“But a great number remained, I presume, for it would not have been humane to force those to go who preferred to stay.”
“All that chose to settle in this country were at liberty to do so, and their rights and privileges were respected; but in the course of twenty or thirtyyears, their descendants gradually went over to their own people, who by this time, had firmly established themselves.”
“Did those that remained, ever intermarry with the white population, and were they ever admitted into society?”
“As soon as they became free, as soon as their bodies were unshackled, their minds became enlightened, and as their education advanced, they learned to appreciate themselves properly. They saw no advantage in intermarrying with the whites; on the contrary, they learned, by close investigation, that the negro race becomes extinct in the fourth remove, when marriages took place between the two colours. It seemed to be their pride to keep themselves a distinct people, and to show the world that their organization allowed of the highest grade of mental culture. They seemed utterly indifferent likewise about mixing in the society of white men, for their object and sole aim was to become independent. Many of their descendants left the United States with handsome fortunes. You could not insult a black man more highly than to talk of their intermarrying with the whites—they scorn it much more than the whites did in your time.”
“How do they treat the white people that trade with them in their own country?”
“How? why as Christians—to their praise be it said, they never retaliated. The few excesses they committed whilst they were degraded by slavery, was entirely owing to a misdirection of their energies; but the moment the white man gave up his right over them, that moment all malignant and hostile feelings disappeared. The name of negro is no longer a term of reproach, he is proud of it; and he smiles when he reads in the history of their servitude, how indignant the blacks were at being calledby that title. They are a prosperous and happy people, respected by all nations, for their trade extends over the whole world. They would never have arrived at their present happy condition if they had sought to obtain their freedom by force; but by waiting a few years—for the best men of their colour saw that the spirit of the times indicated that their day of freedom was near—they were released from bondage with the aid and good wishes of the whole country. It showed their strong good sense in waiting for the turn of the tide in their favour; it proved that they had forethought, and deserved our sympathies.”
“I am glad of all this,” said Hastings—“and the Indians—what has become of them, are they still a distinct people?”
“I am sorry you ask that question,—for it is one on which I do not like to converse—but
‘The Indians have departed—gone is their hunting ground,And the twanging of their bow-string is a forgotten sound.Where dwelleth yesterday—and where is echo’s cell?Where hath the rainbow vanished—there doth the Indian dwell!’
‘The Indians have departed—gone is their hunting ground,And the twanging of their bow-string is a forgotten sound.Where dwelleth yesterday—and where is echo’s cell?Where hath the rainbow vanished—there doth the Indian dwell!’
‘The Indians have departed—gone is their hunting ground,And the twanging of their bow-string is a forgotten sound.Where dwelleth yesterday—and where is echo’s cell?Where hath the rainbow vanished—there doth the Indian dwell!’
‘The Indians have departed—gone is their hunting ground,
And the twanging of their bow-string is a forgotten sound.
Where dwelleth yesterday—and where is echo’s cell?
Where hath the rainbow vanished—there doth the Indian dwell!’
“When our own minds were sufficiently enlightened, when our hearts were sufficiently inspired by the humane principles of the Christian religion, we emancipated the blacks. What demon closed up the springs of tender mercy when Indian rights were in question I know not?—but I must not speak of it!”
They now proceeded homewards, and in three hours—for they travelled slowly, that they might the better converse,—they came in sight of the low, stone farm-house, in which poor Hastings had taken his nap of three hundred years. They alighted from the car, and as he wished to indulge himself intaking one more look at the interior—for the building was soon to be removed—his young relative left him to apprize his family of their arrival. After casting a glance at Edgar, he entered the house, and seating himself mechanically in the old arm chair, he leaned his head back in mournful reverie. Thoughts innumerable, and of every variety chased each other through his troubled brain; his early youth, his political career, his wife and child, all that they had ever been to him, his excellent father, Valentine Harley, and all their tender relationship, mingled confusedly with the events that had occurred since his long sleep—copyrights—mad dogs—bursting of steam boilers—the two great fires in New-York—direct tax—no duties—post-offices—the improved condition of clergymen—no more wars—no bruising of children’s flesh—women’s rights—Astor’s hotel—New-York Mart in State-street—Negro emancipation—all passed in rapid review, whilst his perplexities to know what became of the Indians were mixed with the rest, and ran through the whole scene. At the same time that all this was galloping through his feverish brain, he caught a glance of his young relative, and in his troubled imagination, it appeared that it was not the Edgar Hastings who had of late been his kind companion, but his own son. He was conscious that this was only a trick of the fancy, and arose from his looking so earnestly at the young man as he left him at the door of the house; but it was a pleasant fancy, and he indulged in it, till a sudden crash or noise of some kind jarred the windows and aroused him. He was sensible that footsteps approached, and he concluded it was his young friend who had returned to conduct him home.
“Edgar—Edgar Hastings—my son is it thou—didst thou not hear the cannon of the Black Hawk—hast thou been sleeping?”
“Amazement! Was that the voice of his father—was this the good Valentine Harley that now assisted him to rise—and who were those approaching him—was it his darling wife, and was that smiling boy his own son, his little Edgar!”
“You have been asleep, I find, my dear husband,” said the gentle Ophelia, “and a happy sleep it has been for me, for us all. See, here is a letter which makes it unnecessary for you to leave home.”
“And is this reality?—do I indeed hold thee to my heart once more, my Ophelia—oh, my father, what a dream!”