circulation, and my
bank once more on a sound basis.
As I saw the clerks shovelling out the yellow coin upon the counters of
the Bank of England, and men coming in and going out with weighty bags
of the precious metal in their hands, or on their shoulders, I could not
but think of the great contrast between the monster Institution, within
whose walls I was then standing, and the Wild Cat Banks of America!
LETTER IX.
_The British Museum--A Portrait--Night Reading--A Dark Day--A Fugitive
Slave on the Streets of London,--A Friend in the time of need._
LONDON, _Sept. 24_.
I have devoted the past ten days to sight-seeing in the Metropolis--the
first two of which were spent in the British Museum. After procuring a
guide-book at the door as I entered, I seated myself on the first seat
that caught my eye, arranged as well as I could in my mind the different
rooms, and then commenced in good earnest. The first part I visited was
the Gallery of Antiquities, through to the north gallery, and thence
to the Lycian Room. This place is filled with tombs, bas-reliefs,
statues, and other productions of the same art. Venus, seated, and
smelling a lotus flower which she held in her hand, and attended by
three graces, put a stop to the rapid strides that I was making through
this part of the hall. This is really one of the most precious
productions of the art that I have ever seen. Many of the figures in
this room are very much mutilated, yet one can linger here for hours
with interest. A good number of the statues are of uncertain date; they
are of great value as works of art, and more so as a means of
enlightening much that has been obscure with respect to Lycia, an
ancient and celebrated country of Asia Minor.
In passing through the eastern Zoological Gallery, I was surrounded on
every side by an army of portraits suspended upon the walls; and among
these was the Protector. The people of one century kicks his bones
through the streets of London, another puts his portrait in the British
Museum, and a future generation may possibly give him a place in
Westminster Abbey. Such is the uncertainty of the human character.
Yesterday, a common soldier--to-day, the ruler of an empire--to-morrow,
suspended upon the gallows. In an adjoining room I saw a portrait of
Baxter, which gives one a pretty good idea of the great Nonconformist.
In the same room hung a splendid modern portrait, without any intimation
in the guide-book of who it represented, or when it was painted. It was
so much like one whom I had seen, and on whom my affections were placed
in my younger days, that I obtained a seat from an adjoining room and
rested myself before it. After sitting half an hour or more, I wandered
to another part of the building, but only to return again to my "first
love," where I remained till the throng had disappeared one after
another, and the officer reminding me that it was time to close.
It was eight o'clock before I reached my lodgings. Although fatigued by
the day's exertions, I again resumed the reading of Roscoe's "Leo X.,"
and had nearly finished seventy-three pages, when the clock on St.
Martin's Church apprised me that it was two. He who escapes from slavery
at the age of twenty years, without any education, as did the writer of
this letter, must read when others are asleep, if he would catch up with
the rest of the world. "To be wise," says Pope, "is but to know how
little can be known." The true searcher after truth and knowledge is
always like a child; although gaining strength from year to year, he
still "learns to labour and to wait." The field of labour is ever
expanding before him, reminding him that he has yet more to learn;
teaching him that he is nothing more than a child in knowledge, and
inviting him onward with a thousand varied charms. The son may take
possession of the father's goods at his death, but he cannot inherit
with the property the father's cultivated mind. He may put on the
father's old coat, but that is all: the immortal mind of the first
wearer has gone to the tomb.
Property may be bequeathed, but knowledge cannot. Then let him who
would be useful in his day and generation be up and doing. Like the
Chinese student who learned perseverance from the woman whom he saw
trying to rub a crow-bar into a needle, so should we take the experience
of the past to lighten our feet through the paths of the future.
The next morning at ten, I was again at the door of the great building;
was soon within its walls seeing what time would not allow of the
previous day. I spent some hours in looking through glass cases, viewing
specimens of minerals, such as can scarcely be found in any place out of
the British Museum. During this day I did not fail to visit the great
Library. It is a spacious room, surrounded with large glass cases filled
with volumes, whose very look tells you that they are of age. Around,
under the cornice, were arranged a number of old black-looking
portraits, in all probability the authors of some of the works in the
glass cases beneath. About the room were placed long tables, with stands
for reading and writing, and around these were a number of men busily
engaged in looking over some chosen author. Old men with grey hairs,
young men with mustaches--some in cloth, others in fustian, indicating
that men of different rank can meet here. Not a single word was spoken
during my stay, all appearing to enjoy the silence that reigned
throughout the great room. This is indeed a retreat from the world. No
one inquires who the man is who is at his side, and each pursues in
silence his own researches. The racing of pens over the sheets of paper
was all that disturbed the stillness of the occasion.
From the Library I strolled to other rooms, and feasted my eyes on what
I had never before seen. He who goes over this immense building, cannot
do so without a feeling of admiration for the men whose energy has
brought together this vast and wonderful collection of things, the like
of which cannot be found in any other museum in the world. The
reflection of the setting sun against a mirror in one of the rooms, told
me that night was approaching, and I had but a moment in which to take
another look at the portrait that I had seen the previous day, and then
bade adieu to the Museum.
Having published the narrative of my life and escape from slavery, and
put it into the booksellers' hands--and seeing a prospect of a fair
sale, I ventured to take from my purse the last sovereign to make up a
small sum to remit to the United States, for the support of my daughter,
who is at school there. Before doing this, however, I had made
arrangements to attend a public meeting in the city of Worcester, at
which the mayor was to preside. Being informed by the friends of the
slave there, that I would, in all probability, sell a number of copies
of my book, and being told that Worcester was only ten miles from
London, I felt safe in parting with all but a few shillings, feeling
sure that my purse would soon be again replenished. But you may guess my
surprise when I learned that Worcester was above a hundred miles from
London, and that I had not retained money enough to defray my expenses
to the place. In my haste and wish to make up the ten pounds to send to
my children, I had forgotten that the payment for my lodgings would be
demanded before I should leave town. Saturday morning came; I paid my
lodging bill, and had three shillings and fourpence left; and out of
this sum I was to get three dinners, as I was only served with breakfast
and tea at my lodgings. Nowhere in the British empire do the people
witness as dark days as in London. It was on Monday morning, in the fore
part of October, as the clock on St. Martin's Church was striking ten,
that I left my lodgings, and turned into the Strand. The street lamps
were yet burning, and the shops were all lighted as if day had not made
its appearance. This great thoroughfare, as usual at this time of the
day, was thronged with business men going their way, and women
sauntering about for pleasure or for the want of something better to do.
I passed down the Strand to Charing Cross, and looked in vain to see the
majestic statue of Nelson upon the top of the great shaft. The clock on
St. Martin's Church struck eleven, but my sight could not penetrate
through the dark veil that hung between its face and me. In fact, day
had been completely turned into night; and the brilliant lights from the
shop windows almost persuaded me that another day had not appeared.
Turning, I retraced my steps, and was soon passing through the massive
gates of Temple Bar, wending my way to the city, when a beggar boy at my
heels accosted me for a half-penny to buy bread. I had scarcely served
the boy, when I observed near by, and standing close to a lamp post, a
coloured man, and from his general appearance I was satisfied that he
was an American. He eyed me attentively as I passed him, and seemed
anxious to speak. When I had got some distance from him I looked back,
and his eyes were still upon me. No longer able to resist the temptation
to speak with him, I returned, and commencing conversation with him,
learned a little of his history, which was as follows. He had, he said,
escaped from slavery in Maryland, and reached New York; but not feeling
himself secure there, he had, through the kindness of the captain of an
English ship, made his way to Liverpool; and not being able to get
employment there, he had come up to London. Here he had met with no
better success; and having been employed in the growing of tobacco, and
being unaccustomed to any other work, he could not get to labour in
England. I told him he had better try to get to the West Indies; but he
informed me that he had not a single penny, and that he had nothing to
eat that day. By this man's story, I was moved to tears; and going to a
neighbouring shop, I took from my purse my last shilling, changed it,
and gave this poor brother fugitive one-half. The poor man burst into
tears as I placed the sixpence in his hand, and said--"You are the first
friend I have met in London." I bade him farewell, and left him with a
feeling of regret that I could not place him beyond the reach of want. I
went on my way to the city, and while going through Cheapside, a streak
of light appeared in the east that reminded me that it was not night. In
vain I wandered from street to street, with the hope that I might meet
some one who would lend me money enough to get to Worcester. Hungry and
fatigued I was returning to my lodgings, when the great clock of St
Paul's Church, under whose shadow I was then passing, struck four. A
stroll through Fleet Street and the Strand, and I was again pacing my
room. On my return, I found a letter from Worcester had arrived in my
absence, informing me that a party of gentlemen would meet me the next
day on my reaching that place; and saying, "Bring plenty of books, as
you will doubtless sell a large number." The last sixpence had been
spent for postage stamps, in order to send off some letters to other
places, and I could not even stamp a letter in answer to the one last
from Worcester. The only vestige of money about me was a smooth farthing
that a little girl had given to me at the meeting at Croydon, saying,
"This is for the slaves." I was three thousand miles from home, with but
a single farthing in my pocket! Where on earth is a man without money
more destitute? The cold hills of the Arctic regions have not a more
inhospitable appearance than London to the stranger with an empty
pocket. But whilst I felt depressed at being in such a sad condition, I
was conscious that I had done right in remitting the last ten pounds to
America. It was for the support of those whom God had committed to my
care, and whom I love as I can no others. I had no friend in London to
whom I could apply for temporary aid. My friend, Mr. Thompson, was out
of town, and I did not know his address. The dark day was rapidly
passing away--the clock in the hall had struck six. I had given up all
hopes of reaching Worcester the next day, and had just rung the bell for
the servant to bring me some tea, when a gentle tap at the door was
heard--the servant entered, and informed me that a gentleman below was
wishing to see me. I bade her fetch a light and ask him up. The stranger
was my young friend Frederick Stevenson, son of the excellent minister
of the Borough Road Chapel. I had lectured in this chapel a few days
previous; and this young gentleman, with more than ordinary zeal and
enthusiasm for the cause of bleeding humanity, and respect for me, had
gone amongst his father's congregation and sold a number of copies of my
book, and had come to bring me the money. I wiped the silent tear from
my eyes as the young man placed the thirteen half-crowns in my hand. I
did not let him know under what obligation I was to him for this
disinterested act of kindness. He does not know to this day what aid he
has rendered to a stranger in a strange land, and I feel that I am but
discharging in a trifling degree, my debt of gratitude to this young
gentleman, in acknowledging my obligation to him. As the man who called
for bread and cheese, when feeling in his pocket for the last threepence
to pay for it, found a sovereign that he was not aware he possessed,
countermanded the order for the lunch, and bade them bring him the best
dinner they could get; so I told the servant when she brought the tea,
that I had changed my mind, and should go out to dine. With the means in
my pocket of reaching Worcester the next day, I sat down to dinner at
the Adelphi with a good cut of roast beef before me, and felt myself
once more at home. Thus ended a dark day in London.
LETTER X.
_The Whittington Club--Louis Blanc--Street Amusements--Tower of
London--Westminster Abbey--National Gallery--Dante--Sir Joshua
Reynolds._
LONDON, _October 10_.
For some days past, Sol has not shown his face, clouds have obscured the
sky, and the rain has fallen in torrents, which has contributed much to
the general gloom. However, I have spent the time in as agreeable a
manner as I well could. Yesterday I fulfilled an engagement to dine with
a gentleman at the Whittington Club. One who is unacquainted with the
Club system as carried on in London, can scarcely imagine the
conveniences they present. Every member appears to be at home, and all
seem to own a share in the Club. There is a free-and-easy way with those
who frequent Clubs, and a licence given there that is unknown in the
drawing-room of the private mansion. I met the gentleman at the Club, at
the appointed hour, and after his writing my name in the visitors'
book, we proceeded to the dining-room, where we partook of a good
dinner.
We had been in the room but a short time, when a small man, dressed in
black, with his coat buttoned up to the chin, entered the saloon, and
took a seat at the table hard by. My friend in a low whisper informed me
that this person was one of the French refugees. He was apparently not
more than thirty years of age, and exceedingly good looking--his person
being slight, his feet and hands very small and well shaped, especially
his hands, which were covered with kid gloves, so tightly drawn on, that
the points of the finger nails were visible through them. His face was
mild and almost womanly in its beauty, his eyes soft and full, his brow
open and ample, his features well defined, and approaching to the ideal
Greek in contour; the lines about his mouth were exquisitely sweet, and
yet resolute in expression; his hair was short--his having no mustaches
gave him nothing of the look of a Frenchman; and I was not a little
surprised when informed that the person before me was Louis Blanc. I
could scarcely be persuaded to believe that one so small, so child-like
in stature, had taken a prominent part in the Revolution of 1848. He
held in his hand a copy of _La Presse_, and as soon as he was seated,
opened it and began to devour its contents. The gentleman with whom I
was dining was not acquainted with him, but at the close of our dinner
he procured me an introduction through another gentleman.
As we were returning to our lodgings, we saw in Exeter Street, Strand,
one of those exhibitions that can be seen in almost any of the streets
in the suburbs of the Metropolis, but which is something of a novelty to
those from the other side of the Atlantic. This was an exhibition of
"Punch and Judy." Everything was in full operation when we reached the
spot. A puppet appeared eight or ten inches from the waist upwards, with
an enormous face, huge nose, mouth widely grinning, projecting chin,
cheeks covered with grog blossoms, a large protuberance on his back,
another on his chest; yet with these deformities he appeared uncommonly
happy. This was Mr. Punch. He held in his right hand a tremendous
bludgeon, with which he amused himself by rapping on the head every one
who came within his reach. This exhibition seems very absurd, yet not
less than one hundred were present--children, boys, old men, and even
gentlemen and ladies, were standing by, and occasionally greeting the
performer with the smile of approbation. Mr. Punch, however, was not to
have it all his own way, for another and better sort of Punch-like
exhibition appeared a few yards off, that took away Mr. Punch's
audience, to the great dissatisfaction of that gentleman. This was an
exhibition called the Fantoccini, and far superior to any of the street
performances which I have yet seen. The curtain rose and displayed a
beautiful theatre in miniature, and most gorgeously painted. The organ
which accompanied it struck up a hornpipe, and a sailor, dressed in his
blue jacket, made his appearance and commenced keeping time with the
utmost correctness. This figure was not so long as Mr. Punch, but much
better looking. At the close of the hornpipe the little sailor made a
bow, and tripped off, apparently conscious of having deserved the
undivided applause of the bystanders. The curtain dropped; but in two
or three minutes it was again up, and a rope was discovered, extended on
two cross pieces, for dancing upon. The tune was changed to an air, in
which the time was marked, a graceful figure appeared, jumped upon the
rope with its balance pole, and displayed all the manoeuvres of an
expert performer on the tight rope. Many who would turn away in disgust
from Mr. Punch, will stand for hours and look at the performances of the
Fantoccini. If people, like the Vicar of Wakefield, will sometimes
"allow themselves to be happy," they can hardly fail to have a hearty
laugh at the drolleries of the Fantoccini. There may be degrees of
absurdity in the manner of wasting our time, but there is an evident
affectation in decrying these humble and innocent exhibitions, by those
who will sit till two or three in the morning to witness a pantomime at
a theatre-royal.
* * * * *
An autumn sun shone brightly through a remarkably transparent atmosphere
this morning, which was a most striking contrast to the weather we have
had during the past three days; and I again set out to see some of the
lions of the city, commencing with the Tower of London. Every American,
on returning home from a visit to the old world, speaks with pride of
the places he saw while in Europe; and of the many resorts of interest
he has read of, few have made a more lasting impression upon his memory
than the Tower of London. The stories of the imprisoning of kings, and
queens, the murdering of princes, the torturing of men and women,
without regard to birth, education, or station, and of the burning and
rebuilding of the old pile, have all sunk deep into his heart. A walk of
twenty minutes, after being set down at the Bank by an omnibus, brought
me to the gate of the Tower. A party of friends who were to meet me
there had not arrived, so I had an opportunity of inspecting the grounds
and taking a good view of the external appearance of the old and
celebrated building. The Tower is surrounded by a high wall, and around
this a deep ditch partly filled with stagnated water. The wall incloses
twelve acres of ground on which stand the several towers, occupying,
with their walks and avenues, the whole space. The most ancient part of
the building is called the "White Tower," so as to distinguish it from
the parts more recently built. Its walls are seventeen feet in
thickness, and ninety-two in height, exclusive of the turrets, of which
there are four. My company arrived, and we entered the tower through
four massive gates, the innermost one being pointed out as the "Water,
or Traitors' Gate"--so called from the fact that it opened to the river,
and through it the criminals were usually brought to the prison within.
But this passage is now closed up. We visited the various apartments in
the old building. The room in the Bloody Tower, where the infant princes
were put to death by the command of their uncle, Richard III.; also, the
recess behind the gate where the bones of the young princes were
concealed, were shown to us. The warden of the prison who showed us
through, seemed to have little or no veneration for Henry VIII.; for he
often cracked a joke, or told a story at the expense of the murderer of
Anne Boleyn. The old man wiped the tear from his eye, as he pointed out
the grave of Lady Jane Grey. This was doubtless one of the best as well
as most innocent of those who lost their lives in the Tower; young,
virtuous, and handsome, she became a victim to the ambition of her own
and her husband's relations. I tried to count the names on the wall in
"Beauchamp's Tower," but they were too numerous. Anne Boleyn was
imprisoned here. The room in the "Brick Tower," where Lady Jane Grey was
imprisoned, was pointed out as a place of interest. We were next shown
into the "White Tower." We passed through a long room filled with many
things having a warlike appearance; and among them a number of
equestrian figures, as large as life, and clothed in armour and
trappings of the various reigns from Edward I. to James II., or from
1272 to 1685. Elizabeth, or the "Maiden Queen," as the warden called
her, was the most imposing of the group; she was on a cream coloured
charger. We left the Maiden Queen to examine the cloak upon which
General Wolf died, at the storming of Quebec. In this room Sir Walter
Raleigh was imprisoned, and here was written his "History of the
World." In his own hand, upon the wall, is written, "Be thou faithful
unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life." His Bible is still
shown, with these memorable lines written in it by himself a short time
before his death:--
"Even such is Time that takes on trust,
Our youth, our joy, our all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust;
Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days."
Spears, battle-axes, pikes, helmets, targets, bows and arrows, and many
instruments of torture, whose names I did not learn, grace the walls of
this room. The block on which the Earl of Essex and Anne Boleyn were
beheaded, was shown among other objects of interest. A view of the
"Queen's Jewels" closed our visit to the Tower. The Gold Staff of St.
Edward, and the Baptismal Font used at the Royal christenings, made of
solid silver, and more than four feet high, were among the jewels here
exhibited. The Sword of Justice was there, as if to watch the rest of
the valuables. However, this was not the sword that Peter used. Our
acquaintance with De Foe, Sir Walter Raleigh, Chaucer, and James
Montgomery, through their writings, and the knowledge that they had been
incarcerated within the walls of the bastile that we were just leaving,
caused us to look back again and again upon its dark grey turrets.
I closed the day with a look at the interior of St. Paul's Cathedral. A
service was just over, and we met a crowd coming out as we entered the
great building. "Service is over, and two pence for all that wants to
stay," was the first sound that caught our ears. In the Burlesque of
"Esmeralda," a man is met in the belfry of the Notre Dame at Paris, and
being asked for money by one of the vergers says:--
"I paid three pence at the door,
And since I came in a great deal more:
Upon my honour you have emptied my purse,
St. Paul's Cathedral could not do worse."
I felt inclined to join in this sentiment before I left the church. A
fine statue of "Surly Sam" Johnson was one of the first things that
caught our eyes on looking around. A statue of Sir Edward Packenham,
who fell at the Battle of New Orleans, was on the opposite side of the
great hall. As we had walked over the ground where this General fell, we
viewed his statue with more than ordinary interest. We were taken from
one scene of interest to another, until we found ourselves in the
"Whispering Gallery." From the dome we had a splendid view of the
Metropolis of the world. A scaffold was erected up here to enable an
artist to take sketches from which a panorama of London was painted. The
artist was three years at work. The painting is now exhibited at the
Colosseum; but the brain of the artist was turned, and he died insane!
Indeed, one can scarcely conceive how it could be otherwise. You in
America have no idea of the immensity of this building. Pile together
half-a-dozen of the largest churches in New York or Boston, and you will
have but a faint representation of St. Paul's Cathedral.
* * * * *
I have just returned from a stroll of two hours through Westminster
Abbey. We entered the building at a door near Poets' Corner, and,
naturally enough, looked around for the monuments of the men whose
imaginative powers have contributed so much to instruct and amuse
mankind. I was not a little disappointed in the few I saw. In almost any
church-yard you may see monuments and tombs far superior to anything in
the Poets' Corner. A few only have monuments. Shakspere, who wrote of
man to man, and for man to the end of time, is honoured with one.
Addison's monument is also there; but the greater number have nothing
more erected to their memories than busts or medallions. Poets' Corner
is not splendid in appearance, yet I observed visiters lingering about
it, as if they were tied to the spot by love and veneration for some
departed friend. All seemed to regard it as classic ground. No sound
louder than a whisper was heard during the whole time, except the verger
treading over the marble floor with a light step. There is great
pleasure in sauntering about the tombs of those with whom we are
familiar through their writings; and we tear ourselves from their ashes,
as we would from those of a bosom friend. The genius of these men
spreads itself over the whole panorama of Nature, giving us one vast and
varied picture, the colour of which will endure to the end of time. None
can portray like the poet the passions of the human soul. The statue of
Addison, clad in his dressing-gown, is not far from that of Shakspere.
He looks as if he had just left the study, after finishing some chosen
paper for the _Spectator_. This memento of a great man, was the work of
the British public. Such a mark of national respect was but justice to
one who has contributed more to purify and raise the standard of English
literature, than any man of his day. We next visited the other end of
the same transept, near the northern door. Here lie Mansfield, Chatham,
Fox, the second William Pitt, Grattan, Wilberforce, and a few other
statesmen. But, above all, is the stately monument to the Earl of
Chatham. In no other place so small, do so many great men lie together.
To these men, whose graves strangers from all parts of the world wish to
view, the British public are in a great measure indebted for England's
fame. The high pre-eminence which England has so long enjoyed and
maintained in the scale of empire, has constantly been the boast and
pride of the English people. The warm panegyrics that have been lavished
on her constitution and laws--the songs chaunted to celebrate her
glory--the lustre of her arms, as the glowing theme of her warriors--the
thunder of her artillery in proclaiming her moral prowess, her flag
being unfurled to every breeze and ocean, rolling to her shores the
tribute of a thousand realms--show England to be the greatest nation in
the world, and speak volumes for the great departed, as well as for
those of the living present. One requires no company, no amusements, no
books in such a place as this. Time and death have placed within those
walls sufficient to occupy the mind, if one should stay here a week.
On my return, I spent an hour very pleasantly in the National Academy,
in the same building as the National Gallery. Many of the paintings here
are of a fine order. Oliver Cromwell looking upon the headless corpse of
King Charles I., appeared to draw the greatest number of spectators. A
scene from "As You Like it," was one of the best executed pieces we saw.
This was "Rosalind, Celia, and Orlando." The artist did himself and the
subject great credit. Kemble, in Hamlet, with that ever memorable skull
in his hand, was one of the pieces which we viewed with no little
interest. It is strange that Hamlet is always represented as a thin,
lean man, when the Hamlet of Shakspere was a fat, John Bull-kind of a
man. But the best piece in the Gallery was "Dante meditating the episode
of Francesca da Rimini and Paolo Malatesta, S'Inferno, Canto V." Our
first interest for the great Italian poet was created by reading Lord
Byron's poem, "The Lament of Dante." From that hour we felt like
examining everything connected with the great Italian poet. The history
of poets, as well as painters, is written in their works. The best
written life of Goldsmith is to be found in his poem of "The Traveller,"
and his novel of "The Vicar of Wakefield." Boswell could not have
written a better life of himself than he has done in giving the
Biography of Dr. Johnson. It seems clear that no one can be a great poet
without having been sometime during life a lover, and having lost the
object of his affection in some mysterious way. Burns had his Highland
Mary, Byron his Mary, and Dante was not without his Beatrice. Whether
there ever lived such a person as Beatrice seems to be a question upon
which neither of his biographers have thrown much light. However, a
Beatrice existed in the poet's mind, if not on earth. His attachment to
Beatrice Portinari, and the linking of her name with the immortality of
his great poem, left an indelible impression upon his future character.
The marriage of the object of his affections to another, and her
subsequent death, and the poet's exile from his beloved Florence,
together with his death amongst strangers--all give an interest to the
poet's writings, which could not be heightened by romance itself. When
exiled and in poverty, Dante found a friend in the father of Francesca.
And here, under the roof of his protector, he wrote his great poem. The
time the painter has chosen is evening. Day and night meet in mid-air:
one star is alone visible. Sailing in vacancy are the shadows of the
lovers. The countenance of Francesca is expressive of hopeless agony.
The delineations are sublime, the conception is of the highest order,
and the execution admirable. Dante is seated in a marble vestibule, in a
meditating attitude, the face partly concealed by the right hand upon
which it is resting. On the whole, it is an excellently painted piece,
and causes one to go back with a fresh relish to the Italian's
celebrated poem. In coming out, we stopped a short while in the upper
room of the Gallery, and spent a few minutes over a painting
representing Mrs. Siddons in one of Shakspere's characters. This is by
Sir Joshua Reynolds, and is only one of the many pieces that we have
seen of this great artist. His genius was vast, and powerful in its
grasp. His fancy fertile, and his inventive faculty inexhaustible in its
resources. He displayed the very highest powers of genius by the
thorough originality of his conceptions, and by the entirely new path
that he struck out in art. Well may Englishmen be proud of his name. And
as time shall step between his day and those that follow after him, the
more will his works be appreciated. We have since visited his grave,
and stood over his monument in St. Paul's.
LETTER XI.
_York Minster--The Great Organ--Newcastle-on-Tyne--The Labouring
Classes--The American Slave--Sheffield--James Montgomery._
_January, 1850_.
Some days since, I left the Metropolis to fulfil a few engagements to
visit provincial towns; and after a ride of nearly eight hours, we were
in sight of the ancient city of York. It was night, the moon was in her
zenith, and there seemed nothing between her and the earth but
glittering gold. The moon, the stars, and the innumerable gas-lights,
gave the city a panoramic appearance. Like a mountain starting out of a
plain, there stood the Cathedral in all its glory, looking down upon the
surrounding buildings, with all the appearance of a Gulliver standing
over the Lilliputians. Night gave us no opportunity to view the
Minster. However, we were up the next morning before the sun, and
walking round the Cathedral with a degree of curiosity seldom excited
within us. It is thought that a building of the same dimensions would
take fifty years to complete it at the present time, even with all the
improvements of the nineteenth century, and would cost no less than the
enormous sum of two millions of pounds sterling. From what I had heard
of this famous Cathedral, my expectations were raised to the highest
point; but it surpassed all the idea that I had formed of it. On
entering the building, we lost all thought of the external appearance by
the matchless beauty of the interior. The echo produced by the tread of
our feet upon the floor as we entered, resounding through the aisles,
seemed to say "Put off your shoes, for the place whereon you tread is
holy ground." We stood with hat in hand, and gazed with wonder and
astonishment down the incomparable vista of more than five hundred feet.
The organ, which stands near the centre of the building, is said to be
one of the finest in the world. A wall, in front of which is a screen
of the most gorgeous and florid architecture and executed in solid
stone, separates the nave from the service choir. The beautiful
workmanship of this makes it appear so perfect, as almost to produce the
belief that it is tracery work of wood. We ascended the rough stone
steps through a winding stair to the turrets, where we had such a view
of the surrounding country, as can be obtained from no other place. On
the top of the centre and highest turret, is a grotesque figure of a
fiddler; rather a strange looking object, we thought, to occupy the most
elevated pinnacle on the house of God. All dwellings in the
neighbourhood appear like so many dwarfs couching at the feet of the
Minster; while its own vastness and beauty impress the observer with
feelings of awe and sublimity. As we stood upon the top of this
stupendous mountain of ecclesiastical architecture, and surveyed the
picturesque hills and valleys around, imagination recalled the tumult of
the sanguinary battles fought in sight of the edifice. The rebellion of
Octavius near three thousand years ago, his defeat and flight to the
Scots, his return and triumph over the Romans, and being crowned king
of all Britain; the assassination of Oswald king of the Northumbrians;
the flaying alive of Osbert; the crowning of Richard III; the siege by
William the Conqueror; the siege by Cromwell, and the pomp and splendour
with which the different monarchs had been received in York, all
appeared to be vividly before me. While we were thus calling to our aid
our knowledge of history, a sweet peal from the lungs of the ponderous
organ below cut short our stay among the turrets, and we descended to
have our organ of tune gratified, as well as to finish the inspection of
the interior.
I have heard the sublime melodies of Handel, Hayden, and Mozart,
performed by the most skilful musicians; I have listened with delight
and awe to the soul-moving compositions of those masters, as they have
been chaunted in the most magnificent churches; but never did I hear
such music, and played upon such an instrument, as that sent forth by
the great organ in the Cathedral of York. The verger took much delight
in showing us the Horn that was once mounted with gold, but is now
garnished with brass. We viewed the monuments and tombs of the departed,
and then spent an hour before the great north window. The designs on the
painted glass, which tradition states was given to the church by five
virgin sisters, is the finest thing of the kind in Great Britain. I felt
a relief on once more coming into the open air and again beholding
Nature's own sun-light. The splendid ruins of St. Mary's Abbey, with its
eight beautiful light gothic windows, next attracted our attention. A
visit to the Castle finished our stay in York; and as we were leaving
the old city we almost imagined that we heard the chiming of the bells
for the celebration of the first Christian Sabbath, with Prince Arthur
as the presiding genius.
* * * * *
England stands pre-eminently the first government in the world for
freedom of speech and of the press. Not even in our own beloved America,
can the man who feels himself oppressed speak as he can in Great
Britain. In some parts of England, however, the freedom of thought is
tolerated to a greater extent than in others; and of the places
favourable to reforms of all kinds, calculated to elevate and benefit
mankind, Newcastle-on-Tyne doubtless takes the lead. Surrounded by
innumerable coal mines, it furnishes employment for a large labouring
population, many of whom take a deep interest in the passing events of
the day, and, consequently, are a reading class. The public debater or
speaker, no matter what may be his subject, who fails to get an audience
in other towns, is sure of a gathering in the Music Hall, or Lecture
Room in Newcastle. Here I first had an opportunity of coming in contact
with a portion of the labouring people of Britain. I have addressed
large and influential meetings in Newcastle and the neighbouring towns,
and the more I see and learn of the condition of the working-classes of
England the more I am satisfied of the utter fallacy of the statements
often made that their condition approximates to that of the slaves of
America. Whatever may be the disadvantages that the British peasant
labours under, he is free; and if he is not satisfied with his employer
he can make choice of another. He also has the right to educate his
children; and he is the equal of the most wealthy person before an
English Court of Justice. But how is it with the American Slave? He has
no right to himself, no right to protect his wife, his child, or his own
person. He is nothing more than a living tool. Beyond his field or
workshop he knows nothing. There is no amount of ignorance he is not
capable of. He has not the least idea of the face of this earth, nor of
the history or constitution of the country in which he dwells. To him
the literature, science, and art--the progressive history, and the
accumulated discoveries of bygone ages, are as if they had never been.
The past is to him as yesterday, and the future scarcely more than
to-morrow. Ancestral monuments, he has none; written documents fraught
with cogitations of other times, he has none; and any instrumentality
calculated to awaken and expound the intellectual activity and
comprehension of a present or approaching generation, he has none. His
condition is that of the leopard of his own native Africa. It lives, it
propagates its kind; but never does it indicate a movement towards that
all but angelic intelligence of man. The slave eats, drinks, and
sleeps--all for the benefit of the man who claims his body as his
property. Before the tribunals of his country he has no voice. He has no
higher appeal than the mere will of his owner. He knows nothing of the
inspired Apostles through their writings. He has no Sabbath, no Church,
no Bible, no means of grace,--and yet we are told that he is as well off
as the labouring classes of England. It is not enough that the people of
my country should point to their Declaration of Independence which
declares that "all men are created equal." It is not enough that they
should laud to the skies a constitution containing boasting declarations
in favour of freedom. It is not enough that they should extol the genius
of Washington, the patriotism of Henry, or the enthusiasm of Otis. The
time has come when nations are judged by the acts of the present instead
of the past. And so it must be with America. In no place in the United
Kingdom has the American Slave warmer friends than in Newcastle.
* * * * *
I am now in Sheffield, and have just returned from a visit to James
Montgomery, the poet. In company with James Wall, Esq., I proceeded to
The Mount, the residence of Mr. Montgomery; and our names being sent in,
we were soon in the presence of the "Christian Poet." He held in his
left hand the _Eclectic Review_ for the month, and with the right gave
me a hearty shake, and bade me "Welcome to old England." He was anything
but like the portraits I had seen of him, and the man I had in my mind's
eye. I had just been reading his "Pelican Island," and I eyed the poet
with no little interest. He is under the middle size, his forehead high
and well formed, the top of which was a little bald; his hair of a
yellowish colour, his eyes rather small and deep set, the nose long and
slightly aquiline, his mouth rather small, and not at all pretty. He was
dressed in black, and a large white cravat entirely hid his neck and
chin: his having been afflicted from childhood with salt-rhum, was
doubtless the cause of his chin being so completely buried in the
neckcloth. Upon the whole, he looked more like one of our American
Methodist parsons, than any one I have seen in this country. He entered
freely into conversation with us. He said he should be glad to attend my
lecture that evening, but that he had long since quit going out at
night. He mentioned having heard William Lloyd Garrison some years
before, and with whom he was well pleased. He said it had long been a
puzzle to him, how Americans could hold slaves and still retain their
membership in the churches. When we rose to leave, the old man took my
hand between his two, and with tears in his eyes said, "Go on your
Christian mission, and may the Lord protect and prosper you. Your
enslaved countrymen have my sympathy, and shall have my prayers." Thus
ended our visit to the Bard of Sheffield. Long after I had quitted the
presence of the poet, the following lines of his were ringing in my
ears:--
"Wanderer, whither dost thou roam?
Weary wanderer, old and grey,
Wherefore has thou left thine home,
In the sunset of thy day.
Welcome wanderer as thou art,
All my blessings to partake;
Yet thrice welcome to my heart,
For thine injured people's sake.
Wanderer, whither would'st thou roam?
To what region far away?
Bend thy steps to find a home,
In the twilight of thy day.
Where a tyrant never trod,
Where a slave was never known--
But where Nature worships God
In the wilderness alone."
Mr. Montgomery seems to have thrown his entire soul into his meditations
on the wrongs of Switzerland. The poem from which we have just quoted,
is unquestionably one of his best productions, and contains more of the
fire of enthusiasm than all his other works. We feel a reverence almost
amounting to superstition, for the poet who deals with nature. And who
is more capable of understanding the human heart than the poet? Who has
better known the human feelings than Shakspere; better painted than
Milton, the grandeur of Virtue; better sighed than Byron over the subtle
weaknesses of Hope? Who ever had a sounder taste, a more exact
intellect than Dante? or who has ever tuned his harp more in favour of
Freedom, than our own Whittier?
LETTER XII.
_Kirkstall Abbey--Mary the Maid of the Inn--Newstead Abbey: Residence of
Lord Byron--Parish Church of Hucknall--Burial Place of Lord
Byron--Bristol: "Cook's Folly"--Chepstow Castle and Abbey--Tintern
Abbey--Redcliffe Church._
_January 29_.
In passing through Yorkshire, we could not resist the temptation it
offered, to pay a visit to the extensive and interesting ruin of
Kirkstall Abbey, which lies embosomed in a beautiful recess of Airedale,
about three miles from Leeds. A pleasant drive over a smooth road,
brought us abruptly in sight of the Abbey. The tranquil and pensive
beauty of the desolate Monastery, as it reposes in the lap of pastoral
luxuriance, and amidst the touching associations of seven centuries, is
almost beyond description when viewed from where we first beheld it.
After arriving at its base, we stood for some moments under the mighty
arches that lead into the great hall, gazing at its old grey walls
frowning with age. At the distance of a small field, the Aire is seen
gliding past the foot of the lawn on which the ruin stands, after it has
left those precincts, sparkling over a weir with a pleasing murmur. We
could fully enter into the feelings of the Poet when he says:--
"Beautiful fabric! even in decay
And desolation, beauty still is thine;
As the rich sunset of an autumn day,
When gorgeous clouds in glorious hues combine
To render homage to its slow decline,
Is more majestic in its parting hour:
Even so thy mouldering, venerable shrine
Possesses now a more subduing power,
Than in thine earlier sway, with pomp and pride thy dower."
The tale of "Mary, the Maid of the Inn," is supposed, and not without
foundation, to be connected with this Abbey. "Hark to Rover," the name
of the house where the key is kept, was, a century ago, a retired inn or
pot-house, and the haunt of many a desperate highwayman and poacher. The
anecdote is so well known, that it is scarcely necessary to relate it.
It, however, is briefly this:--
"One stormy night, as two travellers sat at the inn, each having
exhausted his news, the conversation was directed to the Abbey, the
boisterous night, and Mary's heroism; when a bet was at last made by one
of them, that she would not go and bring back from the nave a slip of
the alder-tree growing there. Mary, however, did go; but having nearly
reached the tree, she heard a low, indistinct dialogue; at the same
time, something black fell and rolled towards her, which afterwards
proved to be a hat. Directing her attention to the place whence the
conversation proceeded, she saw, from behind a pillar, two men carrying
a murdered body: they passed near the place where she stood, a heavy
cloud was swept from off the face of the moon, and Mary fell
senseless--one of the murderers was her intended husband! She was
awakened from her swoon, but--her reason had fled for ever." Mr. Southey
wrote a beautiful poem founded on this story, which will be found in his
published works. We spent nearly three hours in wandering through these
splendid ruins. It is both curious and interesting to trace the early
history of these old piles, which become the resort of thousands,
nine-tenths of whom are unaware either of the classic ground on which
they tread, or of the peculiar interest thrown around the spot by the
deeds of remote ages.
During our stay in Leeds, we had the good fortune to become acquainted
with Wilson Armistead, Esq. This gentleman is well known as an able
writer against Slavery. His most elaborate work is "A Tribute for the
Negro." This is a volume of 560 pages, and is replete with facts
refuting the charges of inferiority brought against the Negro race. Few
English gentlemen have done more to hasten the day of the American
slave's liberation, than Wilson Armistead.
* * * * *
We have just paid a visit to Newstead Abbey, the far-famed residence of
Lord Byron. I posted from Hucknall over to Newstead one pleasant
morning, and, being provided with a letter of introduction to Colonel
Wildman, I lost no time in presenting myself at the door of the Abbey.
But, unfortunately for me, the Colonel was at Mansfield, in attendance
at the Assizes--he being one of the County Magistrates. I did not
however lose the object of my visit, as every attention was paid in
showing me about the premises. I felt as every one must, who gazes for
the first time upon these walls, and remembers that it was here, even
amid the comparative ruins of a building once dedicated to the sacred
cause of Religion and her twin sister, Charity, that the genius of Byron
was first developed. Here that he paced with youthful melancholy the
halls of his illustrious ancestors, and trode the walks of the
long-banished monks. The housekeeper--a remarkably good looking and
polite woman--showed us through the different apartments, and explained
in the most minute manner every object of interest connected with the
interior of the building. We first visited the Monks' Parlour, which
seemed to contain nothing of note, except a very fine stained
window--one of the figures representing St. Paul, surmounted by a cross.
We passed through Lord Byron's Bedroom, the Haunted Chamber, the
Library, and the Eastern Corridor, and halted in the Tapestry Bedroom,
which is truly a magnificent apartment, formed by the Byrons for the use
of King Charles II. The ceiling is richly decorated with the Byron arms.
We next visited the grand Drawing-room, probably the finest in the
building. This saloon contains a large number of splendid portraits,
among which is the celebrated portrait of Lord Byron, by Phillips. In
this room we took into our hand the Skull-cup, of which so much has been
written, and that has on it a short inscription, commencing with--"Start
not--nor deem my spirit fled." Leaving this noble room, we descended by
a few polished oak steps into the West Corridor, from which we entered
the grand Dining Hall, and through several other rooms, until we reached
the Chapel. Here we were shown a stone coffin which had been found near
the high altar, when the workmen were excavating the vault, intended by
Lord Byron for himself and his dog. The coffin contained the skeleton of
an Abbot, and also the identical skull from which the cup, of which I
have made mention, was made. We then left the building, and took a
stroll through the grounds. After passing a pond of cold crystal water,
we came to a dark wood in which are two leaden statues of Pan, and a
female satyr--very fine specimens as works of art. We here inspected the
tree whereon Byron carved his own name and that of his sister, with the
date, all of which are still legible. However, the tree is now dead, and
we were informed that Colonel Wildman intended to have it cut down so as
to preserve the part containing the inscription. After crossing an
interesting and picturesque part of the gardens, we arrived within the
precincts of the ancient Chapel, near which we observed a neat marble
monument, and which we supposed to have been erected to the memory of
some of the Byrons; but, on drawing near to it, we read the following
inscription:--
"Near this spot
are deposited the remains of one
who possessed beauty without vanity,
strength without insolence,
courage without ferocity,
and all the virtues of man without his vices.
This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery,
if inscribed over human ashes,
is but a just tribute to the memory of
BOATSWAIN, a dog,
Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803,
and died at Newstead Abbey, November 18, 1808."
By a will which his Lordship executed in 1811, he directed that his own
body should be buried in a vault in the garden, near his faithful dog.
This feeling of affection to his dumb and faithful follower, commendable
in itself, seems here to have been carried beyond the bounds of reason
and propriety.
In another part of the grounds we saw the oak tree planted by the poet
himself. It has now attained a goodly size, considering the growth of
the oak, and bids fair to become a lasting memento to the Noble Bard,
and to be a shrine to which thousands of pilgrims will resort in future
ages, to do homage to his mighty genius. This tree promises to share in
after times the celebrity of Shakspere's mulberry, and Pope's willow.
Near by, and in the tall trees, the rooks were keeping up a tremendous
noise. After seeing everything of interest connected with the great
poet, we entered our chaise, and left the premises. As we were leaving,
I turned to take a farewell look at the Abbey, standing in solemn
grandeur, the long ivy clinging fondly to the rich tracery of a former
age. Proceeding to the little town of Hucknall, we entered the old grey
Parish Church, which has for ages been the last resting-place of the
Byrons, and where repose the ashes of the Poet, marked only by a neat
marble slab, bearing the date of the poet's birth, death, and the fact
that the tablet was placed there by his sister. This closed my visit to
the interesting scenes associated with Byron's strange eventful
history--scenes that ever acquire a growing charm as the lapse of years
softens the errors of the man, and confirms the genius of the poet.
* * * * *
_May 10_.
It was on a lovely morning that I found myself on board the little
steamer _Wye_, passing out of Bristol harbour. In going down the river,
we saw on our right, the stupendous rocks of St. Vincent towering some
four or five hundred feet above our heads. By the swiftness of our fairy
steamer, we were soon abreast of Cook's Folly, a singular tower, built
by a man from whom it takes its name, and of which the following
romantic story is told:--"Some years since a gentleman, of the name of
Cook, erected this tower, which has since gone by the name of 'Cook's
Folly.' A son having been born, he was desirous of ascertaining, by
means of astrology, if he would live to enjoy his property. Being
himself a firm believer, like the poet Dryden, that certain information
might be obtained from the above science, he caused the child's
horoscope to be drawn, and found, to his dismay, that in his third,
sixteenth, or twenty-first year, he would be in danger of meeting with
some fearful calamity or sudden death, to avert which he caused the
turret to be constructed, and the child placed therein. Secure, as he
vainly thought, there he lived, attended by a faithful servant, their
food and fuel being conveyed to them by means of a pully-basket, until
he was old enough to wait upon himself. On the eve of his twenty-first
year, his parent's hopes rose high, and great were the rejoicings
prepared to welcome the young heir to his home. But, alas! no human
skill could avert the dark fate which clung to him. The last night he
had to pass alone in the turret, a bundle of faggots was conveyed to him
as usual, in which lay concealed a viper, which clung to his hand. The
bite was fatal; and, instead of being borne in triumph, the dead body of
his only son was the sad spectacle which met the sight of his father."
We crossed the channel and soon entered the mouth of that most
picturesque of rivers, the Wye. As we neared the town of Chepstow the
old Castle made its appearance, and a fine old ruin it is. Being
previously provided with a letter of introduction to a gentleman in
Chepstow, I lost no time in finding him out. This gentleman gave me a
cordial reception, and did what Englishmen seldom ever do, lent me his
saddle horse to ride to the Abbey. While lunch was in preparation I took
a stroll through the Castle which stood near by. We entered the Castle
through the great door-way and were soon treading the walls that had
once sustained the cannon and the sentinel, but were now covered with
weeds and wild flowers. The drum and fife had once been heard within
these walls--the only music now is the cawing of the rook and daw. We
paid a hasty visit to the various apartments, remaining longest in those
of most interest. The room in which Martin the Regicide was imprisoned
nearly twenty years, was pointed out to us. The Castle of Chepstow is
still a magnificent pile, towering upon the brink of a stupendous cliff,
on reaching the top of which, we had a splendid view of the surrounding
country. Time, however, compelled us to retrace our steps, and after
partaking of a lunch, we mounted a horse for the first time in ten
years, and started for Tintern Abbey. The distance from Chepstow to the
Abbey is about five miles, and the road lies along the banks of the
river. The river is walled in on either side by hills of much beauty,
clothed from base to summit with the richest verdure. I can conceive of
nothing more striking than the first appearance of the Abbey. As we
rounded a hill, all at once we saw the old ruin standing before us in
all its splendour. This celebrated ecclesiastical relic of the olden
time is doubtless the finest ruin of its kind in Europe. Embosomed
amongst hills, and situated on the banks of the most fairy-like river in
the world, its beauty can scarcely be surpassed. We halted at the
"Beaufort Arms," left our horse, and sallied forth to view the Abbey.
The sun was pouring a flood of light upon the old grey walls, lighting
up its dark recesses, as if to give us a better opportunity of viewing
it. I gazed with astonishment and admiration at its many beauties, and
especially at the superb gothic windows over the entrance door. The
beautiful gothic pillars, with here and there a representation of a
praying priest, and mailed knights, with saints and Christian martyrs,
and the hundreds of Scriptural representations, all indicate that this
was a place of considerable importance in its palmy days. The once
stone floor had disappeared, and we found ourselves standing on a floor
of unbroken green grass, swelling back to the old walls, and looking so
verdant and silken that it seemed the very floor of fancy. There are
more romantic and wilder places than this in the world, but none more
beautiful. The preservation of these old abbeys should claim the
attention of those under whose charge they are, and we felt like joining
with the poet and saying:--
"O ye who dwell
Around yon ruins, guard the precious charge
From hands profane! O save the sacred pile--
O'er which the wing of centuries has flown
Darkly and silently, deep-shadowing all
Its pristine honours--from the ruthless grasp
Of future violation."
In contemplating these ruins more closely, the mind insensibly reverts
to the period of feudal and regal oppression, when structures like that
of Tintern Abbey necessarily became the scenes of stirring and
highly-important events. How altered is the scene! Where were formerly
magnificence and splendour; the glittering array of priestly prowess;
the crowded halls of haughty bigots, and the prison of religious
offenders; there is now but a heap of mouldering ruins. The oppressed
and the oppressor have long since lain down together in the peaceful
grave. The ruin, generally speaking, is unusually perfect, and the
sculpture still beautifully sharp. The outward walls are nearly entire,
and are thickly clad with ivy. Many of the windows are also in a good
state of preservation; but the roof has long since fallen in. The
feathered songsters were fluttering about, and pouring forth their
artless lays as a tribute of joy; while the lowing of the herds, the
bleating of flocks, and the hum of bees upon the farm near by, all burst
upon the ear, and gave the scene a picturesque sublimity that can be
easier imagined than described. Most assuredly Shakspere had such ruins
in view when he exclaimed--
"The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve--
And, like the baseless fabric of a vision,
Leave not a wreck behind."
In the afternoon we returned to Bristol, and I spent the greater part
of the next day in examining the interior of Redcliffe Church. Few
places in the West of England have greater claims upon the topographer
and historian than the church of St. Mary's, Redcliffe. Its antiquity,
the beauty of its architecture, and above all the interesting
circumstances connected with its history, entitle it to peculiar notice.
It is also associated with the enterprise of genius; for its name has
been blended with the reputation of Rowley, of Canynge, and of
Chatterton; and no lover of poetry and admirer of art can visit it
without a degree of enthusiasm. And when the old building shall have
mouldered into ruins, even these will be trodden with veneration as
sacred to the recollection of genius of the highest order. Ascending a
winding stair, we were shown into the Treasury Room. The room forms an
irregular octagon, admitting light through narrow unglazed apertures
upon the broken and scattered fragments of the famous Rowleian chests,
that with the rubble and dust of centuries cover the floor. It is here
creative fancy pictures forth the sad image of the spirit of the
spot--the ardent boy, flushed and fed by hope, musing on the brilliant
deception he had conceived--whose daring attempt has left his name unto
the intellectual world as a marvel and a mystery.
That a boy under twelve years of age should write a series of poems,
imitating the style of the fifteenth century, and palm these poems off
upon the world as the work of a monk, is indeed strange; and that these
should become the object of interesting contemplation to the literary
world, and should awaken inquiries, and exercise the talents of a
Southey, a Bryant, a Miller, a Mathias, and others, savours more of
romance than reality. I had visited the room in a garret in High
Holborn, where this poor boy died. I had stood over a grave in the
burial-ground of the Lane Workhouse, which was pointed out to me as the
last resting-place of Chatterton; and now I was in the room where it was
alleged he obtained the manuscripts that gave him such notoriety. We
descended and viewed other portions of the church. The effect of the
chancel, as seen behind the pictures, is very singular, and suggestive
of many swelling thoughts. We look at the great east window, it is
unadorned with its wonted painted glass; we look at the altar-screen
beneath, on which the light of day again falls, and behold the injuries
it has received at the hands of time. There is a dreary mournfulness in
the scene which fastens on the mind, and is in unison with the time-worn
mouldering fragments that are seen all around us. And this dreariness is
not removed by our tracing the destiny of man on the storied pavements
or on the graven brass, that still bears upon its surface the names of
those who obtained the world's regard years back. This old pile is not
only an ornament to the city, but it stands a living monument to the
genius of its founder. Bristol has long sustained a high position as a
place from which the American Abolitionists have received substantial
encouragement in their arduous labours for the emancipation of the
slaves of that land; and the writer of this received the best evidence
that in this respect the character of the people had not been
exaggerated, especially as regards the "Clifton Ladies' Anti-Slavery
Society."
LETTER XXIII.[A]
[A] This letter is rather out of its proper place here. I had mislaid
the MS., and my distance from the printer prevented the matter being
rectified. In another edition, the transposition can be effected.
_Aberdeen--Passage by Steamer--Edinburgh--Visit to the College--William
and Ellen Craft._
I have visited few places where I found more warm friends than in
Aberdeen. This is the Granite City of Scotland.
Aberdeen reminds one of Boston, especially in a walk down Union Street,
which is said to be one of the finest promenades in Europe.
The town is situated on a neck of land between the rivers Dee and Don,
and is the most important place in the north of Scotland. During our
third day in the city, we visited among other places the Old Bridge of
Don, which is not only resorted to on account of its antique celebrity
and peculiar appearance, but also because of the notoriety that it has
gained by Lord Byron's poem of the "Bridge of Don."
An engagement to be in Edinburgh and vicinity, cut short our stay in the
north. The very mild state of the weather, and a wish to see something
of the coast between Aberdeen and Edinburgh, induced us to make the
journey by water.
On Friday evening, the 14th, after delivering a lecture before the Total
Abstinence Society, in company with William and Ellen Craft, I went on
board the steamer bound for Edinburgh. On reaching the vessel, we found
the drawing-room almost entirely at our service, and prejudice against
colour being unknown, we had no difficulty in getting the best
accommodation which the steamer could furnish. This is so unlike the
pro-slavery, negro-hating spirit of America, that the Crafts seemed
almost bewildered by the transition. I had been in the saloon but a
short time, when, looking at the newspapers on the table, I discovered
the _North Star_. It was like meeting with a friend in a strange land. I
looked in vain on the margin for the name of its owner, but as I did not
feel at liberty to take it, and as it appeared to be alone, I laid the
_Liberator_ by its side to keep it company.
The night was a glorious one. The sky was without a speck; and the
clear, piercing air had a brilliancy I have seldom seen. The moon was in
its zenith--the steamer and surrounding objects were beautiful in the
extreme. The boat got under weigh at a little past twelve, and we were
soon out at sea. The "Queen" is a splendid craft, and without the aid of
sails, was able to make fifteen miles within the hour. I was up the next
morning before the sun, and found the sea as on the previous night--as
calm and smooth as a mirror. It was a delightful morning, more like
April than February; and the sun, as it rose, seemed to fire every peak
of the surrounding hills. On our left, lay the Island of May, while to
the right was to be seen the small fishing town of Anstruther, twenty
miles distant from Edinburgh. Beyond these, on either side, was a range
of undulating blue mountains, swelling as they retired, into a bolder
outline and a loftier altitude, until they terminated some twenty-five
or thirty miles in the dim distance. A friend at my side pointed out a
place on the right, where the remains of an old castle or look-out
house, used in the time of the border wars, once stood, and which
reminded us of the barbarism of the past.
But these signs are fast disappearing. The plough and roller have passed
over many of these foundations, and the time will soon come, when the
antiquarian will look in vain for those places that history has pointed
out to him, as connected with the political and religious struggles of
the past. The steward of the vessel came round to see who of the
passengers wished for breakfast, and as the keen air of the morning had
given me an appetite, and there being no prejudice on the score of
colour, I took my seat at the table and gave ample evidence that I was
not an invalid. On returning to the deck again, I found we had entered
the Forth, and that "Modern Athens" was in sight; and, far above every
other object, with its turrets almost lost in the clouds, could be seen
Edinburgh Castle. After landing, a pleasant ride over one of the finest
roads in Scotland, with a sprinkling of beautiful villas on either side,
brought us once more to Cannon's Hotel.
In a city like Edinburgh, there is always something to keep the public
alive, but during our three days' stay in the town, on this occasion,
there were topics under discussion which seemed to excite the people,
although I had been told that the Scotch were not excitable. Indeed all
Edinburgh seemed to have gone mad about the Pope. If his Holiness should
think fit to pay a visit to his new dominions, I would advise him to
keep out of reach of the Scotch.
In company with the Crafts, I visited the Calton Hill, from which we had
a delightful view of the city and surrounding country. I had an
opportunity during my stay in the city, of visiting the Infirmary, and
was pleased to see among the two or three hundred students, three
coloured young men, seated upon the same benches with those of a fairer
complexion, and yet there appeared no feeling on the part of the whites
towards their coloured associates, except of companionship and respect.
One of the cardinal truths, both of religion and freedom, is the
equality and brotherhood of man. In the sight of God and all just
institutions, the whites can claim no precedence or privilege, on
account of their being white; and if coloured men are not treated as
they should be in the educational institutions in America, it is a
pleasure to know that all distinction ceases by crossing the broad
Atlantic. I had scarcely left the lecture room of the Institute and
reached the street, when I met a large number of the students on their
way to the college, and here again were seen coloured men arm in arm
with whites. The proud American who finds himself in the splendid
streets of Edinburgh, and witnesses such scenes as these, can but behold
in them the degradation of his own country, whose laws would make slaves
of these same young men, should they appear in the streets of
Charleston or New Orleans.
After all, our country is the most despotic in the wide world, and to
expose and hold it up to the scorn and contempt of other nations, is the
duty of every coloured man who would be true to himself and his race.
During my stay in Edinburgh, I accepted an invitation to breakfast with
the great champion of Philosophical Phrenology. Few foreigners are more
admired in America, than the author of "The Constitution of Man."[B]
Although not far from 70 years of age, I found him apparently as active
and as energetic as many men of half that age. He was much pleased with
Mr. and Mrs. Craft, who formed a part of the breakfast party. It may be
a pleasure to the friends of these two fugitive slaves, to know that
they are now the inmates of a good school where they are now being
educated. For this, they are mainly indebted to that untiring friend of
the Slave, John B. Estlin, Esq., of Bristol, whose zeal and co-operation
with the American Abolitionists, have gained for him an undying name
with the friends of freedom in the New World.
[B] George Combe, Esq.
LETTER XIII.
_Edinburgh--The Royal Institute--Scott's Monument--John Knox's
Pulpit--Temperance Meeting--Glasgow--Great Meeting in the City Hall._
EDINBURGH, _January 1, 1851_.
You will see by the date of this that I am spending my
New-Year's-Day in the Scottish Capital, in company with our friend,
William Craft. I came by invitation to attend a meeting of the Edinburgh
Ladies' Emancipation Society.
The meeting was held on Monday evening last, at which William Craft
gave, for the first time, since his arrival in this country, a history
of his escape from Georgia, two years ago, together with his recent
flight from Boston.
Craft's reception was one of deep enthusiasm, and his story was well
told, and made a powerful impression on the audience. I would that the
slaveholders, Hughes and Knight, could have been present and heard the
thundering applause with which our friend was received on the following
evening. Craft attended a meeting of the Edinburgh Total Abstinence
Society, before which I lectured, and his appearance here was also
hailed with much enthusiasm. Our friend bids fair to become a favourite
with the Scotch.
Much regret was expressed that Ellen was not present. She was detained
in Liverpool by indisposition. But Mrs. Craft has so far recovered, that
we expect her here to-morrow.
The appearance of these two fugitives in Great Britain, at this time,
and under the circumstances, will aid our cause, and create a renewed
hatred to the abominable institution of American slavery. I have
received letters from a number of the friends of the slave, in which
they express a wish to aid the Crafts; and among the first of these,
were our good friends, John B. Estlin, Esq., of Bristol, and Harriet
Martineau.
But I must give you my impression of this fine city. Edinburgh is the
most picturesque of all the towns which I have visited since my arrival
in the father-land. Its situation has been compared to that of Athens,
but it is said that the modern Athens is superior to the ancient. I was
deeply impressed with the idea that I had seen the most beautiful of
cities, after beholding those fashionable resorts, Paris and Versailles.
I have seen nothing in the way of public grounds to compare with the
gardens of Versailles, or the _Champs Elysees_ at Paris; and as for
statuary, the latter place is said to take the lead of the rest of the
world.
The general appearance of Edinburgh prepossesses one in its favour. The
town being built upon the brows of a large terrace, presents the most
wonderful perspective. Its first appearance to a stranger, and the first
impression, can scarcely be but favourable. In my first walk through the
town, I was struck with the difference in the appearance of the people
from the English. But the difference between the Scotch and the
Americans, is very great. The cheerfulness depicted in the countenances
of the people here, and their free and easy appearance, is very striking
to a stranger. He who taught the sun to shine, the flowers to bloom, the
birds to sing, and blesses us with rain, never intended that his
creatures should look sad. There is a wide difference between the
Americans and any other people which I have seen. The Scotch are healthy
and robust, unlike the long-faced, sickly-looking Americans.
While on our journey from London to Paris, to attend the Peace Congress,
I could not but observe the marked difference between the English and
American delegates. The former looked as if their pockets had been
filled with sandwiches, made of good bread and roast beef, while the
latter appeared as if their pockets had been filled with Holloway's
Pills, and Mrs. Kidder's Cordial.
I breakfasted this morning in a room in which the Poet Burns, as I was
informed, had often sat. The conversation here turned upon Burns. The
lady of the house pointed to a scrap of poetry which was in a frame
hanging on the wall, written, as she said, by the Poet, on hearing the
people rejoicing in a church over the intelligence of a victory. I
copied it and will give it to you:--
"Ye hypocrites! are these your pranks,
To murder men and give God thanks?
For shame! give o'er, proceed no further,
God won't accept your thanks for murder."
The fact that I was in the room where Scotland's great national poet had
been a visitor, caused me to feel that I was on classic, if not hallowed
ground. On returning from our morning visit, we met a gentleman with a
coloured lady on each arm. Craft remarked in a very dry manner, "If they
were in Georgia, the slaveholders would make them walk in a more hurried
gait than they do." I said to my friend, that if he meant the
pro-slavery prejudice would not suffer them to walk peaceably through
the streets, they need go no further than the pro-slavery cities of New
York and Philadelphia. When walking through the streets, I amused
myself, by watching Craft's countenance; and in doing so, imagined I saw
the changes experienced by every fugitive slave in his first month's
residence in this country. A sixteen months' residence has not yet
familiarized me with the change.
* * * * *
LAUREL BANK, _Jan. 18, 1851_.
Dear Douglass,--I remained in Edinburgh a day or two after the
date of my last letter, which gave me an opportunity of seeing some of
the lions in the way of public buildings, &c., in company with our
friend Wm. Craft. I paid a visit to the Royal Institute, and inspected
the very fine collection of paintings, statues, and other productions of
art. The collection in the Institute is not to be compared to the
British Museum at London, or the Louvre at Paris, but is probably the
best in Scotland. Paintings from the hands of many of the masters, such
as Sir A. Vandyke, Tiziano, Vercellio and Van Dellen, were hanging on
the wall, and even the names of Reubens, and Titian, were attached to
some of the finer specimens. Many of these represent some of the nobles,
and distinguished families of Rome, Athens, Greece, &c. A beautiful one
representing a group of the Lomellini family of Genoa, seemed to attract
the attention of most of the visitors.
In visiting this place, we passed close by the monument of Sir Walter
Scott. This is the most exquisite thing of the kind that I have seen
since coming to this country. It is said to be the finest monument in
Europe. There sits the author of "Waverley," with a book and pencil in
hand, taking notes. A beautiful dog is seated by his side. Whether this
is meant to represent his favourite dog, Camp, at whose death the Poet
shed so many tears, we were not informed; but I was of opinion that it
might be the faithful Percy, whose monument stands in the grounds at
Abbotsford. Scott was an admirer of the canine tribe. One may form a
good idea of the appearance of this distinguished writer, when living,
by viewing this remarkable statue. The statue is very beautiful, but not
equal to the one of Lord Byron, which was executed to be placed by the
side of Johnson, Milton, and Addison, in Poets' Corner, Westminster
Abbey; but the Parliament not allowing it a place there, it now stands
in one of the Colleges at Cambridge. While viewing the statue of Byron,
I thought he, too, should have been represented with a dog by his side,
for he, like Scott, was remarkably fond of dogs, so much so that he
intended to have his favourite, Boatswain, interred by his side.
We paid a short visit to the monuments of Burns and Allan Ramsay, and
the renowned old Edinburgh Castle. The Castle is now used as a barrack
for Infantry. It is accessible only from the High Street, and must have
been impregnable before the discovery of gunpowder. In the wars with the
English, it was twice taken by stratagem; once in a very daring manner,
by climbing up the most inaccessible part of the rock upon which it
stands, and where a foe was least expected, and putting the guard to
death; and another time, by a party of soldiers disguising themselves as
merchants, and obtaining admission inside the Castle gates. They
succeeded in preventing the gates from being closed, until reinforced by
a party of men under Sir Wm. Douglas, who soon overpowered the occupants
of the Castle.
We could not resist the temptation held out to see the Palace of
Holyrood. It was in this place that the beautiful, but unfortunate Mary,
Queen of Scots, resided for a number of years. On reaching the palace,
we were met at the door by an elderly looking woman, with a red face,
garnished with a pair of second-hand curls, the whole covered with a cap
having the widest border that I had seen for years. She was very kind in
showing us about the premises, especially as we were foreigners, no
doubt expecting an extra fee for politeness. The most interesting of the
many rooms in this ancient castle, is the one which was occupied by the
Queen, and where her Italian favourite, Rizzio, was murdered.
But by far the most interesting object which we visited while in
Edinburgh, was the house where the celebrated Reformer, John Knox,
re-resided. It is a queer-looking old building, with a pulpit on the
outside, and above the door are the nearly obliterated remains of the
following inscription:--"Lufe. God. Above. Al. And. your. Nichbour. As
you. Self." This was probably traced under the immediate direction of
the great Reformer. Such an inscription put upon a house of worship at
the present day, would be laughed at. I have given it to you,
punctuation and all, just as it stands.
The general architecture of Edinburgh is very imposing, whether we
regard the picturesque disorder of the buildings, in the Old Town, or
the symmetrical proportions of the streets and squares in the New. But
on viewing this city which has the reputation of being the finest in
Europe, I was surprised to find that it had none of those sumptuous
structures, which like St. Paul's, or Westminster Abbey, York Minster,
and some other of the English provincial Cathedrals, astonish the
beholder alike by their magnitude and their architectural splendour. But
in no city which I have visited in the kingdom, is the general standard
of excellence better maintained than in Edinburgh.
I am not sure, my dear friend, whether or not I mentioned in my last
letter the attendance of Wm. Craft and myself at a splendid Soiree of
the Edinburgh Temperance Society, and our being voted in life members,
in the most enthusiastic manner, by the whole audience. I will here give
you a part of the speech of the President, as reported in the _Christian
News_. This should cause the pro-slavery whites, and especially
negro-hating Sons of Temperance, who refuse the coloured man a place in
their midst, to feel ashamed of their unchristian conduct. Here it is,
let them judge for themselves:--
"A great feature in our meeting to-night, is that we have beside us two
individuals, who, according to the immaculate laws of immaculate
Yankeedom, have been guilty of the tremendous crime of stealing
themselves. (Applause.) Mr. Craft, who sits beside me, has stolen his
good wife, and Mrs. Craft has stolen her worthy husband; and our
respected friend, Mr. Brown, has cast a covetous eye on his own person.
In the name of the Temperance reformers of Edinburgh--in the name of
universal Scotland, I would welcome these two victims of the white man's
pride, ambition, selfishness, and cupidity. I welcome them as our equals
in every respect. (Great applause.) What a humiliating thought it will
be, surely, for our American friends on the other side of the water,
when they hear (and we shall endeavour to let them hear) that the very
man whom they consider not worthy to sit in a third class carriage along
with a white man, and that too in a district of country where the very
aristocracy deal in cheap cheese--(great applause) traffic in tallow
candles, and spend their nights and days among raw hides and train
oil--(applause)--what a humbling thought it will be for them to know
that these very men in the centre of educated Scotland, in the midst of
educated Edinburgh, are thought fit to hold even the first rank upon our
aristocratic platform. Let us, then, my friends, lift our voices this
evening in one swelling chorus for the down-trodden slave. Let us
publish abroad the fact to the world, that the sympathies of Scotland
are with the bondsman everywhere. Let us unite our voices to cry, Down
with the iniquitous Slave Bill!--Down with the aristocracy of the
skin!--Perish forever the deepest-dyed, the hardest-hearted system of
abomination under heaven!--Perish the sum of all villanies! Perish
American slavery. (Great applause.)"
But I must leave the good and hospitable people of the Scottish Capital
for the present. I have taken an elaborate stock of notes, and may speak
of Edinburgh again.
I left William and Ellen Craft (the latter of whom has just come to
Edinburgh), and took the Glasgow train, and after a ride of two hours
through a beautiful country, with its winding hills on either side--its
fertile fields, luxuriant woods, and stately mansions lying around us,
arrived in the muddy, dirty, smoky, foggy city of Glasgow. As I had had
a standing invitation from a distinguished gentleman with whom I became
acquainted in London, to partake of his hospitality, should I ever visit
Glasgow, and again received a note while in Edinburgh renewing the
invitation, I proceeded to his residence at Partick, three miles from
Glasgow. This is one of the loveliest spots which I have yet seen. Our
mansion is on the side of Laurel Bank, a range of the Kilpatrick hills.
We have a view of the surrounding country.
On Monday evening, Jan. 6, a public meeting was held in the City Hall,
to extend a welcome to the American fugitive slaves. The hall, one of
the largest in the kingdom, was filled at an early hour. At the
appointed time, Alex. Hastie, Esq., M.P., entered the great room,
followed by the fugitives and most of the leading abolitionists, amid
rapturous applause. With a Member of Parliament in the chair, and
almost any number of clergymen on the platform, the meeting had an
influential appearance. From report, I had imbibed the opinion that the
Scotch were not easily moved, but if I may judge from the enthusiasm
which characterised the City Hall demonstration, I should place them but
little behind the English. After an excellent speech from the Chairman,
and spirited addresses from several clergymen, William Craft was
introduced to the meeting, and gave an account of the escape of himself
and wife from slavery, and their subsequent flight from Boston. Any
description of mine would give but a poor idea of the intense feeling
that pervaded the meeting. I think all who were there, left the hall
after hearing that noble fugitive, with a greater abhorrence of American
slavery than they previously entertained.
LETTER XIV.
_Stirling--Dundee--Dr. Dick--Geo. Gilfillan--Dr. Dick at home._
PERTH, SCOTLAND, _Jan. 31, 1851_.
I am glad once more to breathe an atmosphere uncontaminated by the fumes
and smoke of a city with its population of three hundred thousand
inhabitants. In company with our friends Wm. and Ellen Craft, I left
Glasgow on the afternoon of the 23d inst., for Dundee, a beautiful town
situated on the banks of the river Tay. One like myself, who has spent
the best part of an eventful life in cities, and who prefers, as I do, a
country to a town life, feels a greater degree of freedom when
surrounded by forest trees, or country dwellings, and looking upon a
clear sky, than when walking through the thronged thoroughfares of a
city, with its dense population, meeting every moment a new or strange
face which one has never seen before, and never expects to see again.
Although I had met with one of the warmest public receptions with which
I have been greeted since my arrival in the country, and had had an
opportunity of shaking hands with many noble friends of the slave, whose
names I had often seen in print, yet I felt glad to see the tall
chimneys and smoke of Glasgow receding in the distance, as our 'iron
horse' was taking us with almost lightning speed from the commercial
capital of Scotland.
The distance from Glasgow to Dundee is some seventy or eighty miles, and
we passed through the finest country which I have seen in this portion
of the Queen's dominions. We passed through the old town of Stirling,
which lies about thirty miles distant from Glasgow, and is a place much
frequented by those who travel for pleasure. It is built on the brow of
a hill, and the Castle from which it most probably derived its name, may
be seen from a distance. Had it not been for a "professional" engagement
the same evening at Dundee, I would most assuredly have halted to take a
look at the old building.
The Castle is situated or built on an isolated rock, which seems as if
Nature had thrown it there for that purpose. It was once the retreat of
the Scottish Kings, and famous for its historical associations. Here the
"Lady of the Lake," with the magic ring, sought the monarch to intercede
for her father; here James II. murdered the Earl of Douglas; here the
beautiful but unfortunate Mary was made Queen; and here John Knox, the
Reformer, preached the coronation sermon of James VI. The Castle Hill
rises from the valley of the Forth, and makes an imposing and
picturesque appearance. The windings of the noble river till lost in the
distance, present pleasing contrasts, scarcely to be surpassed.
The speed of our train, after passing Stirling, brought before us, in
quick succession, a number of fine valleys and farm houses. Every spot
seemed to have been arrayed by Nature for the reception of the cottage
of some happy family. During this ride, we passed many sites where the
lawns were made, the terraces defined and levelled, the groves
tastefully clumped, the ancient trees, though small when compared to our
great forest oaks, were beautifully sprinkled here and there, and in
everything the labour of art seemed to have been anticipated by Nature.
Cincinnatus could not have selected a prettier situation for a farm,
than some which presented themselves, during this delightful journey. At
last we arrived at the place of our destination, where our friends were
in waiting for us.
As I have already forwarded to you a paper containing an account of the
Dundee meeting, I shall leave you to judge from these reports the
character of the demonstration. Yet I must mention a fact or two
connected with our first evening's visit to this town. A few hours after
our arrival in the place, we were called upon by a gentleman whose name
is known wherever the English language is spoken--one whose name is on
the tongue of every student and school-boy in this country and America,
and what lives upon their lips will live and be loved for ever.
We were seated over a cup of strong tea, to revive our spirits for the
evening, when our friend entered the room, accompanied by a gentleman,
small in stature, and apparently seventy-five years of age, yet he
appeared as active as one half that age. Feeling half drowsy from riding
in the cold, and then the sudden change to a warm fire, I was rather
inclined not to move on the entrance of the stranger. But the name of
Thomas Dick, LL.D., roused me in a moment, from my lethargy; I could
scarcely believe that I was in the presence of the "Christian
Philosopher." Dr. Dick is one of the men to whom the age is indebted. I
never find myself in the presence of one to whom the world owes so much
as Dr. Dick, without feeling a thrilling emotion, as if I were in the
land of spirits. Dr. Dick had come to our lodgings to see and
congratulate Wm. and Ellen Craft upon their escape from the republican
Christians of the United States; and as he pressed the hand of the
"white slave," and bid her "welcome to British soil," I saw the silent
tear stealing down the cheek of this man of genius. How I wished that
the many slaveholders and pro-slavery professed Christians of America,
who have read and pondered the philosophy of this man, could have been
present. Thomas Dick is an abolitionist--one who is willing that the
world should know that he hates the "peculiar institution." At the
meeting that evening, Dr. Dick was among the most prominent. But this
was not the only distinguished man who took part on that occasion.
Another great mind was on the platform, and entered his solemn protest
in a manner long to be remembered by those present. This was the Rev.
George Gilfillan, well known as the author of the "Portraits of Literary
Men." Mr. Gilfillan is an energetic speaker, and would have been the
lion of the evening, even if many others who are more distinguished as
platform orators had been present. I think it was Napoleon who said that
the enthusiasm of others abated his own. At any rate, the spirit with
which each speaker entered upon his duty for the evening, abated my own
enthusiasm for the time being. The last day of our stay in Dundee, I
paid a visit, by invitation, to Dr. Dick, at his residence in the little
village of Broughty Ferry. We found the great astronomer in his parlour
waiting for us. From the parlour we went to the new study, and here I
felt more at ease, for I went to see the Philosopher in his study, and
not in his drawing-room. But even this room had too much the look of
nicety to be an author's _sanctum_; and I inquired and was soon informed
by Mrs. Dick, that I should have a look at the "_old study_."
During a sojourn of eighteen months in Great Britain, I have had the
good fortune to meet with several distinguished literary characters, and
have always managed, while at their places of abode, to see the table
and favourite chair. Wm. and Ellen Craft were seeing what they could see
through a microscope, when Mrs. Dick returned to the room, and intimated
that we could now see the old literary workshop. I followed, and was
soon in a room about fifteen feet square, with but one window, which
occupied one side of the room. The walls of the other three sides were
lined with books. And many of these looked the very personification of
age. I took my seat in the "_old arm chair_;" and here, thought I, is
the place and the seat in which this distinguished man sat, while
weaving the radiant wreath of renown which now in his old age surrounds
him, and whose labours will be more appreciated by future ages than the
present.
I took a farewell of the author of the "Solar System," but not until I
had taken a look through the great telescope in the observatory. This
instrument, through which I tried to see the heavens, was not the one
invented by Galileo, but an improvement upon the original. On leaving
this learned man, he shook hands with us, and bade us "God speed" in our
mission; and I left the philosopher, feeling I had not passed an hour
more agreeably, with a literary character, since the hour which I spent
with Poet Montgomery a few months since. And, by-the-bye, there is a
resemblance between the poet and the philosopher. In becoming acquainted
with great men, I have become a convert to the opinion, that a big nose
is an almost necessary appendage to the form of a man with a giant
intellect. If those whom I have seen be a criterion, such is certainly
the case. But I have spun out this too long, and must close.
LETTER XV.
_Melrose Abbey--Abbotsford--Dryburgh Abbey--The Grave of Sir Walter
Scott--Hawick--Gretna Green--Visit to the Lakes._
YORK, _March 26, 1851_.
I closed my last letter in the ancient town of Melrose, on the banks of
the Tweed, and within a stone's throw of the celebrated ruins from which
the town derives its name. The valley in which Melrose is situated, and
the surrounding hills, together with the Monastery, have so often been
made a theme for the Scottish bards, that this has become the most
interesting part of Scotland. Of the many gifted writers who have taken
up the pen, none have done more to bring the Eildon Hills and Melrose
Abbey into note, than the author of "Waverley." But who can read his
writings without a regret, that he should have so woven fact and fiction
together, that it is almost impossible to discriminate between the one
and the other.
We arrived at Melrose in the evening, and proceeded to the chapel where
our meeting was to be held, and where our friends, the Crafts, were
warmly greeted. On returning from the meeting, we passed close by the
ruins of Melrose, and, very fortunately, it was a moonlight night. There
is considerable difference of opinion among the inhabitants of the place
as regards the best time to view the Abbey. The author of the "Lay of
the Last Minstrel," says:--
"If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moonlight:
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild but to flout the ruins gray."
In consequence of this admonition, I was informed that many persons
remain in town to see the ruins by moonlight. Aware that the moon did
not send its rays upon the old building every night in the year, I asked
the keeper what he did on dark nights. He replied that he had a large
lantern, which he put upon the end of a long pole, and with this he
succeeded in lighting up the ruins. This good man laboured hard to
convince me that his invention was nearly, if not quite as good, as
Nature's own moon. But having no need of an application of his invention
to the Abbey, I had no opportunity of judging of its effect. I thought,
however, that he had made a moon to some purpose, when he informed me
that some nights, with his pole and lantern, he earned his four or five
shillings. Not being content with a view by "moonlight alone," I was up
the next morning before the sun, and paid my respects to the Abbey. I
was too early for the keeper, and he handed me the key through the
window, and I entered the rooms alone. It is one labyrinth of gigantic
arches and dilapidated halls, the ivy growing and clinging wherever it
can fasten its roots, and the whole as fine a picture of decay as
imagination could create. This was the favourite resort of Sir Walter
Scott, and furnished him much matter for the "Lay of the Last Minstrel."
He could not have selected a more fitting place for solitary thought
than this ancient abode of monks and priests. In passing through the
cloisters, I could not but remark the carvings of leaves and flowers,
wrought in stone in the most exquisite manner, looking as fresh as if
they were just from the hands of the artist. The lapse of centuries
seems not to have made any impression upon them, or changed their
appearance in the least. I sat down among the ruins of the Abbey. The
ground about was piled up with magnificent fragments of stone,
representing various texts of Scripture, and the quaint ideas of the
priests and monks of that age. Scene after scene swept through my fancy
as I looked upon the surrounding objects. I could almost imagine I saw
the bearded monks going from hall to hall, and from cell to cell. In
visiting these dark cells, the mind becomes oppressed by a sense of the
utter helplessness of the victims who once passed over the thresholds
and entered these religious prisons. There was no help or hope but in
the will that ordered their fate. How painful it is to gaze upon these
walls, and to think how many tears have been shed by their inmates, when
this old Monastery was in its glory. I ascended to the top of the ruin
by a circuitous stairway, whose stone steps were worn deep from use by
many who, like myself, had visited them to gratify a curiosity. From the
top of the Abbey, I had a splendid view of the surrounding hills and
the beautiful valley through which flows the Gala Water and Tweed. This
is unquestionably the most splendid specimen of Gothic architectural
ruin in Scotland. But any description of mine conveys but a poor idea to
the fancy. To be realized, it must be seen.
During the day, we paid a visit to Abbotsford, the splendid mansion of
the late Sir Walter Scott, Bart. This beautiful seat is situated on the
banks of the Tweed, just below its junction with the Gala Water. It is a
dreary looking spot, and the house from the opposite side of the river
has the appearance of a small, low castle. In a single day's ride
through England, one may see half a dozen cottages larger than
Abbotsford House. I was much disappointed in finding the premises
undergoing repairs and alterations, and that all the trees between the
house and the river had been cut down. This is to be regretted the more,
because they were planted, nearly every one of them, by the same hand
that waved its wand of enchantment over the world. The fountain had been
removed from where it had been placed by the hands of the Poet to the
centre of the yard; and even a small stone that had been placed over the
favourite dog "Percy," had been taken up and thrown among some loose
stones. One visits Abbotsford because of the genius of the man that once
presided over it. Everything connected with the great Poet is of
interest to his admirers, and anything altered or removed, tends to
diminish that interest. We entered the house, and were conducted through
the great Hall, which is hung all round with massive armour of all
descriptions, and other memorials of ancient times. The floor is of
white and black marble. In passing through the hall, we entered a narrow
arched room, stretching quite across the building, having a window at
each end. This little or rather narrow room is filled with all kinds of
armour, which is arranged with great taste. We were next shown into the
Dining-room, whose roof is of black oak, richly carved. In this room is
a painting of the head of Queen Mary, in a charger, taken the day after
the execution. Many other interesting portraits grace the walls of this
room. But by far the finest apartment in the building is the
Drawing-room, with a lofty ceiling, and furnished with antique ebony
furniture. After passing through the Library, with its twenty thousand
volumes, we found ourselves in the Study, and I sat down in the same
chair where once sat the Poet; while before me was the table upon which
was written the "Lady of the Lake," "Waverley," and other productions of
this gifted writer. The clothes last worn by the Poet were shown to us.
There was the broad skirted blue coat, with its large buttons, the plaid
trousers, the heavy shoes, the black vest and white hat. These were all
in a glass case, and all looked the poet and novelist. But the inside of
the buildings had undergone alterations as well as the outside. In
passing through the Library, we saw a granddaughter of the Poet. She was
from London, and was only on a visit of a few days. She looked pale and
dejected, and seemed as if she longed to leave this secluded spot and
return to the metropolis. She looked for all the world like a hothouse
plant. I don't think the Scotch could do better than to purchase
Abbotsford, while it has some imprint of the great magician, and secure
its preservation; for I am sure that, a hundred years hence, no place
will be more frequently visited in Scotland than the home of the late
Sir Walter Scott. After sauntering three hours about the premises, I
left, but not without feeling that I had been well paid for my trouble
in visiting Abbotsford.
In the afternoon of the same day, in company with the Crafts, I took a
drive to Dryburgh Abbey. It is a ruin of little interest, except as
being the burial place of Scott. The poet lies buried in St. Mary's
Aisle. His grave is in the left transept of the cross, and close to
where the high altar formerly stood. Sir Walter Scott chose his own
grave, and he could not have selected a sunnier spot if he had roamed
the wide world over. A shaded window breaks the sun as it falls upon his
grave. The ivy is creeping and clinging wherever it can, as if it would
shelter the poet's grave from the weather. The author lies between his
wife and eldest son, and there is only room enough for one grave more,
and the son's wife has the choice of being buried here.
The four o'clock train took us to Hawick; and after a pleasant visit in
this place, and the people registering their names against American
Slavery, and the Fugitive Bill in particular, we set out for Carlisle,
passing through the antique town of Langholm. After leaving the latter
place, we had to travel by coach. But no matter how one travels here, he
travels at a more rapid rate than in America. The distance from Langholm
to Carlisle, twenty miles, occupied only two and a-half hours in the
journey. It was a cold day and I had to ride on the outside, as the
inside had been taken up. We changed horses, and took in and put out
passengers with a rapidity which seems almost incredible. The road was
as smooth as a mirror.
We bid farewell to Scotland, as we reached the little town of Gretna
Green. This town being on the line between England and Scotland, is
noted as the place where a little cross-eyed, red-faced blacksmith, by
the name of Priestly, first set up his own altar to Hymen, and married
all who came to him, without regard to rank or station, and at prices to
suit all. It was worth a ride through this part of the country, if for
no other purpose than to see the town where more clandestine marriages
have taken place than in any other part in the world. A ride of eight or
nine miles brought us in sight of the Eden, winding its way slowly
through a beautiful valley, with farms on either side, covered with
sheep and cattle. Four very tall chimneys, sending forth dense columns
of black smoke, announced to us that we were near Carlisle. I was really
glad of this, for Ulysses was never more tired of the shores of Ilion
than I of the top of that coach.
We remained over night at Carlisle, partaking of the hospitality of the
prince of bakers, and left the next day for the Lakes, where we had a
standing invitation to pay a visit to a distinguished literary lady. A
cold ride of about fifty miles brought us to the foot of Lake
Windermere, a beautiful sheet of water, surrounded by mountains that
seemed to vie with each other which should approach nearest the sky. The
margin of the lake is carved out and built up into terrace above
terrace, until the slopes and windings are lost in the snow-capped peaks
of the mountains. It is not surprising that such men as Southey,
Coleridge, Wordsworth, and others, resorted to this region for
inspiration. After a coach ride of five miles (passing on our journey
the "Dove's Nest," home of the late Mrs. Hemans), we were put down at
the door of the Salutation Hotel, Ambleside, and a few minutes after
found ourselves under the roof of the authoress of "Society in America."
I know not how it is with others, but for my own part, I always form an
opinion of the appearance of an author whose writings I am at all
familiar with, or a statesman whose speeches I have read. I had pictured
in my own mind a tall, stately-looking lady of about sixty years, as the
authoress of "Travels in the East," and for once I was right, with the
single exception that I had added on too many years by twelve. The
evening was spent in talking about the United States; and William Craft
had to go through the narrative of his escape from slavery. When I
retired for the night, I found it almost impossible to sleep. The idea
that I was under the roof of the authoress of "The Hour and the Man,"
and that I was on the banks of the sweetest lake in Great Britain,
within half a mile of the residence of the late poet Wordsworth, drove
sleep from my pillow. But I must leave an account of my visit to the
Lakes for a future letter.
When I look around and see the happiness here, even among the poorer
classes, and that too in a country where the soil is not at all to be
compared with our own, I mourn for our down-trodden countrymen, who are
plundered, oppressed, and made chattels of, to enable an ostentatious
aristocracy to vie with each other in splendid extravagance.
LETTER XVI.
_Miss Martineau--"The Knoll"--"Ridal Mount"--"The Dove's Nest"--Grave of
William Wordsworth, Esq.--The English Peasant._
_May 30, 1851_.
A series of public meetings, one pressing close upon the heel of
another, must be an apology for my six or eight weeks' silence. But I
hope that no temporary suspense on my part will be construed into a want
of interest in our cause, or a wish to desist from giving occasionally a
scrap (such as it is) to the _North Star_.
My last letter left me under the hospitable roof of Harriet Martineau. I
had long had an invitation to visit this distinguished friend of our
race, and as the invitation was renewed during my tour through the
North, I did not feel disposed to decline it, and thereby lose so
favourable an opportunity of meeting with one who had written so much in
behalf of the oppressed of our land. About a mile from the head of Lake
Windermere, and immediately under Wonsfell, and encircled by mountains
on all sides, except the south-west, lies the picturesque little town of
Ambleside, and the brightest spot in the place is "The Knoll," the
residence of Miss Martineau.
We reached "The Knoll" a little after nightfall, and a cordial shake of
the hand by Miss M., who was waiting for us, soon assured us that we had
met with a warm friend.
It is not my intention to lay open the scenes of domestic life at "The
Knoll," nor to describe the social parties of which my friends and I
were partakers during our sojourn within the hospitable walls of this
distinguished writer; but the name of Miss M. is so intimately connected
with the Anti-slavery movement, by her early writings, and those have
been so much admired by the friends of the slave in the United States,
that I deem it not at all out of place for me to give the readers of the
_North Star_ some idea of the authoress of "Political Economy," "Travels
in the East," "The Hour and the Man," &c.
The dwelling is a cottage of moderate size, built after Miss M.'s own
plan, upon a rise of land from which it derives the name of "The Knoll."
The Library is the largest room in the building, and upon the walls of
it were hung some beautiful engravings and a continental map. On a long
table which occupied the centre of the room, were the busts of
Shakspere, Newton, Milton, and a few other literary characters of the
past. One side of the room was taken up with a large case, filled with a
choice collection of books, and everything indicated that it was the
home of genius and of taste.
The room usually occupied by Miss M., and where we found her on the
evening of our arrival, is rather small and lighted by two large
windows. The walls of this room were also decorated with prints and
pictures, and on the mantle-shelf were some models in _terra cottia_ of
Italian groups. On a circular table lay casts, medallions, and some very
choice water-colour drawings. Under the south window stood a small table
covered with newly opened letters, a portfolio and several new books,
with here and there a page turned down, and one with a paper knife
between its leaves as if it had only been half read. I took up the last
mentioned, and it proved to be the "Life and Poetry of Hartly
Coleridge," son of S.T. Coleridge. It was just from the press, and had,
a day or two before, been forwarded to her by the publisher. Miss M. is
very deaf and always carries in her left hand a trumpet; and I was not a
little surprised on learning from her that she had never enjoyed the
sense of smell, and only on one occasion the sense of taste, and that
for a single moment. Miss M. is loved with a sort of idolatry by the
people of Ambleside, and especially the poor, to whom she gives a
course of lectures every winter gratuitously. She finished her last
course the day before our arrival. She was much pleased with Ellen
Craft, and appeared delighted with the story of herself and husband's
escape from slavery, as related by the latter--during the recital of
which I several times saw the silent tear stealing down her cheek, and
which she tried in vain to hide from us.
When Craft had finished, she exclaimed, "I would that every woman in the
British Empire, could hear that tale as I have, so that they might know
how their own sex was treated in that boasted land of liberty." It seems
strange to the people of this county, that one so white and so lady-like
as Mrs. Craft, should have been a slave and forced to leave the land of
her nativity and seek an asylum in a foreign country. The morning after
our arrival, I took a stroll by a circuitous pathway to the top of
Loughrigg Fell. At the foot of the mount I met a peasant, who very
kindly offered to lend me his donkey, upon which to ascend the mountain.
Never having been upon the back of one of these long eared animals, I
felt some hesitation about trusting myself upon so diminutive looking a
creature. But being assured that if I would only resign myself to his
care and let him have his own way, I would be perfectly safe, I mounted,
and off we set. We had, however, scarcely gone fifty rods, when, in
passing over a narrow part of the path and overlooking a deep chasm, one
of the hind feet of the donkey slipped, and with an involuntary shudder,
I shut my eyes to meet my expected doom; but fortunately the little
fellow gained his foothold, and in all probability saved us both from a
premature death. After we had passed over this dangerous place, I
dismounted, and as soon as my feet had once more gained _terra firma_, I
resolved that I would never again yield my own judgment to that of any
one, not even to a donkey.
It seems as if Nature has amused herself in throwing these mountains
together. From the top of the Loughrigg Fell, the eye loses its power in
gazing upon the objects below. On our left, lay Rydal Mount, the
beautiful seat of the late poet Wordsworth. While to the right, and away
in the dim distance, almost hidden by the native trees, was the cottage
where once resided Mrs. Hemans. And below us lay Windermere, looking
more like a river than a lake, and which, if placed by the side of our
own Ontario, Erie or Huron, would be lost in the fog. But here it looks
beautiful in the extreme, surrounded as it is by a range of mountains
that have no parallel in the United States for beauty. Amid a sun of
uncommon splendour, dazzling the eye with the reflection upon the water
below, we descended into the valley, and I was soon again seated by the
fireside of our hospitable hostess. In the afternoon of the same day, we
took a drive to the "Dove's Nest," the home of the late Mrs. Hemans.
We did not see the inside of the house, on account of its being occupied
by a very eccentric man, who will not permit a woman to enter the house,
and it is said that he has been known to run when a female had
unconsciously intruded herself upon his premises. And as our company was
in part composed of ladies, we had to share their fate, and therefore
were prevented from seeing the interior of the Dove's Nest. The
exhibitor of such a man would be almost sure of a prize at the great
Exhibition.
At the head of Grassmere Lake, and surrounded by a few cottages, stands
an old gray, antique-looking Parish Church, venerable with the lapse of
centuries, and the walls partly covered with ivy, and in the rear of
which is the parish burial-ground. After leaving the Dove's Nest, and
having a pleasant ride over the hills and between the mountains, and
just as the sun was disappearing behind them, we arrived at the gate of
Grassmere Church; and alighting and following Miss M., we soon found
ourselves standing over a grave, marked by a single stone, and that,
too, very plain, with a name deeply cut. This announced to us that we
were standing over the grave of William Wordsworth. He chose his own
grave, and often visited the spot before his death. He lies in the most
sequestered spot in the whole grounds, and the simplicity and beauty of
the place was enough to make one in love with it, to be laid so far from
the bustle of the world, and in so sweet a place. The more one becomes
acquainted with the literature of the old world, the more he must love
her poets. Among the teachers of men, none are more worthy of study than
the poets; and, as teachers, they should receive far more credit than is
yielded to them. No one can look back upon the lives of Dante,
Shakspere, Milton, Goethe, Cowper, and many others that we might name,
without being reminded of the sacrifices which they made for mankind,
and which were not appreciated until long after their deaths. We need
look no farther than our own country to find men and women wielding the
pen practically and powerfully for the right. It is acknowledged on all
hands in this country, that England has the greatest dead poets, and
America the greatest living ones. The poet and the true Christian have
alike a hidden life. Worship is the vital element of each. Poetry has in
it that kind of utility which good men find in their Bible, rather than
such convenience as bad men often profess to draw from it. It ennobles
the sentiments, enlarges the affections, kindles the imagination, and
gives to us the enjoyment of a life in the past, and in the future, as
well as in the present. Under its light and warmth, we wake from our
torpidity and coldness, to a sense of our capabilities. This impulse
once given, a great object is gained. Schiller has truly said, "Poetry
can be to a man, what love is to a hero. It can neither counsel him nor
smite him, nor perform any labour for him, but it can bring him up to be
a hero, can summon him to deeds, and arm him with strength for all he
ought to be." I have often read with pleasure the sweet poetry of our
own Whitfield of Buffalo, which has appeared from time to time in the
columns of the _North Star_. I have always felt ashamed of the fact that
he should be compelled to wield the razor instead of the pen for a
living. Meaner poets than James M. Whitfield, are now living by their
compositions; and were he a white man he would occupy a different
position.
After remaining a short time, and reading the epitaphs of the departed,
we again returned to "The Knoll." Nothing can be more imposing than the
beauty of English park scenery, and especially in the vicinity of the
lakes. Magnificent lawns that extend like sheets of vivid green, with
here and there a sprinkling of fine trees, heaping up rich piles of
foliage, and then the forests with the hare, the deer, and the rabbit,
bounding away to the covert, or the pheasant suddenly bursting upon the
wing--the artificial stream, the brook taught to wind in natural
meanderings, or expand into the glassy lake, with the yellow leaf
sleeping upon its bright waters, and occasionally a rustic temple or
sylvan statue grown green and dark with age, give an air of sanctity and
picturesque beauty to English scenery that is unknown in the United
States. The very labourer with his thatched cottage and narrow slip of
ground-plot before the door, the little flower-bed, the woodbine trimmed
against the wall, and hanging its blossoms about the windows, and the
peasant seen trudging home at nightfall with the avails of the toil of
the day upon his back--all this tells us of the happiness both of rich
and poor in this country. And yet there are those who would have the
world believe that the labourer of England is in a far worse condition
than the slaves of America. Such persons know nothing of the real
condition of the working classes of this country. At any rate, the poor
here, as well as the rich, are upon a level, as far as the laws of the
country are concerned. The more one becomes acquainted with the English
people, the more one has to admire them. They are so different from the
people of our own country. Hospitality, frankness, and good humour, are
always to be found in an Englishman. After a ramble of three days about
the lakes, we mounted the coach, bidding Miss Martineau farewell, and
quitted the lake district.
LETTER XVII.
_A Day in the Crystal Palace._
LONDON, _June 27th, 1851_.
Presuming that you will expect from me some account of the great World's
Fair, I take my pen to give you my own impressions, although I am afraid
that anything which I may say about this "Lion of the day," will fall
far short of a description. On Monday last, I quitted my lodgings at an
early hour, and started for the Crystal Palace. This day was fine, such
as we seldom experience in London, with a clear sky, and invigorating
air, whose vitality was as rousing to the spirits as a blast from the
"horn of Astolpho." Although it was not yet 10 o'clock when I entered
Piccadilly, every omnibus was full, inside and out, and the street was
lined with one living stream, as far as the eye could reach, all wending
their way to the "Glass-House." No metropolis in the world presents such
facilities as London for the reception of the Great Exhibition, now
collected within its walls. Throughout its myriads of veins, the stream
of industry and toil pulses with sleepless energy. Every one seems to
feel that this great Capital of the world, is the fittest place wherein
they might offer homage to the dignity of toil. I had already begun to
feel fatigued by my pedestrian excursion as I passed "Apsley House," the
residence of the Duke of Wellington, and emerged into Hyde Park.
I had hoped that on getting into the Park, I would be out of the crowd
that seemed to press so heavily in the street. But in this I was
mistaken. I here found myself surrounded by and moving with an
overwhelming mass, such as I had never before witnessed. And, away in
the distance, I beheld a dense crowd, and above every other object, was
seen the lofty summit of the Crystal Palace. The drive in the Park was
lined with princely-looking vehicles of every description. The drivers
in their bright red and gold uniforms, the pages and footmen in their
blue trousers and white silk stockings, and the horses dressed up in
their neat, silver-mounted harness, made the scene altogether one of
great splendour. I was soon at the door, paid my shilling, and entered
the building at the south end of the Transept. For the first ten or
twenty minutes I was so lost in astonishment, and absorbed in pleasing
wonder, that I could do nothing but gaze up and down the vista of the
noble building. The Crystal Palace resembles in some respects, the
interior of the cathedrals of this country. One long avenue from east to
west is intersected by a Transept, which divides the building into two
nearly equal parts. This is the greatest building the world ever saw,
before which the Pyramids of Egypt, and the Colossus of Rhodes must
hide their diminished heads. The palace was not full at any time during
the day, there being only 64,000 persons present. Those who love to
study the human countenance in all its infinite varieties, can find
ample scope for the indulgence of their taste, by a visit to the World's
Fair. All countries are there represented--Europeans, Asiatics,
Americans and Africans, with their numerous subdivisions. Even the
exclusive Chinese, with his hair braided, and hanging down his back, has
left the land of his nativity, and is seen making long strides through
the Crystal Palace, in his wooden-bottomed shoes. Of all places of
curious costumes and different fashions, none has ever yet presented
such a variety as this Exhibition. No dress is too absurd to be worn in
this place.
There is a great deal of freedom in the Exhibition. The servant who
walks behind his mistress through the Park feels that he can crowd
against her in the Exhibition. The Queen and the day labourer, the
Prince and the merchant, the peer and the pauper, the Celt and the
Saxon, the Greek and the Frank, the Hebrew and the Russ, all meet here
upon terms of perfect equality. This amalgamation of rank, this kindly
blending of interests, and forgetfulness of the cold formalities of
ranks and grades, cannot but be attended with the very best results. I
was pleased to see such a goodly sprinkling of my own countrymen in the
Exhibition--I mean coloured men and women--well-dressed, and moving
about with their fairer brethren. This, some of our pro-slavery
Americans did not seem to relish very well. There was no help for it. As
I walked through the American part of the Crystal Palace, some of our
Virginian neighbours eyed me closely and with jealous looks, especially
as an English lady was leaning on my arm. But their sneering looks did
not disturb me in the least. I remained the longer in their department,
and criticised the bad appearance of their goods the more. Indeed, the
Americans, as far as appearance goes, are behind every other country in
the Exhibition. The "Greek Slave" is the only production of Art which
the United States has sent. And it would have been more to their credit
had they kept that at home. In so vast a place as the Great Exhibition
one scarcely knows what to visit first, or what to look upon last. After
wandering about through the building for five hours, I sat down in one
of the galleries and looked at the fine marble statue of Virginius, with
the knife in his hand and about to take the life of his beloved and
beautiful daughter, to save her from the hands of Appius Claudius. The
admirer of genius will linger for hours among the great variety of
statues in the long avenue. Large statues of Lords Eldon and Stowell,
carved out of solid marble, each weighing above twenty tons, are among
the most gigantic in the building.
I was sitting with my 400 paged guide-book before me, and looking down
upon the moving mass, when my attention was called to a small group of
gentlemen standing near the statue of Shakspere, one of whom wore a
white coat and hat, and had flaxen hair, and trousers rather short in
the legs. The lady by my side, and who had called my attention to the
group, asked if I could tell what country this odd-looking gentleman was
from? Not wishing to run the risk of a mistake, I was about declining
to venture an opinion, when the reflection of the sun against a mirror,
on the opposite side, threw a brilliant light upon the group, and
especially on the face of the gentleman in the white coat, and I
immediately recognized under the brim of the white hat, the features of
Horace Greeley, Esq., of the New York "Tribune." His general appearance
was as much out of the English style as that of the Turk whom I had seen
but a moment before--in his bag-like trousers, shuffling along in his
slippers. But oddness in dress, is one of the characteristics of the
Great Exhibition.
Among the many things in the Crystal Palace, there are some which
receive greater attention than others, around which may always be seen
large groups of the visitors. The first of these is the Koh-i-noor, the
"Mountain of Light." This is the largest and most valuable diamond in
the world, said to be worth £2,000,000 sterling. It is indeed a great
source of attraction to those who go to the Exhibition for the first
time, but it is doubtful whether it obtains such admiration afterwards.
We saw more than one spectator turn away with the idea that after all
it was only a piece of glass. After some jamming, I got a look at the
precious jewel, and although in a brass-grated cage, strong enough to
hold a lion, I found it to be no larger than the third of a hen's egg.
Two policemen remain by its side day and night.
The finest thing in the Exhibition, is the "Veiled Vestal," a statue of
a woman carved in marble, with a veil over her face, and so neatly done,
that it looks as if it had been thrown over after it was finished. The
Exhibition presents many things which appeal to the eye and touch the
heart, and altogether, it is so decorated and furnished, as to excite
the dullest mind, and satisfy the most fastidious.
England has contributed the most useful and substantial articles;
France, the most beautiful; while Russia, Turkey, and the West Indies,
seem to vie with each other in richness. China and Persia are not
behind. Austria has also contributed a rich and beautiful stock. Sweden,
Norway, Denmark, and the smaller states of Europe, have all tried to
outdo themselves in sending goods to the World's Fair. In Machinery,
England has no competitor. In Art, France is almost alone in the
Exhibition, setting aside England.
In natural productions and provisions, America stands alone in her
glory. There lies her pile of canvassed hams; whether they were wood or
real, we could not tell. There are her barrels of salt, beef, and pork,
her beautiful white lard, her Indian-corn and corn-meal, her rice and
tobacco, her beef tongues, dried peas, and a few bags of cotton. The
contributors from the United States seemed to have forgotten that this
was an exhibition of Art, or they most certainly would not have sent
provisions. But the United States takes the lead in the contributions,
as no other country has sent in provisions. The finest thing contributed
by our countrymen, is a large piece of silk with an eagle painted upon
it, surrounded by stars and stripes.
After remaining more than five hours in the great temple, I turned my
back upon the richly laden stalls and left the Crystal Palace. On my
return home I was more fortunate than in the morning, inasmuch as I
found a seat for my friend and myself in an omnibus. And even my ride
in the close omnibus was not without interest. For I had scarcely taken
my seat, when my friend, who was seated opposite me, with looks and
gesture informed me that we were in the presence of some distinguished
person. I eyed the countenances of the different persons, but in vain,
to see if I could find any one who by his appearance showed signs of
superiority over his fellow-passengers. I had given up the hope of
selecting the person of note when another look from my friend directed
my attention to a gentlemen seated in the corner of the omnibus. He was
a tall man with strongly marked features, hair dark and coarse. There
was a slight stoop of the shoulder--that bend which is almost always a
characteristic of studious men. But he wore upon his countenance a
forbidding and disdainful frown, that seemed to tell one that he thought
himself better than those about him. His dress did not indicate a man of
high rank; and had we been in America, I would have taken him for an
Ohio farmer.
While I was scanning the features and general appearance of the
gentleman, the Omnibus stopped and put down three or four of the
passengers, which gave me an opportunity of getting a seat by the side
of my friend, who, in a low whisper, informed me that the gentleman whom
I had been eyeing so closely, was no less a person than Thomas Carlyle.
I had read his "Hero-worship," and "Past and Present," and had formed a
high opinion of his literary abilities. But his recent attack upon the
emancipated people of the West Indies, and his laborious article in
favour of the re-establishment of the lash and slavery, had created in
my mind a dislike for the man, and I almost regretted that we were in
the same Omnibus. In some things, Mr. Carlyle is right: but in many, he
is entirely wrong. As a writer, Mr. Carlyle is often monotonous and
extravagant. He does not exhibit a new view of nature, or raise
insignificant objects into importance, but generally takes commonplace
thoughts and events, and tries to express them in stronger and statelier
language than others. He holds no communion with his kind, but stands
alone without mate or fellow. He is like a solitary peak, all access to
which is cut off. He exists not by sympathy but by antipathy. Mr.
Carlyle seems chiefly to try how he shall display his own powers, and
astonish mankind, by starting new trains of speculation or by expressing
old ones so as not to be understood. He cares little what he says, so as
he can say it differently from others. To read his works, is one thing;
to understand them, is another. If any one thinks that I exaggerate, let
him sit for an hour over "Sartor Resartus," and if he does not rise from
its pages, place his three or four dictionaries on the shelf, and say I
am right, I promise never again to say a word against Thomas Carlyle. He
writes one page in favour of Reform, and ten against it. He would hang
all prisoners to get rid of them, yet the inmates of the prisons and
"work-houses are better off than the poor." His heart is with the poor;
yet the blacks of the West Indies should be taught, that if they will
not raise sugar and cotton by their own free will, "Quashy should have
the whip applied to him." He frowns upon the Reformatory speakers upon
the boards of Exeter Hall, yet he is the prince of reformers. He hates
heroes and assassins, yet Cromwell was an angel, and Charlotte Corday a
saint. He scorns everything, and seems to be tired of what he is by
nature, and tries to be what he is not. But you will ask, what has
Thomas Carlyle to do with a visit to the Crystal Palace? My only reply
is, "Nothing," and if my remarks upon him have taken up the space that
should have been devoted to the Exhibition, and what I have written not
prove too burdensome to read, my next will be "a week in the Crystal
Palace."
LETTER XVIII.
_The London Peace Congress--Meeting of Fugitive Slaves--Temperance
Demonstration--The Great Exhibition: last visit._
LONDON, _August 20_.
The past six weeks have been of a stirring nature in this great
metropolis. It commenced with the Peace Congress, the proceedings of
which have long since reached you. And although that event has passed
off, it may not be out of place here to venture a remark or two upon its
deliberations.
A meeting upon the subject of Peace, with the support of the monied and
influential men who rally around the Peace standard, could scarcely have
been held in Exeter Hall without creating some sensation. From all parts
of the world flocked delegates to this practical protest against war.
And among those who took part in the proceedings, were many men whose
names alone would, even on ordinary occasions, have filled the great
hall. The speakers were chosen from among the representatives of the
various countries, without regard to dialect or complexion; and the only
fault which seemed to be found with the Committee's arrangement was,
that in their desire to get foreigners and Londoners, they forgot the
country delegates, so that none of the large provincial towns were at
all represented in the Congress, so far as speaking was concerned.
Manchester, Leeds, Newcastle, and all the important towns in Scotland
and Ireland, were silenced in the great meeting. I need not say that
this was an oversight of the Committee, and one, too, that has done some
injury. Such men as the able Chairman of the late Anti-Corn Law League,
cannot be forgotten in such a meeting, without giving offence to those
who sent him, especially when the Committee brought forward, day after
day, the same speakers, chosen from amongst the metropolitan delegation.
However, the meeting was a glorious one, and will long be remembered
with delight as a step onward in the cause of Peace. Burritt's
Brotherhood Bazaar followed close upon the heels of the Peace Congress;
and this had scarcely closed, when that ever-memorable meeting of the
American Fugitive Slaves took place in the Hall of Commerce.
The Temperance people made the next reformatory move. This meeting took
place in Exeter Hall, and was made up of delegates from the various
towns in the kingdom. They had come from the North, East, West, and
South. There was the quick-spoken son of the Emerald Isle, with his
pledge suspended from his neck; there, too, the Scot, speaking his broad
dialect; also the representatives from the provincial towns of England
and Wales, who seemed to speak anything but good English.
The day after the meeting had closed in Exeter Hall, the country
societies, together with those of the metropolis, assembled in Hyde
Park, and then walked to the Crystal Palace. Their number while going to
the Exhibition, was variously estimated at from 15,000 to 20,000, and
was said to have been the largest gathering of Teetotalers ever
assembled in London. They consisted chiefly of the working classes,
their wives and children--clean, well-dressed and apparently happy:
their looks indicating in every way those orderly habits which, beyond
question, distinguish the devotees of that cause above the common
labourers of this country. On arriving at the Exhibition, they soon
distributed themselves among the departments, to revel in its various
wonders, eating their own lunch, and drinking from the Crystal Fountain.
And now I am at the world's wonder, I will remain here until I finish
this sheet. I have spent fifteen days in the Exhibition, and have
conversed with those who have spent double that number amongst its
beauties, and the general opinion appears to be, that six months would
not be too long to remain within its walls to enable one to examine its
laden stalls. Many persons make the Crystal Palace their home, with the
exception of night. I have seen them come in the morning, visit the
dressing-room, then go to the refreshment room, and sit down to
breakfast as if they had been at their hotel. Dinner and tea would be
taken in turn.
The Crystal Fountain is the great place of meeting in the Exhibition.
There you may see husbands looking for lost wives, wives for stolen
husbands, mothers for their lost children, and towns-people for their
country friends; and unless you have an appointment at a certain place
at an hour, you might as well prowl through the streets of London to
find a friend, as in the Great Exhibition. There is great beauty in the
"Glass House." Here, in the transept, with the glorious sunlight coming
through that wonderful glass roof, may the taste be cultivated and
improved, the mind edified, and the feelings chastened. Here,
surrounded by noble creations in marble and bronze, and in the midst of
an admiring throng, one may gaze at statuary which might fitly decorate
the house of the proudest prince in Christendom.
He who takes his station in the gallery, at either end, and looks upon
that wondrous nave, or who surveys the matchless panorama around him
from the intersection of the nave and transept, may be said, without
presumption or exaggeration, to see all the kingdoms of this world and
the glory of them. He sees not only a greater collection of fine
articles, but also a greater as well as more various assemblage of the
human race, than ever before was gathered under one roof.
One of the beauties of this great international gathering is, that it is
not confined to rank or grade. The million toilers from mine, and
factory, and workshop, and loom, and office, and field, share with their
more wealthy neighbours the feast of reason and imagination spread out
in the Crystal Palace.
It is strange indeed to see so many nations assembled and represented
on one spot of British ground. In short, it is one great theatre, with
thousands of performers, each playing his own part. England is there,
with her mighty engines toiling and whirring, indefatigable in her
enterprises to shorten labour. India spreads her glitter and paint.
France, refined and fastidious, is there every day, giving the last
touch to her picturesque group; and the other countries, each in their
turn, doing what they can to show off. The distant hum of thousands of
good humoured people, with occasionally a national anthem from some
gigantic organ, together with the noise of the machinery, seems to send
life into every part of the Crystal Palace.
When you get tired of walking, you can sit down and write your
impressions, and there is the "post" to receive your letter, or if it be
Friday or Saturday, you may, if you choose, rest yourself by hearing a
lecture from Professor Anstead; and then before leaving take your last
look, and see something that you have not before seen. Every thing which
is old in cities, new in colonial life, splendid in courts, useful in
industry, beautiful in nature, or ingenious in invention, is there
represented. In one place we have the Bible translated into one hundred
and fifty languages; in another, we have saints and archbishops painted
on glass; in another, old palaces and the altars of a John Knox, a
Baxter, or some other divines of olden time. In the old Temple of
Delphi, we read that every state of the civilized world had its separate
treasury, where Herodotus, born two thousand years before his time, saw
and observed all kinds of prodigies in gold and silver, brass and iron,
and even in linen. The nations all met there on one common ground, and
the peace of the earth was not a little promoted by their common
interest in the sanctity and splendour of that shrine. As long as the
Exhibition lasts, and its memory endures, we hope and trust that it may
shed the same influence. With this hasty scrap, I take leave of the
Great Exhibition.
LETTER XIX.
_Oxford--Martyrs' Monument--Cost of the Burning of the Martyrs--The
Colleges--Dr. Pusey--Energy, the Secret of Success._
OXFORD, _September 10th, 1851_.
I have just finished a short visit to the far famed city of Oxford,
which has not unaptly been styled the City of Palaces. Aside from this
being one of the principal seats of learning in the world, it is
distinguished alike for its religious and political changes in times
past. At one time it was the seat of Popery; at another, the
uncompromising enemy of Rome. Here the tyrant, Richard the Third, held
his court, and when James the First, and his son Charles the First,
found their capital too hot to hold them, they removed to their loyal
city of Oxford. The writings of the great Republicans were here
committed to the flames. At one time Popery sent Protestants to the
stake and faggot; at another, a Papist King found no favour with the
people. A noble monument now stands where Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer,
proclaimed their sentiments and faith, and sealed them with their blood.
And now we read upon the Town Treasurer's book--for three loads of wood,
one load of faggots, one post, two chains and staples, to burn Ridley
and Latimer, £1 5s. 1d. Such is the information one gets by looking over
the records of books written three centuries ago.
It was a beautiful day on which I arrived at Oxford, and instead of
remaining in my hotel, I sallied forth to take a survey of the beauties
of the city. I strolled into Christ Church Meadows, and there spent the
evening in viewing the numerous halls of learning which surround that
splendid promenade. And fine old buildings they are: centuries have
rolled over many of them, hallowing the old walls, and making them grey
with age. They have been for ages the chosen homes of piety and
philosophy. Heroes and scholars have gone forth from their studies here,
into the great field of the world, to seek their fortunes, and to
conquer and be conquered. As I surveyed the exterior of the different
Colleges, I could here and there see the reflection of the light from
the window of some student, who was busy at his studies, or throwing
away his time over some trashy novel, too many of which find their way
into the trunks or carpet bags of the young men on setting out for
College. As I looked upon the walls of these buildings, I thought as the
rough stone is taken from the quarry to the finisher, there to be made
into an ornament, so was the young mind brought here to be cultivated
and developed. Many a poor unobtrusive young man, with the appearance of
little or no ability, is here moulded into a hero, a scholar, a tyrant,
or a friend of humanity. I never look upon these monuments of education,
without a feeling of regret, that so few of our own race can find a
place within their walls. And this being the fact, I see more and more
the need of our people being encouraged to turn their attention more
seriously to self-education, and thus to take a respectable position
before the world, by virtue of their own cultivated minds and moral
standing.
Education, though obtained by a little at a time, and that, too, over
the midnight lamp, will place its owner in a position to be respected
by all, even though he be black. I know that the obstacles which the
laws of the land, and of society, place between the coloured man and
education in the United States, are very great, yet if _one_ can break
through these barriers, more can; and if our people would only place the
right appreciation upon education, they would find these obstacles are
easier to be overcome than at first sight appears. A young man once
asked Carlyle, what was the secret of success. His reply was, "Energy;
whatever you undertake, do it with all your might." Had it not been for
the possession of energy, I might now have been working as a servant for
some brainless fellow who might be able to command my labour with his
money, or I might have been yet toiling in chains and slavery. But
thanks to energy, not only for my being to-day in a land of freedom, but
also for my dear girls being in one of the best seminaries in France,
instead of being in an American school, where the finger of scorn would
be pointed at them by those whose superiority rests entirely upon their
having a whiter skin. But I am straying too far from the purpose of
this letter.
Oxford is indeed one of the finest located places in the kingdom, and
every inch of ground about it seems hallowed by interesting
associations. The University, founded by the good King Alfred, still
throws its shadow upon the side-walk; and the lapse of ten centuries
seems to have made but little impression upon it. Other seats of
learning may be entitled to our admiration, but Oxford claims our
veneration. Although the lateness of the night compelled me, yet I felt
an unwillingness to tear myself from the scene of such surpassing
interest. Few places in any country as noted as Oxford is, but what has
some distinguished person residing within its precincts. And knowing
that the City of Palaces was not an exception to this rule, I resolved
to see some of its lions. Here, of course, is the head quarters of the
Bishop of Oxford, a son of the late William Wilberforce, Africa's noble
champion. I should have been glad to have seen this distinguished pillar
of the Church, but I soon learned that the Bishop's residence was out of
town, and that he seldom visited the city except on business. I then
determined to see one who, although a lesser dignitary in the church, is
nevertheless, scarcely less known than the Bishop of Oxford. This was
the Rev. Dr. Pusey, a divine, whose name is known wherever the religion
of Jesus is known and taught, and the acknowledged head of the
Puseyites. On the second morning of my visit, I proceeded to Christ
Church Chapel, where the rev. gentleman officiates. Fortunately I had an
opportunity of seeing the Dr., and following close in his footsteps to
the church. His personal appearance is anything but that of one who is
the leader of a growing and powerful party in the church. He is rather
under the middle size, and is round shouldered, or rather stoops. His
profile is more striking than his front face, the nose being very large
and prominent. As a matter of course, I expected to see a large nose,
for all great men have them. He has a thoughtful, and somewhat sullen
brow, a firm and somewhat pensive mouth, a cheek pale, thin, and deeply
furrowed. A monk fresh from the cloisters of Tintern Abbey, in its
proudest days, could scarcely have made a more ascetic and solemn
appearance than did Dr. Pusey on this occasion. He is not apparently
above forty-five, or at most fifty years of age, and his whole aspect
renders him an admirable study for an artist. Dr. Pusey's style of
preaching is cold and tame, and one looking at him would scarcely
believe that such an apparently uninteresting man could cause such an
eruption in the Church as he has. I was glad to find that a coloured
young man was among the students at Oxford.
A few months since, I paid a visit to our countryman, Alexander Crummel,
who is still pursuing his studies at Cambridge--a place, though much
inferior to Oxford as far as appearance is concerned, is yet said to be
greatly its superior as a place of learning. In an hour's walk through
the Strand, Regent, or Piccadilly Streets in London, one may meet half a
dozen coloured young men, who are inmates of the various Colleges in the
metropolis. These are all signs of progress in the cause of the sons of
Africa. Then let our people take courage, and with that courage let them
apply themselves to learning. A determination to excel is the sure road
to greatness, and that is as open to the black man as the white. It was
that which has accomplished the mightiest and noblest triumphs in the
intellectual and physical world. It was that which has made such rapid
strides towards civilization, and broken the chains of ignorance and
superstition, which have so long fettered the human intellect. It was
determination which raised so many worthy individuals from the humble
walks of society, and from poverty, and placed them in positions of
trust and renown. It is no slight barrier that can effectually oppose
the determination of the will--success must ultimately crown its
efforts. "The world shall hear of me," was the exclamation of one whose
name has become as familiar as household words. A Toussaint, once
laboured in the sugar field with his spelling-book in his pocket, amid
the combined efforts of a nation to keep him in ignorance. His name is
now recorded among the list of statesmen of the past. A Soulouque was
once a slave, and knew not how to read. He now sits upon the throne of
an Empire.
In our own country, there are men who once held the plough, and that
too without any compensation, who are now presiding at the editor's
table. It was determination that brought out the genius of a Franklin,
and a Fulton, and that has distinguished many of the American Statesmen,
who but for their energy and determination would never have had a name
beyond the precincts of their own homes.
It is not always those who have the best advantages, or the greatest
talents, that eventually succeed in their undertakings; but it is those
who strive with untiring diligence to remove all obstacles to success,
and who, with unconquerable resolution, labour on until the rich reward
of perseverance is within their grasp. Then again let me say to our
young men--Take courage; "There is a good time coming." The darkness of
the night appears greatest just before the dawn of day.
LETTER XX.
_Fugitive Slaves in England._
The love of freedom is one of those natural impulses of the human breast
which cannot be extinguished. Even the brute animals of the creation
feel and show sorrow and affection when deprived of their liberty.
Therefore is a distinguished writer justified in saying, "Man is free,
even were he born in chains." The Americans boast, and justly, too, that
Washington was the hero and model patriot of the American
Revolution--the man whose fame, unequalled in his own day and country,
will descend to the end of time, the pride and honour of humanity. The
American speaks with pride of the battles of Lexington and Bunker Hill;
and when standing in Faneuil Hall, he points to the portraits of Otis,
Adams, Hancock, Quincy, Warren, and Franklin, and tells you that their
names will go down to posterity among the world's most devoted and
patriotic friends of human liberty.
It was on the first of August, 1851, that a number of men, fugitives
from that boasted land of freedom, assembled at the Hall of Commerce in
the City of London, for the purpose of laying their wrongs before the
British nation, and at the same time, to give thanks to the God of
Freedom for the liberation of their West India brethren, on the first of
August, 1834. Little notice had been given of the intended meeting, yet
it seemed to be known in all parts of the city. At the hour of half-past
seven, for which the meeting had been called, the spacious hall was well
filled, and the fugitives, followed by some of the most noted English
Abolitionists, entered the hall, amid the most deafening applause, and
took their seats on the platform. The appearance of the great hall at
this juncture was most splendid. Besides the committee of fugitives, on
the platform there were a number of the oldest and most devoted of the
Slave's friends. On the left of the chair sat Geo. Thompson, Esq., M.P.;
near him was the Rev. Jabez Burns, D.D.; and by his side the Rev. John
Stevenson, M.A., Wm. Farmer, Esq., R. Smith, Esq.; while on the other
side were the Rev. Edward Mathews, John Cunliff, Esq., Andrew Paton,
Esq., J.P. Edwards, Esq., and a number of coloured gentlemen from the
West Indies. The body of the hall was not without its distinguished
guests. The Chapmans and Westons of Boston, U.S., were there. The
Estlins and Tribes had come all the way from Bristol to attend the great
meeting. The Patons of Glasgow had delayed their departure, so as to be
present. The Massies had come in from Upper Clapton. Not far from the
platform sat Sir Francis Knowles, Bart., still farther back was Samuel
Bowly, Esq., while near the door were to be seen the greatest critic of
the age, and England's best living poet. Macaulay had laid aside the
pen, entered the hall, and was standing near the central door, while not
far from the historian stood the newly-appointed Poet Laureat. The
author of "In Memoriam" had been swept in by the crowd, and was standing
with his arms folded, and beholding for the first time (and probably the
last) so large a number of coloured men in one room. In different parts
of the hall were men and women from nearly all parts of the kingdom,
besides a large number who, drawn to London by the Exhibition, had come
in to see and hear these oppressed people plead their own cause.
The writer of this sketch was chosen Chairman of the meeting, and
commenced its proceedings by delivering the following address, which we
cut from the columns of the _Morning Advertiser_:--
"The Chairman, in opening the proceedings, remarked that, although the
metropolis had of late been inundated with meetings of various
character, having reference to almost every variety of subject, yet that
the subject they were called upon that evening to discuss differed from
them all. Many of those by whom he was surrounded, like himself, had
been victims to the inhuman institution of Slavery, and were in
consequence exiled from the land of their birth. They were fugitives
from their native land, but not fugitives from justice, and they had not
fled from a monarchical, but from a so-called republican government.
They came from amongst a people who declared, as part of their creed,
that all men were born free, but who, while they did so, made slaves of
every sixth man, woman, and child in the country (hear, hear). He must
not, however, forget that one of the purposes for which they were met
that night was to commemorate the emancipation of their brothers and
sisters in the isles of the sea. That act of the British Parliament, and
he might add in this case with peculiar emphasis, of the British nation,
passed on the 12th day of August, 1833, to take effect on the first day
of August, 1834, and which enfranchised 800,000 West Indian slaves, was
an event sublime in its nature, comprehensive and mighty in its
immediate influences and remote consequences, precious beyond expression
to the cause of freedom, and encouraging beyond the measure of any
government on earth to the hearts of all enlightened and just men. This
act was the commencement of a long course of philanthropic and Christian
efforts on the part of some of the best men that the world ever
produced. It was not his intention to go into a discussion or a
calculation of the rise and fall of property, or whether sugar was worth
more or less by the act of emancipation. But the abolition of Slavery
in the West Indies, was a blow struck in the right direction, at that
most inhuman of all traffics, the slave trade--a trade which would never
cease so long as slavery existed, for where there was a market there
would be merchandise; where there was demand there would be a supply;
where there were carcases there would be vultures; and they might as
well attempt to turn the water, and make it run up the Niagara river, as
to change this law. It was often said by the Americans that England was
responsible for the existence of slavery there, because it was
introduced into that country while the colonies were under the British
Crown. If that were the case, they must come to the conclusion that, as
England abolished Slavery in the West Indies, she would have done the
same for the American States if she had had the power to do it; and if
that was so, they might safely say that the separation of the United
States from the mother country was (to say the least) a great misfortune
to one-sixth of the population of that land. England had set a noble
example to America, and he would to heaven his countrymen would follow
the example. The Americans boasted of their superior knowledge, but they
needed not to boast of their superior guilt, for that was set upon a
hill top, and that too, so high, that it required not the lantern of
Diogenes to find it out. Every breeze from the western world brought
upon its wings the groans and cries of the victims of this guilt. Nearly
all countries had fixed the seal of disapprobation on slavery, and when,
at some future age, this stain on the page of history shall be pointed
at, posterity will blush at the discrepancy between American profession
and American practice. What was to be thought of a people boasting of
their liberty, their humanity, their Christianity, their love of
justice, and at the same time keeping in slavery nearly four millions of
God's children, and shutting out from them the light of the Gospel, by
denying the Bible to the slave! (Hear, hear.) No education, no marriage,
everything done to keep the mind of the slave in darkness. There was a
wish on the part of the people of the northern States to shield
themselves from the charge of slave-holding, but as they shared in the
guilt, he was not satisfied with letting them off without their share in
the odium. And now a word about the Fugitive Slave Bill. That measure
was in every respect an unconstitutional measure. It set aside the right
formerly enjoyed by the fugitive of trial by jury--it afforded to him no
protection, no opportunity of proving his right to be free, and it
placed every free coloured person at the mercy of any unprincipled
individual who might wish to lay claim to him. (Hear.) That law is
opposed to the principles of Christianity--foreign alike to the laws of
God and man, it had converted the whole population of the free States
into a band of slave-catchers, and every rood of territory is but so
much hunting ground, over which they might chase the fugitive. But while
they were speaking of slavery in the United States, they must not omit
to mention that there was a strong feeling in that land, not only
against the Fugitive Slave Law, but also against the existence of
slavery in any form. There was a band of fearless men and women in the
city of Boston, whose labours for the slave had resulted in good beyond
calculation. This noble and heroic class had created an agitation in the
whole country, until their principles have taken root in almost every
association in the land, and which, with God's blessing, will, in due
time, cause the Americans to put into practice what they have so long
professed. (Hear, hear.) He wished it to be continually held up before
the country, that the northern States are as deeply implicated in the
guilt of slavery as the South. The north had a population of 13,553,328
freemen; the south had a population of only 6,393,756 freemen; the north
has 152 representatives in the house, the south only 81; and it would be
seen by this, that the balance of power was with the free States.
Looking, therefore, at the question in all its aspects, he was sure that
there was no one in this country but who would find out, that the
slavery of the United States of America was a system the most abandoned
and the most tyrannical. (Hear, hear.)"
At the close of this address, the Rev. Edward Matthews, last from
Bristol, but who had recently returned from the United States, where he
had been maltreated on account of his fidelity to the cause of freedom,
was introduced, and made a most interesting speech. The next speaker was
George Thompson, Esq., M.P.; and we need only say that his eloquence,
which has seldom or ever been equalled, and never surpassed, exceeded,
on this occasion, the most sanguine expectations of his friends. All who
sat under the thundering anathemas which he hurled against slavery,
seemed instructed, delighted, and animated. No one could scarcely have
remained unmoved by the pensive sympathies that pervaded the entire
assembly. There were many in the meeting who had never seen a fugitive
slave before, and when any of the speakers would refer to those on the
platform, the whole audience seemed moved to tears. No meeting of the
kind held in London for years created a greater sensation than this
gathering of refugees from the "Land of the free, and the home of the
brave." The following appeal, which I had written for the occasion, was
unanimously adopted at the close of the meeting, and thus ended the
great Anti-Slavery demonstration of 1851.
AN APPEAL TO THE PEOPLE OF GREAT BRITAIN AND THE WORLD.
We consider it just, both to the people of the United States and to
ourselves, in making an appeal to the inhabitants of other countries,
against the laws which have exiled us from our native land, to state the
ground upon which we make our appeal, and the causes which impel us to
do so. There are in the United States of America, at the present time,
between three and four millions of persons, who are held in a state of
slavery which has no parallel in any other part of the world; and whose
numbers have, within the last fifty years, increased to a fearful
extent. These people are not only deprived of the rights to which the
laws of Nature and Nature's God entitle them, but every avenue to
knowledge is closed against them. The laws do not recognise the family
relation of a slave, and extend to him protection in the enjoyment of
domestic endearments. Brothers and sisters, parents and children,
husbands and wives, are torn asunder, and permitted to see each other
no more. The shrieks and agonies of the slave are heard in the markets
at the seat of government, and within hearing of the American Congress,
as well as on the cotton, sugar and rice plantations of the far South.
The history of the negroes in America is but a history of repeated
injuries and acts of oppression committed upon them by the whites. It is
not for ourselves that we make this appeal, but for those whom we have
left behind.
In their Declaration of Independence, the Americans declare that "all
men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with
certain inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the
pursuit of happiness." Yet one-sixth of the inhabitants of the great
Republic are slaves. Thus they give the lie to their own professions. No
one forfeits his or her character or standing in society by being
engaged in holding, buying or selling a slave; the details of which, in
all their horror, can scarcely be told.
Although the holding of slaves is confined to fifteen of the thirty-one
States, yet we hold that the non-slave-holding States are equally guilty
with the slave-holding. If any proof is needed on this point, it will be
found in the passage of the inhuman Fugitive Slave Law, by Congress; a
law which could never have been enacted without the votes of a portion
of the representatives from the free States, and which is now being
enforced, in many of the States, with the utmost alacrity. It was the
passing of this law that exiled us from our native land, and it has
driven thousands of our brothers and sisters from the free States, and
compelled them to seek a refuge in the British possessions in North
America. The Fugitive Slave Law has converted the entire country, North
and South, into one vast hunting-ground. We would respectfully ask you
to expostulate with the Americans, and let them know that you regard
their treatment of the coloured people of that country as a violation of
every principle of human brotherhood, of natural right, of justice, of
humanity, of Christianity, of love to God and love to man.
It is needless that we should remind you that the religious sects of
America, with but few exceptions, are connected with the sin of
slavery--the churches North as well as South. We would have you tell the
professed Christians of that land, that if they would be respected by
you, they must separate themselves from the unholy alliance with men who
are daily committing deeds which, if done in England, would cause the
perpetrator to be sent to a felon's doom; that they must refuse the
right hand of Christian fellowship, whether individually or
collectively, to those implicated, in any way, in the guilt of slavery.
We do not ask for a forcible interference on your part, but only that
you will use all lawful and peaceful means to restore to this much
injured race their God-given rights. The moral and religious sentiment
of mankind must be arrayed against slave-holding, to make it infamous,
ere we can hope to see it abolished. We would ask you to set them the
example, by excluding from your pulpits, and from religious communion,
the slave-holding and pro-slavery ministers who may happen to visit this
country. We would even go further, and ask you to shut your doors
against either ministers or laymen, who are at all guilty of upholding
and sustaining this monster sin. By the cries of the slave, which come
from the fields and swamps of the far South, we ask you to do this! By
that spirit of liberty and equality of which you all admire, we would
ask you to do this. And by that still nobler, higher, and holier spirit
of our beloved Saviour, we would ask you to stamp upon the head of the
slaveholder, with a brand deeper than that which marks the victim of his
wrongs, the infamy of theft, adultery, man-stealing, piracy, and murder,
and, by the force of public opinion, compel him to "unloose the heavy
burden, and let the oppressed go free."
LETTER XXI.
_A Chapter on American Slavery._
The word Englishman is but another name for an American, and the word
American is but another name for an Englishman--England is the father,
America the son. They have a common origin and identity of language;
they hold the same religious and political opinions; they study the same
histories, and have the same literature. Steam and mechanical ingenuity
have brought the two countries within nine days sailing of each other.
The Englishman on landing at New-York finds his new neighbours speaking
the same language which he last heard on leaving Liverpool, and he sees
the American in the same dress that he had been accustomed to look upon
at home, and soon forgets that he is three thousand miles from his
native land, and in another country. The American on landing at
Liverpool, and taking a walk through the great commercial city, finding
no difficulty in understanding the people, supposes himself still in
New-York; and if there seems any doubt in his own mind, growing out of
the fact that the people have a more healthy look, seem more polite, and
that the buildings have a more substantial appearance than those he had
formerly looked upon, he has only to imagine, as did Rip Van Winkle,
that he has been asleep these hundred years.
If the Englishman who has seen a Thompson silenced in Boston, or a
Macready mobbed in New-York, upon the ground that they were foreigners,
should sit in Exeter Hall and hear an American orator until he was
hoarse, and wonder why the American is better treated in England than
the Englishman in America, he has only to attribute it to John Bull's
superior knowledge of good manners, and his being a more law-abiding man
than brother Jonathan. England and America has each its reforms and its
reformers, and they have more or less sympathy with each other. It has
been said that one generation commences a reform in England, and that
another generation finishes it. I would that so much could be said with
regard to the great object of reform in America--the system of slavery!
No evil was ever more deeply rooted in a country than is slavery in the
United States. Spread over the largest and most fertile States in the
Union, with decidedly the best climate, and interwoven, as it is, with
the religious, political, commercial, and social institutions of the
country, it is scarcely possible to estimate its influence. This is the
evil which claims the attention of American Reformers, over and above
every other evil in the land, and thanks to a kind providence, the
American slave is not without his advocates. The greatest enemy to the
Anti-Slavery Society, and the most inveterate opposer of the men whose
names stand at the head of the list as officers and agents of that
association, will, we think, assign to William Lloyd Garrison, the first
place in the ranks of the American Abolitionists. The first to proclaim
the doctrine of immediate emancipation to the slaves of America, and on
that account an object of hatred to the slave-holding interest of the
country, and living for years with his life in danger, he is justly
regarded by all, as the leader of the Anti-Slavery movement in the New
World. Mr. Garrison is at the present time but little more than
forty-five years of age, and of the middle size. He has a high and
prominent forehead, well developed, with no hair on the top of the head,
having lost it in early life; with a piercing eye, a pleasant, yet
anxious countenance, and of a most loveable disposition; tender, and
blameless in his family affections, devoted to his friends; simple and
studious, upright, guileless, distinguished, and worthy, like the
distinguished men of antiquity, to be immortalized by another Plutarch.
How many services never to be forgotten, has he not rendered to the
cause of the slave, and the welfare of mankind! As a speaker, he is
forcible, clear, and logical, yet he will not rank with the many who are
less known. As a writer, he is regarded as one of the finest in the
United States, and certainly the most prominent in the Anti-Slavery
cause. Had Mr. Garrison wished to serve himself, he might, with his
great talents, long since, have been at the head of either of the great
political parties. Few men can withstand the allurements of office, and
the prize-money that accompanies them. Many of those who were with him
fifteen years ago, have been swept down with the current of popular
favour, either in Church or State. He has seen a Cox on the one hand,
and a Stanton on the other, swept away like so much floating wood
before the tide. When the sturdiest characters gave way, when the finest
geniuses passed one after another under the yoke of slavery, Garrison
stood firm to his convictions, like a rock that stands stirless amid the
conflicting agitation of the waves. He is not only the friend and
advocate of freedom with his pen and his tongue, but to the oppressed of
every clime he opens his purse, his house, and his heart: yet he is not
a man of money. The fugitive slave, fresh from the whips and chains, who
is turned off by the politician, and experiences the cold shoulder of
the divine, finds a bed and a breakfast under the hospitable roof of Mr.
Lloyd Garrison.
The party of which he is the acknowledged head, is one of no
inconsiderable influence in the United States. No man has more bitter
enemies or stauncher friends than he. There are those among his friends
who would stake their all upon his veracity and integrity; and we are
sure that the coloured people throughout America, bond and free, in
whose cause he has so long laboured, will, with one accord, assign the
highest niche in their affection to the champion of universal
emancipation. Every cause has its writers and its orators. We have drawn
a hasty and imperfect sketch of the greatest writer in the Anti-Slavery
field: we shall now call attention to the most distinguished public
speaker. The name of Wendell Phillips is but another name for eloquence.
Born in the highest possible position in America, Mr. Phillips has all
the advantages that birth can give to one in that country. Educated at
the first University, graduating with all the honours which the College
could bestow on him, and studying the law and becoming a member of the
bar, he has all the accomplishments that these advantages can give to a
man of a great mind. Nature has treated him as a favourite. His stature
is not tall, but handsome; his expressive countenance paints and
reflects every emotion of his soul. His gestures are wonderfully
graceful, like his delivery. There is a fascination in the soft gaze of
his eyes, which none can but admire. Being a great reader, and endowed
by nature with a good memory, he supplies himself with the most
complicated dates and historical events. Nothing can equal the variety
of his matter. I have heard him more than twenty different times on the
same subject, but never heard the same speech. He is personal, but there
is nothing offensive in his personalities. He extracts from a subject
all that it contains, and does it as none but Wendell Phillips can. His
voice is beautifully musical, and it is calculated to attract wherever
it is heard. He is a man of calm intrepidity, of a patriotic and warm
heart, with manners the most affable, temper the most gentle, a
rectitude of principle entirely natural, a freedom from ambition, and a
modesty quite singular. As Napoleon kept the Old Guard in reserve, to
turn the tide in battle, so do the Abolitionists keep Mr. Phillips in
reserve when opposition is expected in their great gatherings. We have
seen the meetings turned into a bedlam, by the mobocratic slave-holding
spirit, and when the speakers had one after another left the platform
without a hearing, and the chairman had lost all control of the
assembly, the appearance of this gentleman upon the platform would turn
the tide of events. He would not beg for a hearing, but on the
contrary, he would lash them as no preceding speaker had done. If, by
their groans and yells, they stifled his voice, he would stand unmoved
with his arms folded, and by the very eloquence of his looks put them to
silence. His speeches against the Fugitive Slave Law, and his withering
rebukes of Daniel Webster and other northern men who supported that
measure, are of the most splendid character, and will compare in point
of composition with anything ever uttered by Chatham or Sheridan in
their palmiest days. As a public speaker, Mr. Phillips is, without
doubt, the first in the United States. Considering his great talent, his
high birth, and the prospects which lay before him, and the fact that he
threw everything aside to plead the slave's cause, we must be convinced
that no man has sacrificed more upon the altar of humanity than Wendell
Phillips.
Within the past ten years, a great impetus has been given to the
anti-slavery movement in America by coloured men who have escaped from
slavery. Coming as they did from the very house of bondage, and being
able to speak from sad experience, they could speak as none others
could.
The gentleman to whom we shall now call attention is one of this class,
and doubtless the first of his race in America. The name of Frederick
Douglass is well known throughout this country as well as America. Born
and brought up as a slave, he was deprived of a mother's care and of
early education. Escaping when he was little more than twenty years of
age, he was thrown upon his own resources in the free states, where
prejudice against colour is but another name for slavery. But during all
this time he was educating himself as well as circumstances would admit.
Mr. Douglass commenced his career as a public speaker some ten years
since, as an agent of the American or Massachusetts Anti-Slavery
Societies. He is tall and well made. His vast and well-developed
forehead announces the power of his intellect. His voice is full and
sonorous. His attitude is dignified, and his gesticulation is full of
noble simplicity. He is a man of lofty reason, natural, and without
pretension, always master of himself, brilliant in the art of exposing
and of abstracting. Few persons can handle a subject with which they are
familiar better than Mr. Douglass. There is a kind of eloquence issuing
from the depth of the soul, as from a spring, rolling along its copious
floods, sweeping all before it, overwhelming by its very force,
carrying, upsetting, engulphing its adversaries, and more dazzling and
more thundering than the bolt which leaps from crag to crag. This is the
eloquence of Frederick Douglass. He is one of the greatest mimics of the
age. No man can put on a sweeter smile or a more sarcastic frown than
he: you cannot put him off his guard. He is always in good humour. Mr.
Douglass possesses great dramatic powers; and had he taken up the sock
and buskin, instead of becoming a lecturer, he would have made as fine a
Coriolanus as ever trod the stage.
However, Mr. Douglass was not the first coloured man that became a
lecturer, and thereby did service to the cause of his countrymen. The
earliest and most effective speaker from among the coloured race in
America, was Charles Lennox Remond. In point of eloquence, this
gentleman is not inferior to either Wendell Phillips or Frederick
Douglass. Mr. Remond is of small stature, and neat figure, with a head
well developed, but a remarkably thin face. As an elocutionist, he is,
without doubt, the first on the anti-slavery platform. He has a good
voice, a pleasing countenance, a prompt intelligence, and when speaking,
is calculated to captivate and carry away an audience by the very force
of his eloquence. Born in the freest state of the Union, and of most
respectable parents, he prides himself not a little on his birth and
descent. One can scarcely find fault with this, for, in the United
States, the coloured man is deprived of the advantages which parentage
gives to the white man. Mr. Remond is a descendant of one of those
coloured men who stood side by side with white men on the plains of
Concord and Lexington, in the battles that achieved the independence of
the colonies from the mother country, in the war of the Revolution. Mr.
Remond has felt deeply, (probably more so than any other coloured man),
the odious prejudice against colour. On this point he is sensitive to a
fault. If any one will sit for an hour and hear a lecture from him on
this subject, if he is not converted, he will at least become convinced,
that the boiling cauldron of anti-slavery discussion has never thrown
upon its surface a more fiery spirit than Charles Lennox Remond.
There are some men who neither speak nor write, but whose lives place
them in the foremost ranks in the cause which they espouse. One of these
is Francis Jackson. He was one of the earliest to give countenance and
support to the anti-slavery movement. In the year 1835, when a mob of
more than 5000 merchants and others, in Boston, broke up an anti-slavery
meeting of females, at which William Lloyd Garrison and George Thompson
were to deliver addresses, and when the Society had no room in which to
hold its meetings (having been driven from their own room by the mob),
Francis Jackson, with a moral courage scarcely ever equalled, came
forward and offered his private dwelling to the ladies, to hold their
meeting in. The following interesting passage occurs in a letter from
him to the Secretary of the Society a short time after, on receiving a
vote of thanks from its members:--
"If a large majority of this community choose to turn a deaf ear to the
wrongs which are inflicted upon their countrymen in other portions of
the land--if they are content to turn away from the sight of oppression,
and 'pass by on the other side'--so it must be.
"But when they undertake in any way to impair or annul my right to
speak, write, and publish upon any subject, and more especially upon
enormities, which are the common concern of every lover of his country
and his kind--so it must not be--so it shall not be, if I for one can
prevent it. Upon this great right let us hold on at all hazards. And
should we, in its exercise, be driven from public halls to private
dwellings, one house at least shall be consecrated to its preservation.
And if, in defence of this sacred privilege, which man did not give me,
and shall not (if I can help it) take from me, this roof and these walls
shall be levelled to the earth, let them fall if they must; they cannot
crumble in a better cause. They will appear of very little value to me
after their owner shall have been whipt into silence."
There are among the contributors to the Anti-Slavery cause, a few who
give with a liberality which has never been surpassed by the donors to
any benevolent association in the world, according to their means--the
chief of these is Francis Jackson.
In the month of May, 1844, while one evening strolling up Broadway, New
York, I saw a crowd making its way into the Minerva Rooms, and, having
no pressing engagement, I followed, and was soon in a splendid hall,
where some twelve or fifteen hundred persons were seated, and listening
to rather a strange-looking man. The speaker was tall and slim, with
long arms, long legs, and a profusion of auburn or reddish hair hanging
in ringlets down his shoulders; while a huge beard of the same colour
fell upon his breast. His person was not at all improved by his dress.
The legs of his trousers were shorter than those worn by smaller men:
the sleeves of his coat were small and short, the shirt collar turned
down in Byronic style, beard and hair hid his countenance, so that no
redeeming feature could be found there; yet there was one redeeming
quality about the man--that was the stream of fervid eloquence which
escaped from his lips. I inquired his name, and was informed that it was
Charles C. Burleigh. Nature has been profuse in showering her gifts upon
Mr. Burleigh, but all has been bestowed upon his head and heart. There
is a kind of eloquence which weaves its thread around the hearer, and
gradually draws him into its web, fascinating him with its gaze,
entangling him as the spider does the fly, until he is fast: such is the
eloquence of C.C. Burleigh. As a debater he is unquestionably the first
on the Anti-slavery platform. If he did not speak so fast, he would
equal Wendell Phillips; if he did not reason his subject out of
existence, he would surpass him. However, one would have to travel over
many miles, and look in the faces of many men, before he would find one
who has made more personal sacrifices, or done more to bring about the
Emancipation of the American Slaves, than Mr. Charles C. Burleigh.
Whoever the future historian of the Anti-Slavery movement may be, he
will not be able to compile a correct history of this great struggle,
without consulting the writings of Edmund Quincy, a member of one of
the wealthiest, patriotic, and aristocratic families in New England: the
prestige of his name is a passport to all that the heart could wish.
Descended from a family, whose name is connected with all that was
glorious in the great American Revolution, the son of one who has again
and again represented his native State, in the National Congress, he
too, like Wendell Phillips, threw away the pearl of political
preferment, and devoted his distinguished talents to the cause of the
Slave. Mr. Quincy is better known in this country as having filled the
editorial chair of _The Liberator_, during the several visits of its
Editor to Great Britain. As a speaker, he does not rank as high as some
who are less known; as a writer, he has few equals. The "Annual Reports"
of the American and Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Societies for the past
fifteen or twenty years, have emanated from his pen. When posterity, in
digging among the tombs of the friends of mankind, and of universal
freedom, shall fail to find there the name of Edmund Quincy, it will be
because the engraver failed to do his duty.
Were we sent out to find a man who should excel all others in
collecting together new facts and anecdotes, and varnishing up old ones
so that they would appear new, and bringing them into a meeting and
emptying out, good or bad, the whole contents of his sack, to the
delight and admiration of the audience, we would unhesitatingly select
James N. Buffum as the man. If Mr. Buffum is not a great speaker, he has
what many accomplished orators have not--_i.e._, a noble and generous
heart. If the fugitive slave, fresh from the cotton-field, should make
his appearance in the town of Lynn, in Massachusetts, and should need a
night's lodging or refreshments, he need go no farther than the
hospitable door of James N. Buffum.
Most men who inherit large fortunes, do little or nothing to benefit
mankind. A few, however, spend their means in the best possible manner:
one of the latter class is Gerrit Smith. The name of this gentleman
should have been brought forward among those who are first mentioned in
this chapter. Some eight or ten years ago, Mr. Smith was the owner of
large tracts of land, lying in twenty-nine counties in the State of New
York, and came to the strange conclusion to give the most of it away.
Consequently, three thousand lots of land, containing from thirty to one
hundred acres each, were given to coloured men residing in the
State--the writer of this being one of the number.
Although universal suffrage is enjoyed by the whites in the State of New
York, a property-qualification is imposed on coloured men; and this act
of Mr. Smith's not only made three thousand men the owners of land, but
created also three thousand voters. The ability to give, and the
willingness to do so, is not by any means the greatest quality of this
gentleman. As a public speaker, Mr. Smith has few equals; and certainly
no man in his State has done more to forward the cause of Negro
Emancipation than he.
We have already swelled the pages of this chapter beyond what we
intended when we commenced, but yet we have called attention to only one
branch of American Reformers. The Temperance Reformers are next to be
considered. This cause has many champions, and yet none who occupy a
very prominent position before the world. The first temperance newspaper
published in the United States, was edited by William Lloyd Garrison.
Gerrit Smith has also done much in promulgating temperance views. But
the most noted man in the movement at the present time, and the one best
known to the British public, is John B. Gough. This gentleman was at one
time an actor on the stage, and subsequently became an inebriate of the
most degraded kind. He was, however, reclaimed through the great
Washingtonian movement that swept over the United States a few years
since. In stature, Mr. Gough is tall and slim, with black hair, which he
usually wears too long. As an orator, he is considered among the first
in the United States. Having once been an actor, he throws all his
dramatic powers into his addresses. He has a facility of telling strange
and marvellous stories which can scarcely be surpassed; and what makes
them still more interesting, he always happens to be an eyewitness.
While speaking, he acts the drunkard, and does it in a style which could
not be equalled on the boards of the Lyceum or Adelphi. No man has
obtained more signatures to the temperance pledge than he. After all, it
is a question whether he has ever been of any permanent service to this
reform or not. Mr. Gough has more than once fallen from his position as
a teetotaler; more than once he has broken his pledge, and when found by
his friends, was in houses of a questionable character. However, some
are of opinion that these defects have been of use to him; for when he
has made his appearance after one of these debaucheries, the people
appear to sympathize more with him, and some thought he spoke better. If
we believe that a person could enjoy good health with water upon the
brain, we would be of opinion that Mr. Gough's cranium contained a
greater quantity than that of any other living man. When speaking before
an audience, he can weep when he pleases; and the tears shed on these
occasions are none of your make-believe kind--none of your small drops
trickling down the cheeks one at a time;--but they come in great
showers, so as even to sprinkle upon the paper which he holds in his
hand. Of course, he is not alone in shedding tears in his meetings,
many of his hearers usually join him; especially the ladies, as these
showers are intended for them. However, no one can sit for an hour and
hear John. B. Gough, without coming to the conclusion that he is nothing
more than a theatrical mountebank.
The ablest speaker on the subject of Peace, is Charles Sumner. Standing
more than six feet in height, and well proportioned, Mr. Sumner makes a
most splendid and commanding appearance before an assembly. It is not
his looks alone that attract attention--his very countenance indicates a
superior mind. Born in the upper circle, educated in the first College
in the country, and finally becoming a member of the Bar, he is well
qualified to take the highest possible position as a public speaker. As
an orator, Charles Sumner has but one superior in the United States, and
that is Wendell Phillips. Mr. Sumner is an able advocate for the
liberation of the American Slaves as well as of the cause of Peace, and
has rendered great aid to the abolition movement.
The name of Elihu Burritt, for many reasons, should be placed at the
head of the Peace Movement. No man was ever more devoted to one idea
than he is to that of peace. If he is an advocate of Temperance, it is
because it will promote peace. If he opposes Slavery, it is upon the
grounds of peace. Ask him why he wants an "Ocean Penny Postage," he will
tell you to engender the principles of peace. Everything with him hinges
upon the doctrine of peace. As a speaker, Mr. Burritt does not rank
amongst the first. However, his speeches are of a high order, some think
them too high, and complain that he is too much of a cloud-traveller,
and when he descends from these aerial flights and cloudy thrones, they
are unwilling to admit that he can be practical. If Mr. Burritt should
prove as good a statesman as a theorist, he would be an exception to
most who belong to the aerial school. As a writer he stands deservedly
high. In his "Sparks from the Anvil," and "Voice from the Forge," are to
be found as fine pieces as have been produced by any writer of the day.
His "Drunkard's Wife" is the most splendid thing of the kind in the
language. His stature is of the middle size, head well developed, with
eyes deeply set, and a prepossessing countenance, though not handsome;
he wears an exterior of remarkable austerity, and everything about him
is grave, even to his smile. Being well versed in the languages, ancient
and modern, he does not lack variety or imagination, either in his
public addresses or private conversation; yet it would be difficult to
find a man with a better heart, or sweeter spirit, than Elihu Burritt.
LETTER XXII.
_A Narrative of American Slavery._
Although the first slaves, introduced into the American Colonies from
the coast of Africa, were negroes of a very dark complexion with woolly
hair, and it was thought that slavery would be confined to the blacks,
yet the present slave population of America is far from being black.
This change in colour, is attributable, solely to the unlimited power
which the slave owner exercises over his victim. There being no lawful
marriage amongst slaves, and no encouragement to slave women to be
virtuous and chaste, there seems to be no limits to the system of
amalgamation carried on between master and slave. This accounts for the
fact, that most persons who go from Europe, or from the Free States,
into Carolina or Virginia, are struck with the different shades of
colour amongst the slaves. On a plantation employing fifty slaves, it is
not uncommon to see one third of them mulattoes, and some of these
nearly white.
In the year 1831, there resided in the state of Virginia, a slave who
was so white, that no one would suppose for a moment that a drop of
African blood coursed through his veins. His skin was fair, hair soft,
straight, fine and white; his eyes blue, nose prominent, lips thin; his
head well formed, forehead high and prominent; and he was often taken
for a white free person, by those who did not know him. This made his
condition as a slave still more intolerable; for one so white, seldom
ever receives fair treatment at the hands of his fellow slaves; and the
whites usually regard such slaves as persons, who, if not often flogged
and otherwise ill treated, to remind them of their condition, would soon
"forget" that they were slaves, and "think themselves as good as white
folks." During that year, an insurrection broke out amongst the slave
population, known as the Southampton Rebellion, or the "Nat Turner
Insurrection." Five or six hundred slaves, believing in the doctrine
that "all men are created equal," armed with such weapons as they could
get, commenced a war for freedom. Amongst these was George, the white
slave of whom we have spoken. He had been employed as a house servant,
and had heard his master and visiters speak of the down-trodden and
oppressed Poles; he heard them talk of going to Greece to fight for
Grecian liberty, and against the oppressors of that ill-fated people.
George, fired with the love of freedom, and zeal for the cause of his
enslaved countrymen, joined the insurrection. The result of that
struggle for liberty is well known. The slaves were defeated, and those
who were not taken prisoners, took refuge in the dismal swamps. These
were ordered to surrender; but instead of doing so, they challenged
their proud oppressors to take them, and immediately renewed the war. A
ferocious struggle now commenced between the parties; but not until the
United States troops were called in, did they succeed in crushing a
handful of men and women who were fighting for freedom. The negroes were
hunted with dogs, and many who were caught were burnt alive; while some
were hung, and others flogged and banished from the State.
Among those who were sentenced to be hanged, was George. He was placed
in prison to await the day of execution, which would give him ten days
to prepare for his doom. George was the son of a member of the American
Congress, his mother being a servant in the principal hotel in
Washington, where members of Congress usually put up. After the birth of
George, his mother was sold to a negro trader, and he to a Virginian,
who sent agents through the country to buy up young slaves to raise for
the market. George was only about nineteen years of age, when he
unfortunately became connected with the insurrection. Mr. Green, who
owned George, was a comparatively good master, and prided himself on
treating his slaves better than most men. This gentleman was also the
owner of a girl who was perfectly white, with straight hair and
prominent features. This girl was said to be the daughter of her own
master. A feeling of attachment sprang up between Mary and George, which
proved to be more than mere friendship, and upon which we base the
burden of this narrative.
After poor George had been sentenced to death and cast into prison, Mary
begged and obtained leave to visit George, and administer to him the
comforts of religion, as she was a member of a religious body, while
George was not. As George had been a considerable favourite with Mrs.
Green, Mary had no difficulty in obtaining permission to pay a daily
visit to him, to whom she had pledged her heart and hand. At one of
these meetings, and only four days from the time fixed for the
execution, while Mary was seated in George's cell, it occurred to her
that she might yet save him from a felon's doom. She revealed to him
the secret that was then occupying her thoughts, viz., that George
should exchange clothes with her, and thus attempt his escape in
disguise. But he would not for a single moment listen to the
proposition. Not that he feared detection; but he would not consent to
place an innocent and affectionate girl in a position where she might
have to suffer for him. Mary pleaded, but in vain--George was
inflexible. The poor girl left her lover with a heavy heart, regretting
that her scheme had proved unsuccessful.
Towards the close of the next day, Mary again appeared at the prison
door for admission, and was soon by the side of him whom she so ardently
loved. While there, the clouds which had overhung the city for some
hours, broke, and the rain fell in torrents amid the most terrific
thunder and lightning. In the most persuasive manner possible, Mary
again importuned George to avail himself of her assistance to escape
from an ignominious death. After assuring him that she not being the
person condemned, would not receive any injury, he at last consented,
and they began to exchange apparel. As George was of small stature, and
both were white, there was no difficulty in his passing out without
detection: and as she usually left the cell weeping, with handkerchief
in hand, and sometimes at her face, he had only to adopt this mode and
his escape was safe. They had kissed each other, and Mary had told
George where he would find a small parcel of provisions which she had
placed in a secluded spot, when the prison-keeper opened the door, and
said, "Come, girl, it is time for you to go." George again embraced
Mary, and passed out of the gaol. It was already dark and the street
lamps were lighted, so that our hero in his new dress had no dread of
detection. The provisions were sought out and found, and poor George was
soon on the road towards Canada. But neither of them had once thought of
a change of dress for George when he should have escaped, and he had
walked but a short distance before he felt that a change of his apparel
would facilitate his progress. But he dared not go amongst even his
coloured associates for fear of being betrayed. However, he made the
best of his way on towards Canada, hiding in the woods during the day,
and travelling by the guidance of the North Star at night.
One morning, George arrived on the banks of the Ohio river, and found
his journey had terminated, unless he could get some one to take him
across the river in a secret manner, for he would not be permitted to
cross in any of the ferry boats; it being a penalty for crossing a
slave, besides the value of the slave. He concealed himself in the tall
grass and weeds near the river, to see if he could embrace an
opportunity to cross. He had been in his hiding-place but a short time,
when he observed a man in a small boat, floating near the shore,
evidently fishing. His first impulse was to call out to the man and ask
him to take him over to the Ohio side, but the fear that the man was a
slaveholder, or one who might possibly arrest him, deterred him from it.
The man after rowing and floating about for some time fastened the boat
to the root of a tree, and started to a neighbouring farm-house. This
was George's moment, and he seized it. Running down the bank, he
unfastened the boat, jumped in, and with all the expertness of one
accustomed to a boat, rowed across the river and landed on the Ohio
side.
Being now in a free state, he thought he might with perfect safety
travel on towards Canada. He had, however, gone but a few miles, when he
discovered two men on horseback coming behind him. He felt sure that
they could not be in pursuit of him, yet he did not wish to be seen by
them, so he turned into another road, leading to a house near by. The
men followed, and were but a short distance from George, when he ran up
to a farm house, before which was standing a farmer-looking man, in a
broad-brimmed hat and straight collared coat, whom he implored to save
him from the "slave-catchers." The farmer told him to go into the barn
near by; he entered by the front door, the farmer following, and closing
the door behind George, but remaining outside, and gave directions to
his hired man as to what should be done with George. The slaveholders by
this time had dismounted, and were in the front of the barn demanding
admittance, and charging the farmer with secreting their slave woman,
for George was still in the dress of a woman. The Friend, for the farmer
proved to be a member of the Society of Friends, told the slave-owners
that if they wished to search his barn, they must first get an officer
and a search warrant. While the parties were disputing, the farmer began
nailing up the front door, and the hired man served the back door in the
same way. The slaveholders, finding that they could not prevail on the
Friend to allow them to get the slave, determined to go in search of an
officer. One was left to see that the slave did not escape from the
barn, while the other went off at full speed to Mount Pleasant, the
nearest town. George was not the slave of either of these men, nor were
they in pursuit of him, but they had lost a woman who had been seen in
that vicinity, and when they saw poor George in the disguise of a
female, and attempting to elude pursuit, they felt sure they were close
upon their victim. However, if they had caught him, although he was not
their slave, they would have taken him back and placed him in goal, and
there he would have remained until his owner arrived.
After an absence of nearly two hours, the slave owner returned with an
officer and found the Friend still driving large nails into the door. In
a triumphant tone, and with a corresponding gesture, he handed the
search-warrant to the Friend, and said, "There, Sir, now I will see if I
can't get my Nigger." "Well," said the Friend, "thou hast gone to work
according to law, and thou can now go into my barn." "Lend me your
hammer that I may get the door open," said the slaveholder. "Let me see
the warrant again." And after reading it over once more, he said, "I see
nothing in this paper which says I must supply thee with tools to open
my door; if thou wishes to go in, thou must get a hammer elsewhere." The
sheriff said, "I will go to a neighbouring farm and borrow something
which will introduce us to Miss Dinah;" and he immediately went in
search of tools. In a short time the officer returned, and they
commenced an assault and battery upon the barn door, which soon yielded;
and in went the slaveholder and officer, and began turning up the hay
and using all other means to find the lost property; but, to their
astonishment, the slave was not there. After all hope of getting Dinah
was gone, the slave-owner in a rage, said to the Friend, "My Nigger is
not here." "I did not tell thee there was any one here." "Yes, but I saw
her go in, and you shut the door behind her, and if she was not in the
barn, what did you nail the door for?" "Can't I do what I please with my
own barn door? Now I will tell thee; thou need trouble thyself no more,
for the person thou art after entered the front door and went out at the
back door, and is a long way from here by this time. Thou and thy friend
must be somewhat fatigued by this time, wont thou go in and take a
little dinner with me?" We need not say that this cool invitation of the
good Quaker was not accepted by the slaveholders. George, in the
meantime, had been taken to a Friend's dwelling some miles away, where,
after laying aside his female attire, and being snugly dressed up in a
straight collared coat, and pantaloons to match, was again put on the
right road towards Canada. Two weeks after this found him in the town
of St. Catharines, working on the farm of Colonel Strut, and attending a
night school.
George, however, did not forget his promise to use all means in his
power to get Mary out of slavery. He, therefore, laboured with all his
might, to obtain money with which to employ some one to go back to
Virginia for Mary. After nearly six months' labour at St. Catharines, he
employed an English missionary to go and see if the girl could be
purchased, and at what price. The missionary went accordingly, but
returned with the sad intelligence that on account of Mary's aiding
George to escape, the court had compelled Mr. Green to sell her out of
the State, and she had been sold to a Negro trader and taken to the New
Orleans market. As all hope of getting the girl was now gone, George
resolved to quit the American continent for ever. He immediately took
passage in a vessel laden with timber, bound for Liverpool, and in five
weeks from that time he was standing on the quay of the great English
seaport. With little or no education, he found many difficulties in the
way of getting a respectable living. However, he obtained a situation
as porter in a large house in Manchester, where he worked during the
day, and took private lessons at night. In this way he laboured for
three years, and was then raised to the situation of a clerk. George was
so white as easily to pass for a white man, and being somewhat ashamed
of his African descent, he never once mentioned the fact of his having
been a slave. He soon became a partner in the firm that employed him,
and was now on the road to wealth.
In the year 1842, just ten years after George Green (for he adopted his
master's name) arrived in England, he visited France, and spent some
days at Dunkirk. It was towards sunset, on a warm day in the month of
October, that Mr. Green, after strolling some distance from the Hotel de
Leon, entered a burial ground and wandered long alone among the silent
dead, gazing upon the many green graves and marble tombstones of those
who once moved on the theatre of busy life, and whose sounds of gaiety
once fell upon the ear of man. All nature around was hushed in silence,
and seemed to partake of the general melancholy which hung over the
quiet resting place of departed mortals. After tracing the varied
inscriptions which told the characters or conditions of the departed,
and viewing the mounds 'neath which the dust of mortality slumbered, he
had now reached a secluded spot, near to where an aged weeping willow
bowed its thick foliage to the ground, as though anxious to hide from
the scrutinizing gaze of curiosity the grave beneath it. Mr. Green
seated himself upon a marble tomb, and began to read Roscoe's Leo X., a
copy of which he had under his arm. It was then about twilight, and he
had scarcely gone through half a page, when he observed a lady in black,
leading a boy some five years old up one of the paths; and as the lady's
black veil was over her face, he felt somewhat at liberty to eye her
more closely. While looking at her, the lady gave a scream and appeared
to be in a fainting position, when Mr. Green sprang from his seat in
time to save her from falling to the ground. At this moment, an elderly
gentleman was seen approaching with a rapid step, who from his
appearance was evidently the lady's father, or one intimately connected
with her. He came up, and in a confused manner, asked what was the
matter. Mr. Green explained as well as he could. After taking up the
smelling bottle which had fallen from her hand, and holding it a short
time to her face, she soon began to revive. During all this time, the
lady's veil had so covered her face, that Mr. Green had not seen it.
When she had so far recovered as to be able to raise her head, she again
screamed, and fell back into the arms of the old man. It now appeared
quite certain, that either the countenance of George Green, or some
other object, was the cause of these fits of fainting; and the old
gentleman, thinking it was the former, in rather a petulant tone said,
"I will thank you, Sir, if you will leave us alone." The child whom the
lady was leading had now set up a squall; and amid the death-like
appearance of the lady, the harsh look of the old man, and the cries of
the boy, Mr. Green left the grounds and returned to his hotel.
Whilst seated by the window, and looking out upon the crowded street,
with every now and then the strange scene in the grave-yard vividly
before him, Mr. Green thought of the book he had been reading, and,
remembering that he had left it on the tomb, where he had suddenly
dropped it when called to the assistance of the lady, he immediately
determined to return in search of it. After a walk of some twenty
minutes, he was again over the spot where he had been an hour before,
and from which he had been so unceremoniously expelled by the old man.
He looked in vain for the book; it was no where to be found: nothing
save a bouquet which the lady had dropped, and which lay half-buried in
the grass from having been trodden upon, indicated that any one had been
there that evening. Mr. Green took up the bunch of flowers, and again
returned to the hotel.
After passing a sleepless night, and hearing the clock strike six, he
dropped into a sweet sleep, from which he did not awake until roused by
the rap of a servant, who, entering his room, handed him a note which
ran as follows:--"Sir,--I owe you an apology for the inconveniences to
which you were subjected last evening, and if you will honour us with
your presence to dinner to-day at four o'clock, I shall be most happy to
give you due satisfaction. My servant will be in waiting for you at
half-past three. I am, sir, your obedt. servant, J. Devenant. October
23, to George Green, Esq."
The servant who handed this note to Mr. Green, informed him that the
bearer was waiting for a reply. He immediately resolved to accept the
invitation, and replied accordingly. Who this person was, and how his
name and the hotel where he was stopping had been found out, was indeed
a mystery. However, he waited impatiently for the hour when he was to
see this new acquaintance, and get the mysterious meeting in the
grave-yard solved.
The clock on a neighbouring church had scarcely ceased striking three,
when the servant announced that a carriage had called for Mr. Green. In
less than half an hour, he was seated in a most sumptuous barouch, drawn
by two beautiful iron greys, and rolling along over a splendid gravel
road, completely shaded by large trees which appeared to have been the
accumulating growth of many centuries. The carriage soon stopped in
front of a low villa, and this too was imbedded in magnificent trees
covered with moss. Mr. Green alighted and was shown into a superb
drawing room, the walls of which were hung with fine specimens from the
hands of the great Italian painters, and one by a German artist
representing a beautiful monkish legend connected with "The Holy
Catherine," and illustrious lady of Alexandria. The furniture had an
antique and dignified appearance. High backed chairs stood around the
room; a venerable mirror stood on the mantle-shelf; rich curtains of
crimson damask hung in folds at either side of the large windows; and a
rich Turkey carpet covered the floor. In the centre stood a table
covered with books, in the midst of which was an old fashioned vase
filled with fresh flowers, whose fragrance was exceedingly pleasant. A
faint light, together with the quietness of the hour gave beauty beyond
description to the whole scene.
Mr. Green had scarcely seated himself upon the sofa, when the elderly
gentleman whom he had met the previous evening made his appearance,
followed by the little boy, and introduced himself as Mr. Devenant. A
moment more, and a lady--a beautiful brunette--dressed in black, with
long curls of a chesnut colour hanging down her cheeks, entered the
room. Her eyes were of a dark hazel, and her whole appearance indicated
that she was a native of a southern clime. The door at which she entered
was opposite to where the two gentlemen were seated. They immediately
rose; and Mr. Devenant was in the act of introducing her to Mr. Green,
when he observed that the latter had sunk back upon the sofa, and the
last word that he remembered to have heard was, "It is her." After this,
all was dark and dreamy: how long he remained in this condition it was
for another to tell. When he awoke, he found himself stretched upon the
sofa, with his boots off, his neckerchief removed, shirt collar
unbuttoned, and his head resting upon a pillow. By his side sat the old
man, with the smelling bottle in the one hand, and a glass of water in
the other, and the little boy standing at the foot of the sofa. As soon
as Mr. Green had so far recovered as to be able to speak, he said,
"Where am I, and what does this mean?" "Wait a while," replied the old
man, "and I will tell you all." After the lapse of some ten minutes he
rose from the sofa, adjusted his apparel, and said, "I am now ready to
hear anything you have to say." "You were born in America," said the old
man. "Yes," he replied. "And you were acquainted with a girl named
Mary," continued the old man. "Yes, and I loved her as I can love none
other." "The lady whom you met so mysteriously last evening is Mary,"
replied Mr. Devenant. George Green was silent, but the fountains of
mingled grief and joy stole out from beneath his eye lashes, and
glistened like pearls upon his pale and marble-like cheeks. At this
juncture the lady again entered the room. Mr. Green sprang from the
sofa, and they fell into each other's arms, to the surprise of the old
man and little George, and to the amusement of the servants who had
crept up one by one, and were hid behind the doors or loitering in the
hall. When they had given vent to their feelings, they resumed their
seats and each in turn related the adventures through which they had
passed. "How did you find out my name and address," asked Mr. Green?
"After you had left us in the grave-yard, our little George said, 'O,
mamma, if there aint a book!' and picked it up and brought it to us.
Papa opened it, and said 'the gentleman's name is written in it, and
here is a card of the Hotel de Leon, where I suppose he is stopping.'
Papa wished to leave the book, and said it was all a fancy of mine that
I had ever seen you before, but I was perfectly convinced that you were
my own George Green. Are you married?" "No, I am not." "Then, thank
God!" exclaimed Mrs. Devenant. The old man who had been silent all this
time, said, "Now, Sir, I must apologize for the trouble you were put to
last evening." "And you are single now." "Yes," she replied. "This is
indeed the Lord's doings," said Mr. Green, at the same time bursting
into a flood of tears. Although Mr. Devenant was past the age when men
should think upon matrimonial subjects, yet this scene brought vividly
before his eyes the days when he was a young man, and had a wife living,
and he thought it time to call their attention to dinner, which was
then waiting. We need scarcely add, that Mr. Green and Mrs. Devenant did
very little towards diminishing the dinner that day.
After dinner the lovers (for such we have to call them) gave their
experience from the time that George Green left the gaol, dressed in
Mary's clothes. Up to that time, Mr. Green's was substantially as we
have related it. Mrs. Devenant's was as follows:--"The night after you
left the prison," said she, "I did not shut my eyes in sleep. The next
morning, about 8 o'clock, Peter, the gardener, came to the gaol to see
if I had been there the night before, and was informed that I had, and
that I left a little after dark. About an hour after, Mr. Green came
himself, and I need not say that he was much surprised on finding me
there, dressed in your clothes. This was the first tidings they had of
your escape." "What did Mr. Green say when he found that I had fled?"
"O!" continued Mrs. Devenant, "he said to me when no one was near, I
hope George will get off, but I fear you will have to suffer in his
stead. I told him that if it must be so I was willing to die if you
could live." At this moment George Green burst into tears, threw his
arms around her neck, and exclaimed, "I am glad I have waited so long,
with the hope of meeting you again."
Mrs. Devenant again resumed her story:--"I was kept in gaol three days,
during which time I was visited by the Magistrates and two of the
Judges. On the third day I was taken out, and master told me that I was
liberated, upon condition that I be immediately sent out of the State.
There happened to be just at that time in the neighbourhood a
negro-trader, and he purchased me, and I was taken to New Orleans. On
the steam-boat we were kept in a close room where slaves are usually
confined, so that I saw nothing of the passengers on board or the towns
we passed. We arrived at New Orleans and were all put into the
slave-market for sale. I was examined by many persons, but none seemed
willing to purchase me; as all thought me too white, and said I would
run away and pass as a free white woman. On the second day while in the
slave-market, and while planters and others were examining slaves and
making their purchases, I observed a tall young man with long black hair
eyeing me very closely, and then talking to the trader. I felt sure that
my time had now come, but the day closed without my being sold. I did
not regret this, for I had heard that foreigners made the worst of
masters, and I felt confident that the man who eyed me so closely was
not an American.
"The next day was the Sabbath. The bells called the people to the
different places of worship. Methodists sang, and Baptists immersed, and
Presbyterians sprinkled, and Episcopalians read their prayers, while the
ministers of the various sects preached that Christ died for all; yet
there were some twenty-five or thirty of us poor creatures confined in
the '_Negro Pen_' awaiting the close of the Holy Sabbath, and the dawn
of another day, to be again taken into the market, there to be examined
like so many beasts of burden. I need not tell you with what anxiety we
waited for the advent of another day. On Monday we were again brought
out, and placed in rows to be inspected; and fortunately for me, I was
sold before we had been on the stand an hour. I was purchased by a
gentleman residing in the city, for a waiting-maid for his wife, who was
just on the eve of starting for Mobile, to pay a visit to a near
relation. I was then dressed to suit the situation of a maid-servant;
and, upon the whole, I thought that in my new dress I looked as much the
lady as my mistress.
"On the passage to Mobile, who should I see among the passengers, but
the tall, long-haired man that had eyed me so closely in the
slave-market a few days before. His eyes were again on me, and he
appeared anxious to speak to me, and I as reluctant to be spoken to. The
first evening after leaving New Orleans, soon after twilight had let her
curtain down, and pinned it with a star, and while I was seated on the
deck of the boat, near the ladies' cabin, looking upon the rippled
waves, and the reflection of the moon upon the sea, all at once I saw
the tall young man standing by my side. I immediately rose from my seat,
and was in the act of returning to the cabin, when he in a broken
accent said, 'Stop a moment; I wish to have a word with you. I am your
friend.' I stopped and looked him full in the face, and he said, 'I saw
you some days since in the slave-market, and I intended to have
purchased you to save you from the condition of a slave. I called on
Monday, but you had been sold and had left the market. I inquired and
learned who the purchaser was, and that you had to go to Mobile, so I
resolved to follow you. If you are willing, I will try and buy you from
your present owner, and you shall be free.' Although this was said in an
honest and off-hand manner, I could not believe the man to be sincere in
what he said. 'Why should you wish to set _me_ free?' I asked. 'I had an
only sister,' he replied, 'who died three years ago in France, and you
are so much like her, that had I not known of her death, I would most
certainly have taken you for her.' 'However much I may resemble your
sister, you are aware that I am not her, and why take so much interest
in one whom you never saw before?' 'The love,' said he, 'which I had for
my sister is transferred to you.' I had all along suspected that the
man was a knave, and this profession of love confirmed me in my former
belief, and I turned away and left him.
"The next day, while standing in the cabin and looking through the
window, the French gentleman (for such he was) came to the window while
walking on the guards, and again commenced as on the previous evening.
He took from his pocket a bit of paper and put into my hand, and at the
same time saying, 'Take this, it may some day be of service to you,
remember it is from a friend,' and left me instantly. I unfolded the
paper, and found it to be a 100 dols. bank note, on the United States
Branch Bank, at Philadelphia. My first impulse was to give it to my
mistress, but upon a second thought, I resolved to seek an opportunity,
and to return the hundred dollars to the stranger. Therefore, I looked
for him, but in vain; and had almost given up the idea of seeing him
again, when he passed me on the guards of the boat and walked towards
the stem of the vessel. It being now dark, I approached him and offered
the money to him. He declined, saying at the same time, 'I gave it to
you--keep it.' 'I do not want it,' I said. 'Now,' said he, 'you had
better give your consent for me to purchase you, and you shall go with
me to France.' 'But you cannot buy me now,' I replied, 'for my master is
in New Orleans, and he purchased me not to sell, but to retain in his
own family.' 'Would you rather remain with your present mistress, than
be free?' 'No,' said I. 'Then fly with me to-night; we shall be in
Mobile in two hours from this, and, when the passengers are going on
shore, you can take my arm, and you can escape unobserved. The trader
who brought you to New Orleans exhibited to me a certificate of your
good character, and one from the Minister of the Church to which you
were attached in Virginia; and upon the faith of these assurances, and
the love I bear you, I promise before high heaven that I will marry you
as soon as it can be done.' This solemn promise, coupled with what had
already transpired, gave me confidence in the man; and rash as the act
may seem, I determined in an instant to go with him. My mistress had
been put under the charge of the captain; and as it would be past ten
o'clock when the steamer would land, she accepted an invitation of the
captain to remain on board with several other ladies till morning. I
dressed myself in my best clothes, and put a veil over my face, and was
ready on the landing of the boat. Surrounded by a number of passengers,
we descended the stage leading to the wharf and were soon lost in the
crowd that thronged the quay. As we went on shore we encountered several
persons announcing the names of hotels, the starting of boats for the
interior, and vessels bound for Europe. Among these was the ship
_Utica_, Captain Pell, bound for Havre. 'Now,' said Mr. Devenant, 'this
is our chance.' The ship was to sail at 12 o'clock that night, at high
tide; and following the men who were seeking passengers, we went
immediately on board. Devenant told the Captain of the ship that I was
his sister, and for such we passed during the voyage. At the hour of
twelve the _Utica_ set sail, and we were soon out at sea.
"The morning after we left Mobile, Devenant met me as I came from my
state-room and embraced me for the first time. I loved him, but it was
only that affection which we have for one who has done us a lasting
favour: it was the love of gratitude rather than that of the heart. We
were five weeks on the sea, and yet the passage did not seem long, for
Devenant was so kind. On our arrival at Havre, we were married and came
to Dunkirk, and I have resided here ever since."
At the close of this narrative, the clock struck ten, when the old man,
who was accustomed to retire at an early hour, rose to take leave,
saying at the same time, "I hope you will remain with us to-night." Mr.
Green would fain have excused himself, on the ground that they would
expect him and wait at the hotel, but a look from the lady told him to
accept the invitation. The old man was the father of Mrs. Devenant's
deceased husband, as you will no doubt long since have supposed. A
fortnight from the day on which they met in the grave-yard, Mr. Green
and Mrs. Devenant were joined in holy wedlock; so that George and Mary,
who had loved each other so ardently in their younger days, were now
husband and wife. Without becoming responsible for the truthfulness of
the above narrative, I give it to you, reader, as it was told to me in
January last, in France, by George Green himself.
A celebrated writer has justly said of woman: "A woman's whole life is a
history of the affections. The heart is her world; it is there her
ambition strives for empire; it is there her avarice seeks for hidden
treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure; she embarks her
whole soul in the traffic of affection; and if shipwrecked, her case is
hopeless--for it is a bankruptcy of the heart."
Mary had every reason to believe that she would never see George again;
and although she confesses that the love she bore him was never
transferred to her first husband, we can scarcely find fault with her
for marrying Mr. Devenant. But the adherence of George Green to the
resolution never to marry, unless to his Mary, is, indeed, a rare
instance of the fidelity of man in the matter of love. We can but blush
for our country's shame, when we recall to mind the fact, that while
George and Mary Green, and numbers of other fugitives from American
slavery, can receive protection from any of the Governments of Europe,
they cannot return to their native land without becoming slaves.
FINIS.
AYR: PRINTED AT THE ADVERTISER OFFICE.
Transcriber's notes:
====================
ERRATA from the original volume, applied to the text.
======
Page 8, eleventh line from bottom, _for_ villages _read_ villas
The beautiful villages [**Erratum: villas] on the opposite side of the
145, fourth line from top, _for_ Dante _read_ Whittier
our own Dante? [**Erratum: Whittier?]
205, second line from bottom, _for_ towns _read_ lawns
in the vicinity of the lakes. Magnificent towns [**Erratum: lawns]
264, seventh line from top, _for_ 1834 _read_ 1844
In the month of May, 1834, [**Erratum: 1844,] while one evening
273, eighth line from top, _for_ vanity _read_ variety
lack vanity [**Erratum: variety] or imagination, either in his public
Letter XXIII displaced to be between XII and XIII, as per editor's
footnote.
TYPOS
=====
All "Mr" replaced with "Mr." (~10%). Similarly for "Mrs".
play," was to flag [**typo: flog] his slaves severely, and
tyranny in Great Britian [**typo: Britain] found social and
passengers, forty of whom were the "Vienneise [**typo: Viennese]
we were in sight of the land of Emmitt [**typo: Emmett] and
Rev. Dr. Ritchie, of Edinburgh. [** quote deleted] "It is indeed a
by M. Duguery, [**typo: Duguerry,] curé of the Madeleine,
The column is in imitation of the Trojan [**typo: Trajan]
XVI. and Marie Antionette [**typo: Antoinette] were driven from it by
building. [** full-stop added] The speaker, in the delivery of one of
Fète. [**typo: Fête.]
soirèe [**typo: soirée] by M. de Tocqueville, Minister for
to the whole scene out of doors. The soirèe [**typo: soirée]
announced, and after a good deal of jambing [**typo: jamming] and
same basket, without any regard to birth or station. [** full-stop added]
had more interesting incidents occuring [**typo: occurring] in it than
of Raphael and David--Arc de Triomphe--Beranger [** final em-dash added]
Jardin des Plantes, and spent an hour and a-half [**typo: a half]
Were [**typo: were] at the time continually running through my
meeted [**typo: meted] out to me while at Hartwell. And the
I will see you." [** missing quote inserted] In looking across the street, I
great contrast beetween [**typo: between] the monster Institution,
The Tower is surounded [**typo: surrounded] by a high wall, and
skilful muscians; [**typo: musicians;] I have listened with delight
history, and the accumulated discoveries of byegone [**typo: bygone]
acquiline, [**typo: aquiline] his mouth rather small, and not at all
and died at Newstead Abbey, November 18, 1808." [**missing quote inserted]
with the poet and saying:-- [**colon added]
had such ruins in view when he exclaimed:-- [**colon added]
Elyses [**typo: Elysees] at Paris; and as for statuary, the latter
where the celebrated Reformer, John Knox, re-resided.[**typo: resided.]
lake is carved out and and [**typo: deleted second "and"] built up into terrace
through to the north gallery, and and [**typo: deleted second "and"] thence to
myself upon so diminutive a looking [**typo: looking a] creature.
upon the wing--the artifical [**typo: artificial] stream, the brook
seemed to have forgotton [**typo: forgotten] that this was an exhibition
"Sartar [**typo: Sartor] Resartus," and if he does not rise from its
the cloisters of Tinterran [**typo: Tintern] Abbey, in its proudest
that which has accomplished the mightest [**typo: mightiest] and
That measure was in every respect an unconsitutional [**typo: unconstitutional]
practice what they have so long professsd [**typo: professed]. (Hear,
I had writen [**typo: written] for the occasion, was unanimously
taken him back and placed him in goal [**typo: gaol], and
was kept in goal [**typo: gaol] three days, during
into my hand, and at the sametime [**typo: same time] saying,
be a 100 dols. Bank [**typo?: bank] note, on the United States
But the adherence of George Green to the re-resolution [**typo: resolution]
Apparent errata, but possibly acceptable period words: (left as-is in text).
===============
without the least difficulty, and his jestures, [**typo: gestures,]
Per OED, jesture obs. form of gesture. May be typo?
motion, and the variagated [**typo: variegated] lamps with their many
Per OED, verb variagate was known variant of variegate up to the 19th century
enemies on the 13th Vendimaire [**typo: Vendémiaire]. The Hotel de
May be British variant used at the period
observed visiters [**typo: visitors] lingering about it, as if they
May be valid past spelling
being conveyed to them by means of a pully-basket, [**typo: pulley-basket,]
Per OED, pully known variant of pulley, 15th-19th centuries
under heaven!--Perish the sum of all villanies! [**typo: villainies!]
Per OED, known alternate spelling, 16th-19th centuries
force, carrying, upsetting, engulphing [**typo: engulfing] its adversaries,
Per OED, known alternate spelling (along with ingulf and ingulph);
an example of engulph quoted from an 1871 source.
master and visiters [**typo: visitors] speak of the down-trodden
May be valid past spelling
with long curls of a chesnut [**typo: chestnut] colour hanging down
Per OED, chesnut was the most common spelling as late as 1820.
Johnson set "chestnut" as the standard...
Others found to be acceptable variants:
Bastile,
plebians,
laureat,
trode,
Shakspere.
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