SHAKSPEARE'S CARICATURE OF RICHARD III.

'The youth of England have been said to take their religion from Milton, and their history from Shakspeare:' and as far as they draw the character of the last royal Plantagenet from the bloody ogre which every grand tragedian has delighted to personate, they set up invention on the pedestal of fact, and prefer slander to truth. Even from the opening soliloquy, Shakspeare traduces, misrepresents, vilifies the man he had interested motives in making infamous; while at the death of Jack Cade, a cutting address is made to the future monarch upon his deformity, just TWOyears before his birth!There is no sufficient authority for his having been

'Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,Deformed, unfinished, sent before my timeInto this breathing world, scarce half-made up,And that so lamely and unfashionable,The dogs bark at me, as I halt by them.'

A Scotch commission addressed him with praise of the 'princely majesty and royal authority sparkling in his face.' Rev. Dr. Shaw's discourse to the Londoners, dwells upon the Protector's likeness to the noble Duke, his father: his mother was a beauty, his brothers were handsome: a monstrous contrast on Richard's part would have been alluded to by the accurate Philip de Comines: the only remaining print of his person is at least fair: the immensely heavy armor of the times may have bowed his form a little, and no doubt he was pale, and a little higher shouldered on the right than the left side: but, if Anne always loved him, as is now proved, and the princess Elizabeth sought his affection after the Queen's decease, he could not have been the hideous dwarf at which dogs howl. Nay, so far from there being an atom of truth in that famous wooing scene which provokes from Richard the sarcasm:

'Was ever woman in this humor wooed?Was ever woman in this humor won?'

Richard actually detected her in the disguise of a kitchen-girl, at London, and renewed his early attachment in the court of the Archbishop of York. And while Anne was never in her lifetime charged with insensibility to the death of her relatives, or lack of feeling, she died not from any cruelty of his, but from weakness, and especially from grief over her boy's sudden decease. Richard indeed 'loved her early, loved her late,' and could neither have desired nor designed a calamity which lost him many English hearts. The burial of Henry VI. Richard himself solemnized with great state; a favor that no one of Henry's party was brave and generous enough to return to the last crowned head of the rival house.

Gloucester did not need to urge on the well-deserved doom of Clarence: both Houses of Parliament voted it; King Edward plead for it; the omnipotent relatives of the Queen hastened it with characteristic malice; they may have honestly believed that the peaceful succession of the crown was in peril so long as this plotting traitor lived. No doubt it was.

It is next to certain that Richard did not stab Henry VI., nor the murdered son of Margaret, though he had every provocation in the insults showered upon his father; was devotedly attached to King Edward, and hazarded for him person and life with a constancy then unparalleled and a zeal rewarded by his brother's entire confidence.

Certain names wear a halter in history, and his was one. Richard I. was assassinated in the siege of Chalone Castle; Richard II. was murdered at Pomfret; Richard, Earl of Southampton, was executed for treason; Richard, Duke of York, was beheaded with insult; his son, Richard III., fell by the perfidy of his nobles; Richard, the lastDuke of York, was probably murdered by his uncle, in the Tower.

At the decease of his brother Edward, the Duke of Gloucester was not only the first prince of the blood royal, but was also a consummate statesman, intrepid soldier, generous giver, and prompt executor, naturally compassionate, as is proved by his large pensions to the families of his enemies, to Lady Hastings, Lady Rivers, the Duchess of Buckingham, and the rest; peculiarly devout, too, according to a pattern then getting antiquated, as is shown by his endowing colleges of priests, and bestowing funds for masses in his own behalf and others. Shakspeare never loses an opportunity of painting Gloucester's piety as sheer hypocrisy, but it was not thought so then; for there was a growing Protestant party whom all these Romanist manifestations of the highest nobleman in England greatly offended, not to say alarmed.

Richard's change of virtual into actual sovereignty, in other words, the Lord Protector's usurpation of the crown, was not done by violence: in his first royal procession he was unattended by troops; a fickle, intriguing, ambitious, and warlike nobility approved the change; Buckingham, Catesby, and others, urged it. No doubt he himself saw that the crown was not a fit plaything for a twelve years' old boy, in such a time of frequent treason, ferocious crime, and general recklessness. There is no question but what, as Richard had more head than any man in England, he was best fitted to be at its head.

The great mystery requiring to be explained is, not that 'the Lancastrian partialities of Shakspeare have,' as Walter Scott said, 'turned history upside down,' and since the battle of Bosworth, no party have had any interest in vindicating an utterly ruined cause, but how such troops of nobles revolted against a monarch alike brave and resolute, wise in council and energetic in act, generous to reward, but fearful to punish.

The only solution I am ready to admit is, the imputed assassination of his young nephews; not only an unnatural crime, but sacrilege to that divinity which was believed to hedge a king. The cotemporary ballad of the 'Babes in the Wood,' was circulated by Buckingham to inflame the English heart against one to whom he had thrown down the gauntlet for a deadly wrestle. Except that the youngest babe is a girl, and that the uncle perishes in prison, the tragedy and the ballad wonderfully keep pace together. In one, the prince's youth is put under charge of an uncle 'whom wealth and riches did surround;' in the other, 'the uncle is a man of high estate.' The play soothes the deserted mother with, 'Sister, have comfort;' the ballad with, 'Sweet sister, do not fear.' The drama says that:

'Dighton and Forrest, though they were fleshed villains,Wept like two children, in their death's sad story.'

And the poem:

'He bargained with two ruffians strong,Who were of furious mood.'

But

'That the pretty speech they had,Made murderous hearts relent,And they that took to do the deed.Full sore did now repent.'

There is a like agreement in their deaths:

'Thus, thus, quoth Dighton, girdling one anotherWithin their alabaster, innocent arms.'

And the ballad:

'In one another's arms they died.'

Finally, the greatest of English tragedies represents Richard's remorse as:

'My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,And every tongue brings in a several tale,And every tale condemns me for a villain.'

While the most pathetic of English ballads gives it:

'And now the heavy wrath of GodUpon their uncle fell;Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house.His conscience felt a hell.'

As it is probable that this ballad was started on its rounds by Buckingham, the arch-plotter, was eagerly circulatedby the Richmond conspirators, and sung all over the southern part of England as the fatal assault on Richard was about to be made, we shall hardly wonder that, in an age of few books and no journals, the imputed crime hurled a usurper from his throne.

But was he reallyguilty? Did he deserve to be set up as this scarecrow in English story? The weight of authority says, 'Yes;' facts are coming to light in the indefatigable research now being made in England, which may yet say: 'No.'

The charge was started by the unprincipled Buckingham to excuse his sudden conversion from an accomplice, if Shakspeare is to be credited, to a bloodthirsty foe. It was so little received that, months afterward, the convocation of British clergy addressed King Richard thus, 'Seeing your most noble and blessed disposition in all other things'—so little received that when Richmond actually appeared in the field, there was no popular insurrection in his behalf, only a few nobles joined him with their own forces; and when their treason triumphed, and his rival sat supreme on Richard's throne, the three pretended accomplices in the murder of the princes were so far from punishment that their chief held high office for nearly a score of years, and then perished for assisting at the escape of Lady Suffolk, of the house of York. And when Perkin Warbeck appeared in arms as the murdered Prince Edward, and the strongest possible motive urged Henry VII. to justify his usurpation by producing the bones of the murdered princes, (which two centuries afterward were pretended to be found at the foot of the Tower-stairs,) at least to publish to the world the three murderers' confessions, and demonstrate the absurdity of the popular insurrection, Lord Bacon himself says, that Henry could obtain no proof, though he spared neither money nor effort! We have even the statement of Polydore Virgil, in a history written by express desire of Henry VII., that 'it was generally reported and believed that Edward's sons were still alive, having been conveyed secretly away, and obscurely concealed in some distant region.'

And then the story is laden down with improbabilities. That Brakenbury should have refused this service to so willful a despot, yet not have fled from the penalty of disobedience, and even have received additional royal favors, and finally sacrificed his life, fighting bravely in behalf of the bloodiest villain that ever went unhung, is a large pill for credulity to swallow.

Again, that a mere page should have selected as chief butcher a nobleman high in office, knighted long before this in Scotland, and that this same Sir Edward Tyrrel should have been continued in office around the mother of the murdered princes, and honored year after year with high office by Henry VII., and actually made confidential governor of Guisnes, and royal commissioner for a treaty with France, seems perfectly incredible. All of Shakspeare's representation of this most slandered courtier is, indeed, utterly false; while Bacon's repetition of the principal charges only shows how impossible it is to recover a reputation that has once been lost, and how careless history has been in repeating calumnies that have once found circulation.

Bayley's history of the Tower proves that what has been popularly christened the Bloody Tower could never have been the scene of the supposed murder; that no bones were found under any staircase there; so that this pretended confirmation of the murder in the time of Charles II., on which many writers have relied, vanishes into the stuff which dreams are made of.

And yet by this charge which the antiquarian Stowe declared was 'never proved by any credible witness,' which Grafton, Hall, and Holinshead agreed could never be certainly known; which Bacon declared that King Henry in vain endeavored to substantiate, a brave and politic monarch lost his crown, life, and historic fame! Nay, it is a curious factthat Richard could not safely contradict the report of the princes' deaths when it broke out with the outbreak of civil war, because it would have been furnishing to the rebellion a justifying cause and a royal head, instead of a milksop whom he despised and felt certain to overthrow.

As it was, Richard left nothing undone to fortify his failing cause; he may be thought even to have overdone. He doubled his spies, enlisted fresh troops, erected fortifications, equipped fleets, twice had Richmond at his fingers' ends, twice saw Providence take his side in the dispersion of Richmond's fleet, the overthrow of Buckingham's force; then was utterly ruined by the general treason of his most trusted nobles and his not unnatural scorn of a pusillanimous rival. In vain did he strive to be just and generous, vigilant and charitable, politic and enterprising. The poor excuse for Buckingham's desertion, the refusal of the grant of Hereford, is refuted by a Harleian MS. recording that royal munificence; yet Buckingham, without any question, wove the net in which this lion fell; he seduced the very officers of the court; he invited Richmond over, assuring him of a popular uprising, which was proved to be a mere mockery by the miserable handful that rallied around him, until Richard fell at Bosworth. And after Buckingham's death, Richmond merely followedhisplans, used the tools he had prepared, headed the conspiracy which this unmitigated traitor arranged, and profited more than Richard by his death, because he had not to fear an after-struggle with Buckingham's insatiable ambition, overweening pride, and unsurpassed popular power.

As one becomes familiar with the cotemporary statements, the fall of Richard seems nothing but the treachery which provoked his last outcry on the field of death. Even Catesby probably turned against him; his own Attorney-General invited the invaders into Wales with promise of aid; the Duke of Northumberland, whom Richard had covered over with honor, held his half of the army motionless while his royal benefactor was murdered before his eyes. Stanley was a snake in the grass in the next reign as well as this, and at last expiated his double treason too late upon the scaffold. Yet while the nobles went over to Richmond's side, the common people held back; only three thousand troops, perhaps personal retainers of their lords, united themselves to the two thousand Richmond hired abroad. It was any thing but a popular uprising against the jealous, hateful, bloody humpback of Shakspeare; it excuses the fatal precipitancy with which the King (instead of gathering his troops from the scattered fortifications) not only hurried on the battle, but, when the mine of treason began to explode beneath his feet on Bosworth field, refused to seek safety by flight, but heading a furious charge upon Richmond, threw his life magnificently away.

Even had he been guilty of the great crime which cost him his crown, his fate would have merited many a tear but for the unrivaled genius at defamation with which the master-dramatist did homage to the triumphant house of Lancaster. Lord Orford says, that it is evident the Tudors retained all their Lancastrian prejudices even in the reign of Elizabeth; and that Shakspeare's drama was patronized by her who liked to have her grandsire presented in so favorable a light as the deliverer of his native land from a bloody tyranny.

Even in taking the darkest view of his case, we find that other English sovereigns had sinned the same: Henry I. probably murdered the elder brother whom he robbed; Edward III. deposed his own father; Henry IV. cheated his nephew of the sceptre, and permitted his assassination; Shakspeare's own Elizabeth was not over-sisterly to Mary of Scotland; all around Richard, robbery, treason, violence, lust, murder, were like a swelling sea. Why was he thus singled out for the anathema of four centuries? Why was the naked corpse of one who fell fighting valiantly,thrown rudely on a horse's back? Why was his stone coffin degraded into a tavern-trough, and his remains tossed out no man knew where? Not merely that the Plantagenets never lifted their heads from the gory dust any more, so that their conquerors wrote the epitaph upon their tombs, and hired the annalists of their fame; but, still more, that the weak and assailed Henry required every excuse for his invasion and usurpation; and that the principal nobility of England wanted a hiding-place for the shame of their violated oaths, their monstrous perfidy, their cowardly abandonment in the hour of peril of one of the bravest leaders, wisest statesmen, and most liberal princes England ever knew.

Whether the negro can or ought to be employed in the Federal army, or in any way, for the purpose of suppressing the present rebellion, is becoming a question of very decided significance. It is a little late in the day, to be sure, since it is probable that the expensive amusement of dirt-and-shovel warfare might, by the aid of the black, have been somewhat shorn of its expense, and our Northern army have counted some thousands of lives more than it now does, had the contraband been freely encouraged to delve for his deliverance. Still, there are signs of sense being slowly manifested by the great conservative mass, and we every day see proof that there are many who, to conquer the enemy, are willing to do a bold or practical thing, even if itdoesplease the Abolitionists. Like the rustic youth who was informed of a sure way to obtain great wealth if he would pay a trifle, they would not mind gettingthatfortune if itdidcost a dollar. Itisa pity, of course, saith conservatism, that the South can not be conquered in some potent way which shall at least make it feel a little bad, and at the same time utterly annihilate that rather respectably sized majority of Americans who would gladly see emancipation realized. However, as the potent way is not known, we must do the best we can. In its secret conclaves, respectable conservatism shakes its fine old head, and smoothing down the white cravat inherited from the late great and good Buchanan, admits that theRichmond Whigis almost right, after all—this Federal causeisvery much in the nature of a 'servile insurrection' of Northern serfs against gentlemen; 'mais que voulez-vous?—we have got into the wrong boat, and must sink or swim with the maddened Helots! And conservatism sighs for the good old days when they blasphemedLibertyat their little suppers,

'And—blest condition!-felt genteel.'

To be sure, the portraits of Puritan or Huguenot or Revolutionary ancestors frowned on them from the walls—the portraits of men who had risked all things for freedom; ''but this is a different state of things, you know;' we have changed all that—the heart is on the other side of the body now—let us be discreet!'

It is curious, in this connection of employing slaves as workmen or soldiers, with the remembrance of the progressive gentlemen of the olden time who founded this republic, to see what the latter thought in their day of such aid in warfare. And fortunately we have at hand what we want, in a verymultum in parvopamphlet[5]by George H. Moore, Librarian of the New-York Historical Society. From this we learn that whilegreat opposition to the project prevailed, owing to wrong judgment as to the capacity of the black, the expediency and even necessity of employing him was, during the events of the war, forcibly demonstrated, and that, when hewasemployed in a military capacity, he proved himself a good soldier.

There were, however, great and good men during the Revolution, who warmly sustained the affirmative. The famous Dr. Hopkins wrote as follows in 1776:

'God is so ordering it in his providence, that it seems absolutely necessary something should speedily be done with respect to the slaves among us, in order to our safety, and to prevent their turning against us in our present struggle, in order to get their liberty. Our oppressors have planned to gain the blacks, and induce them to take up arms against us, by promising them liberty on this condition; and this plan they are prosecuting to the utmost of their power, by which means they have persuaded numbers to join them. And should we attempt to restrain them by force and severity, keeping a strict guard over them, and punishing them severely who shall be detected in attempting to join our opposers, this will only be making bad worse, and serve to render our inconsistence, oppression and cruelty more criminal, perspicuous and shocking, and bring down the righteous vengeance of heaven on our heads. The only way pointed out to prevent this threatening evil, is to set the blacks at liberty ourselves by some public acts and laws, and then give them proper encouragement to labor, or take arms in the defense of the American cause, as they shall choose. This would at once be doing them some degree of justice, and defeating our enemies in the scheme they are prosecuting.'

'These,' says Mr. Moore, 'were the views of a philanthropic divine, who urged them upon the Continental Congress and the owners of slaves throughout the colonies with singular power, showing it to be at once their duty and their interest to adopt the policy of emancipation.' They did not meet with those of the administration of any of the colonies, and were formally disapproved. But while the enlistment of negroes was prohibited, the fact is still notorious, as Bancroft says, that 'the roll of the army at Cambridge had from its first formation borne the names of men of color.' 'Free negroes stood in the ranks by the side of white men. In the beginning of the war, they had entered the provincial army; the first general order which was issued by Ward had required a return, among other things, of the 'complexion' of the soldiers; and black men, like others, were retained in the service after the troops were adopted by the continent.'

It was determined on, at war-councils and in committees of conference, in 1775, that negroes should be rejected from the enlistments; and yet General Washington found, in that same year, that the negroes, if not employed in the American army, would become formidable foes when enlisted by the enemy. We may judge, from a note given by Mr. Moore, that Washington had at least a higher opinion than hisconfrèresof the power of the black. His apprehensions, we are told, were grounded somewhat on the operations of Lord Dunmore, whose proclamation had been issued declaring 'all indented servants, negroes or others, (appertaining to rebels,) free,' and calling on them to join his Majesty's troops. It was the opinion of the commander-in-chief, that if Dunmore was not crushed before spring, he would become the most formidable enemy America had; 'his strength will increase as a snow-ball by rolling, and faster, if some expedient can not be hit upon to convince the slaves and servants of the impotency of his designs.' Consequently, in general orders, December 30th, he says:

'As the General is informed that numbers of free negroes are desirous of enlisting, he gives leave to the recruiting-officers to entertain them, and promises to lay the matter before the Congress, who, he doubts not, will approve of it.'

Washington communicated his action to Congress, adding: 'If this is disapproved of by Congress, I will put a stop to it.'

His letter was referred to a committee of three, (Mr. Wythe, Mr. Adams, and Mr. Wilson,) on the fifteenth of January,1776, and upon their report on the following day the Congress determined:

'That the free negroes who have served faithfully in the army at Cambridge may be reënlisted therein, but no others.'

That Washington, at a later period at least, warmly approved of the employment of blacks as soldiers, appears from his remarks to Colonel Laurens, subsequent to his failure to carry out what even as an effort forms one of the most remarkable episodes of the Revolution, full details of which are given in Mr. Moore's pamphlet.

On March 14th, 1779, Alexander Hamilton wrote to John Jay, then President of Congress, warmly commending a plan of Colonel Laurens, the object of which was to raise three or four battalions of negroes in South-Carolina. We regret that our limits render it impossible to give the whole of this remarkable document, which is as applicable to the present day as it was to its own.

'I foresee that this project will have to combat much opposition from prejudice and self-interest. The contempt we have been taught to entertain for the blacks makes us fancy many things that are founded neither in reason nor experience; and an unwillingness to part with property of so valuable a kind will furnish a thousand arguments to show the impracticability, or pernicious tendency, of a scheme which requires such sacrifices. But it should be considered that if we do not make use of them in this way, the enemy probably will; and that the best way to counteract the temptations they will hold out, will be to offer them ourselves. An essential part of the plan is to give them their freedom with their swords. This will secure their fidelity, animate their courage, and, I believe, will have a good influence upon those who remain, by opening a door to their emancipation.'This circumstance, I confess, has no small weight in inducing me to wish the success of the project; for the dictates of humanity and true policy equally interest me in favor of this unfortunate class of men.'While I am on the subject of Southern affairs, you will excuse the liberty I take in saying, that I do not think measures sufficiently vigorous are pursuing for our defense in that quarter. Except the few regular troops of South-Carolina, we seem to be relying wholly on the militia of that and two neighboring States. These will soon grow impatient of service, and leave our affairs in a miserable situation. No considerable force can be uniformly kept up by militia, to say nothing of the many obvious and well-known inconveniences that attend this kind of troops. I would beg leave to suggest, sir, that no time ought to be lost in making a draft of militia to serve a twelve-month, from the States of North and South-Carolina and Virginia. But South-Carolina, being very weak in her population of whites, may be excused from the draft, on condition of furnishing the black battalions. The two others may furnish about three thousand five hundred men, and be exempted, on that account, from sending any succors to this army. The States to the northward of Virginia will be fully able to give competent supplies to the army here; and it will require all the force and exertions of the three States I have mentioned to withstand the storm which has arisen, and is increasing in the South.'The troops drafted must be thrown into battalions, and officered in the best possible manner. The best supernumerary officers may be made use of as far as they will go. If arms are wanted for their troops, and no better way of supplying them is to be found, we should endeavor to levy a contribution of arms upon the militia at large. Extraordinary exigencies demand extraordinary means. I fear this Southern business will become a verygraveone.'With the truest respect and esteem,I am, sir, your most obedient servant,Alexander Hamilton.'His Excellency, John Jay,President of Congress,'

'This circumstance, I confess, has no small weight in inducing me to wish the success of the project; for the dictates of humanity and true policy equally interest me in favor of this unfortunate class of men.

'While I am on the subject of Southern affairs, you will excuse the liberty I take in saying, that I do not think measures sufficiently vigorous are pursuing for our defense in that quarter. Except the few regular troops of South-Carolina, we seem to be relying wholly on the militia of that and two neighboring States. These will soon grow impatient of service, and leave our affairs in a miserable situation. No considerable force can be uniformly kept up by militia, to say nothing of the many obvious and well-known inconveniences that attend this kind of troops. I would beg leave to suggest, sir, that no time ought to be lost in making a draft of militia to serve a twelve-month, from the States of North and South-Carolina and Virginia. But South-Carolina, being very weak in her population of whites, may be excused from the draft, on condition of furnishing the black battalions. The two others may furnish about three thousand five hundred men, and be exempted, on that account, from sending any succors to this army. The States to the northward of Virginia will be fully able to give competent supplies to the army here; and it will require all the force and exertions of the three States I have mentioned to withstand the storm which has arisen, and is increasing in the South.

'The troops drafted must be thrown into battalions, and officered in the best possible manner. The best supernumerary officers may be made use of as far as they will go. If arms are wanted for their troops, and no better way of supplying them is to be found, we should endeavor to levy a contribution of arms upon the militia at large. Extraordinary exigencies demand extraordinary means. I fear this Southern business will become a verygraveone.

'With the truest respect and esteem,I am, sir, your most obedient servant,Alexander Hamilton.'His Excellency, John Jay,President of Congress,'

The project was warmly approved by Major-General Greene, and Laurens himself, who proposed to lead the blacks, was enthusiastic in his hopes. In a letter written about this time, he says:

'It appears to me that I should be inexcusable in the light of a citizen, if I did not continue my utmost efforts for carrying the plan of the black levies into execution, while there remains the smallest hope of success. The House of Representatives will be convened in a few days. I intend to qualify, and make a final effort. Oh! that I were a Demosthenes! The Athenians never deserved a more bitter exprobation than our countrymen.'

But the Legislature of South-Carolina decided, as might have been expected from the most tory of States in the Revolution, as it now is the most traitorous in the Emancipation—for it is bythatname that this war will be known in history. It rejected Laurens' proposal—his own words give the best account of the failure:

'I was outvoted, having only reason on my side, and being opposed by a triple-headed monster, that shod the baneful influence of avarice, prejudice, and pusillanimity in all our assemblies. It was some consolation to me, however, to find that philosophy and truth had made some little progress since my last effort, as I obtained twice as many suffrages as before.'

'Washington,' says Mr. Moore, 'comforted Laurens with the confession that he was not at all astonished by the failure of the plan, adding:

''That spirit of freedom, which at the commencement of this contest would have gladly sacrificed every thing to the attainment of its object, has long since subsided, and every selfish passion has taken its place. It is not the public, but private interest, which influences the generality of mankind, nor can the Americans any longer boast an exception. Under these circumstances, it would rather have been surprising if you had succeeded.'

But the real lesson which this rejection of negro aid taught this country was a bitter one. South-Carolina lost twenty-five thousand negroes, and in Georgia between three fourths and seven eighths of the slaves escaped. The British organized them, made great use of them, and they became 'dangerous and well-disciplined bands of marauders.' As the want of recruits in the American army increased, negroes, both bond and free, were finally and gladly taken. In the department under General Washington's command, on August 24th, 1778, there were nearly eight hundred black soldiers. This does not include, however, the black regiment of Rhode Island slaves which had just been organized.

In 1778 General Varnum proposed to Washington that a battalion of negro slaves be raised, to be commanded by Colonel Greene, Lieutenant-Colonel Olney, and Major Ward. Washington approved of the plan, which, however, met with strong opposition from the Rhode Island Assembly. The black regiment was, however, raised, tried, 'and not found wanting.' As Mr. Moore declares:

'In the battle of Rhode-Island, August 29th, 1778, said by Lafayette to have been 'the best fought action of the whole war,' this newly raised black regiment, under Colonel Greene, distinguished itself by deeds of desperate valor, repelling three times the fierce assaults of an overwhelming force of Hessian troops. And so they continued to discharge their duty with zeal and fidelity—never losing any of their first laurels so gallantly won. It is not improbable that Colonel John Laurens witnessed and drew some of his inspiration from the scene of their first trial in the field.'

A company of negroes from Connecticut was also raised and commanded by the late General Humphreys, who was attached to the family of Washington. Of this company cotemporary account says that they 'conducted themselves with fidelity and efficiency throughout the war.' So, little by little, the negro came to be an effective aid, after all the formal rejections of his service. In 1780, an act was passed in Maryland to procure one thousand men to serve three years. The property in the State was divided into classes of sixteen thousand pounds, each of which was, within twenty days, to furnish one recruit, who might be either a freeman or a slave. In 1781, the Legislature resolved to raise, immediately, seven hundred and fifty negroes, to be incorporated with the other troops.

In Virginia an act had been passed in 1777, declaring that free negroes, and free negroes only, might be enlisted on the footing with white men. Great numbers of Virginians who wished to escape military service, caused their slaves to enlist, having tendered them to the recruiting-officers as substitutes for free persons, whose lot or duty it was to serve in the army, at the same time representing that these slaves were freemen. 'On the expiration of the term of enlistment, the former owners attempted to force them to return to a state of servitude, with equal disregard of the principles of justice and their own solemn promise.'

The iniquity of such proceedings soon raised a storm of indignation, and the result was the passage of an Act of Emancipation, securing freedom to all slaves who had served their term in the war.

Such are the principal facts collected in this remarkable and timely publication. It is needless to say that we commend it to the careful perusal of all who desire conclusive information on a most important subject. It is evident that we are going through nearly the same stages of timidity, ignorance, and blind conservatism which were passed by our forefathers, and shall come, if not too late, upon the same results. It is historically true that Washington apparently had in the beginning these scruples, but was among the first to lay them aside, and that experience taught him and many others the folly of scrupling to employ in regular warfare and in a regular way men who would otherwise aid the enemy. These are undeniable facts, well worth something more than mere reflection, and we accordingly commend the work in which they are set forth, with all our heart, to the reader.

FOOTNOTES:[5]Historical Notes on the Employment of Negroes in the American Army of the Revolution. By George H. Moore. New-York: Charles T. Evans, 532 Broadway. Price, ten cents.

[5]Historical Notes on the Employment of Negroes in the American Army of the Revolution. By George H. Moore. New-York: Charles T. Evans, 532 Broadway. Price, ten cents.

'All of which I saw, and part of which I was.'

The clock of St. Paul's was sounding eight. Buttoning my outside coat closely about me—for it was a cold, stormy night in November—I descended the steps of the Astor House to visit, in the upper part of the city, the blue-eyed young woman who is looking over my shoulder while I write this—it was nearly twenty years ago, reader, but she is young yet!

As I closed the outer door, a small voice at my elbow, in a tone broken by sobs, said:

'Sir—will you—please, sir—will you buy some ballads?'

'Ballads! a little fellow like you selling ballads at this time of night?'

'Yes, sir! I haven't sold only three all day, sir; do, please sir,dobuy some!' and as he stood under the one gas-burner which lit the hotel-porch, I saw that his eyes were red with weeping.

'Come inside, my little man; don't stand here in the cold. Who sends you out on such a night as this to sell ballads?'

'Nobody, sir; but mother is sick, and Ihaveto sell 'em! She's had nothing to eat all day, sir. Oh! do buy some—dobuy some, sir!'

'I will, my good boy; but tell me, have you no father?'

'No, sir, I never had any—and mother is sick,verysick, sir; and she's nobody to do any thing for her butme—nobody butme, sir!' and he cried as if his very heart would break.

'Don't cry, my little boy, don't cry; I'll buy your ballads—all of them;' and I gave him two half-dollar pieces—all the silver I had.

'I haven't got so many as that, sir; I haven't got only twenty, and they're only a cent a piece, sir;' and with very evident reluctance, he tendered me back the money.

'Oh! never mind, my boy, keep the money and the ballads too.'

'O sir! thank you. Mother will be so glad,soglad, sir!' and he turned to go, but his feelings overpowering him, he hid his little face in the big blanket-shawl which he wore, and sobbed louder and harder than before.

'Where does your mother live, my boy?'

'Round in Anthony street, sir; some good folks there give her a room, sir.'

'Did you say she was sick?'

'Yes, sir, very sick; the doctor says she can't live only a little while, sir.'

'And what will become of you, when she is dead?'

'I don't know, sir. Mother says God will take care of me, sir.'

'Come, my little fellow, don't cry any more; I'll go with you and see your mother.'

'Oh! thank you, sir; mother will be so glad to have you—so glad to thank you, sir;' and, looking up timidly an my face, he added: 'You'lllovemother, sir!'

I took his hand in mine, and we went out into the storm.

He was not more than six years old, and had a bright, intelligent, but pale and peaked face. He wore thin, patched trowsers, a small, ragged cap, and large, tattered boots, and over his shoulders was a worn woolen shawl. I could not see the remainder of his clothing, but I afterward discovered that a man's waistcoat was his only other garment.

As I have said, it was a bleak, stormy night. The rain, which had fallen all the day, froze as it fell, and the sharp, wintry wind swept down Broadway, sending an icy chill to my very bones, and making the little hand I held in mine tremble with cold. We passed several blocks in silence, when the child turned into a side-street.

'My little fellow,' I said, 'this is not Anthony street—that is further on.'

'I know it, sir; but I want to get mother some bread, sir. A good gentleman down here sells to me very cheap, sir.'

We crossed a couple of streets and stopped at a corner-grocery.

'Why, my little 'un,' said the large, red-faced man behind the counter, 'I didn't know what had become of ye! Why haven't ye bin here to-day?'

'I hadn't any money, sir,' replied the little boy.

'An' haven't ye had any bread to-day, sonny?'

'Mother hasn't had any, sir; a little bit was left last night, but she mademeeat that, sir.'

'D—n it, an' hasn'tshehed any all day! Ye mustn't do that agin, sonny; ye must come whether ye've money or no; times is hard, but, I swear, I kin giveyea loaf any time.'

'I thank you, sir,' I said, advancing from the doorway where I had stood unobserved—'I will pay you;' and taking a roll of bills from my pocket, I gave him one. 'You know what they want—send it to them at once.'

The man stared at me a moment in amazement, then said:

'An' do ye know 'em, sir?'

'No, I'm just going there.'

'Well, do, sir; they're bad off; ye kin do real good there, no mistake.'

'I'll see,' I replied; and taking the bread in one hand and the little boy by the other, I started again for his mother's. I was always a rapid walker, but I had difficulty in keeping up with the little fellow as he trotted along at my side.

We soon stopped at the door of an old, weather-worn building, which I saw by the light of the street-lamp was of dingy brick, three stories high, and hermetically sealed by green board-shutters. It sat but one step above the ground, and a dim light which came through the low basement-windows, showed that even its cellar was occupied. My little guide rang the bell, and in a moment a panel of the door opened, and a shrill voice asked:

'Who's there?'

'It's only me, ma'am; please let me in.'

'What,you, Franky, out so late as this!' exclaimed the woman, undoing the chain which held the door. As she was about closing it she caught sight of me, and eyeing me for a moment, said: 'Walk in, sir.' As I complied with the invitation, she added, pointing to a room opening from the hall: 'Step in there, sir.'

'He's come to see mother, ma'am,' said the little boy.

'You can't seeher, sir, she's sick, and don't see company any more.'

'I would see her for only a moment, madam.'

'But she can't see nobody now, sir.'

'Oh! mother would like to see him very much, ma'am; he's a very good gentleman, ma'am,' said the child, in a pleading, winning tone.

The real object of my visit seemed to break upon the woman, for, making a low courtesy, she said:

'Oh! shewillbe glad to see you, sir; she's very bad off, very bad indeed;' and she at once led the way to the basement stairway.

The woman was about forty, with a round, full form, a red, bloated face, and eyes which looked as if they had not known a wink of sleep for years. She wore a dirty lace-cap, trimmed with gaudy colors, and a tawdry red and black dress, laid off in large squares like the map of Philadelphia. It was very low in the neck—remarkably so for the season—and disclosed a scorched, florid skin, and a rough, mountainous bosom.

The furnishings of the hall had a shabby-genteel look, till we reached the basement stairs, when every thing became bare, and dark, and dirty. The woman led the way down, and opened the door of a front-room—the only one on the floor, the rest of the space being open, and occupied as a cellar. This room had a forlorn, cheerless appearance. Its front wall was of the naked brick, through which the moisture had crept, dotting it every here and there with large water-stains and blotches of mold. Its other sides were of rough boards, placed upright, and partially covered with a dirty, ragged paper. The floor was of wide, unpainted plank. A huge chimney-stack protruded some three feet into the room, and in it was a hole which admitted the pipe of a rusty air-tight stove that gave out just enough heat to take the chill edge off the damp, heavy atmosphere. This stove, a small stand resting against the wall, a broken-backed chair, and a low, narrow bed covered with a ragged patch-work counterpane, were the only furniture of the apartment. And that room was the home of two human beings.

'How do you feel to-night, Fanny?' asked the woman, as she approached the low bed in the corner. There was a reply, but it was too faint for me to hear.

'Here, mamma,' said the little boy, taking me by the hand and leading me to the bedside, 'here's a good gentleman who's come to see you. He'sverygood, mamma; he's given me a whole dollar, and got you lots of things at the store; oh! lots of things!' and the little fellow threw his arms around his mother's neck, and kissed her again and again in his joy.

The mother turned her eye upon me—such an eye! It seemed a black flame. And her face—so pale, so wan, so woe-begone, and yet so sweetly, strangely, beautiful—seemed that of some fallen angel, who, after long ages of torment, had been purified, and fitted again for heaven! And it was so. She had suffered all the woe, she had wept for all the sin, and then she stood white and pure before the everlasting gates which were opening to let her in!

She reached me her thin, weak hand, and in a low voice, said: 'I thank you, sir.'

'You are welcome, madam. You are very sick; it hurts you to speak?'

She nodded slightly, but said nothing. I turned to the woman who had admitted me, and in a very low tone said: 'I never saw a person die; is she not dying?'

'No, sir, I guess not. She's seemed so for a good many days.'

'Has she had a physician?'

'Not for nigh a month. A doctor come once or twice, but he said it wan't no use—he couldn't help her.'

'But she should have help at once. Have you any one you can send?'

'Oh! yes; I kin manage that. What doctor will you have?'

I wrote on a piece of paper the name of an acquaintance—a skillful and experienced physician, who lived not far off—and gave it to her.

'And can't you make her a cup of tea, and a little chicken-broth? She has had nothing all day.'

'Nothing all day! I'm sure I didn't know it! I'm poor, sir—you don't know how poor—but she shan't starve in my house.'

'I suppose she didn't like to speak of it; but get her something as soon as you can.'

'I will, sir; I'll fix her some tea and broth right off.'

'Well, do, as quick as possible. I'll pay you for your trouble.'

'I don't want any pay, sir,' she replied, as she turned and darted from the doorway as nimbly as if she had not been fat and forty.

She soon returned with the tea, and I gave it to the sick girl, a spoonful at a time, she being too weak to sit up. It was the first she had tasted for weeks, and it greatly revived her.

After a time, the doctor came. He felt her pulse, asked, her a few questions in a low voice, and then wrote some simple directions. When he had done that, he turned to me and said: 'Step outside for a moment; I want to speak with you.'

As we passed out, we met the woman going in with the broth.

'Please give it to her at once,' I said.

'Yes, sir, I will; but, gentlemen, don't stand here in the cold. Walk up into the parlor—the front-room.'

We did as she suggested, for the cellar-way had a damp, unhealthy air.

The parlor was furnished in a showy, tawdry style, and a worn, ugly, flame-colored carpet covered its floor. A coal-fire was burning in the grate, and we sat down by it. As we did so, I heard loud voices, mingled with laughter and the clinking of glasses, in the adjoining room. Not appearing to notice the noises, the doctor asked:

'Who is this woman?'

'I don't know; I never saw her before. Is she dying?'

'No, not now. But she can't last long; a week, at the most.'

'She evidently has the consumption. That damp cellar has killed her; she should be got out of it.'

'The cellar hasn't done it; her very vitals are eaten up. She's been beyond cure for six months!'

'Is it possible? And such a woman!'

'Oh! I see such cases every day—women as fine-looking as she is.'

A ring came at the front-door, and in a moment I heard the woman coming up the basement stairs. I had risen when the doctor made the last remark, and was pacing up and down the room, deliberating on what should be done. The parlor-door was ajar, and as the woman admitted the new-comers, I caught a glimpse of them. They were three rough, hard-looking characters; and one, from his unsteady gait, I judged to be intoxicated. She seemed glad to see them, and led them into the room from whence the noises proceeded. In a moment the doctor rose to go, saying: 'I can do nothing more. But what do you intend to do here? I brought you out to ask you.'

'I don't know whatcanbe done. She ought not to be left to die there.'

'She'd prefer dying above-ground, no doubt; and if you relish fleecing, you'll get her an upper room—but she's got to die soon any way, and a day or two, more or less, down there, won't make any difference. Take my advice—don't throw your money away, and don't stay here too late; the house has a very hard name, and some of its rough customers would think nothing of throttling a spruce young fellow like you.'

'I thank you, doctor, but I think I'll run the risk—at least for a while,' and I laughed good-humoredly at the benevolent gentleman's caution.

'Well, if you lose your small change, don't charge it to me.' Saying this, he bade me 'good-night.'

He found the door locked, barred, and secured by the large chain, and he was obliged to summon the woman. When she had let him out, I asked her into the parlor.

'Who is this sick person?' I inquired.

'I don't know, sir. She never gave me no name but Fanny. I found her and her little boy on the door-step, one night, nigh a month ago. She was crying hard, and seemed very sick, and little Franky was a-trying to comfort her—he's a brave, noble little fellow, sir. She told me she'd been turned out of doors for not paying her rent, and was afeared she'd die in the street, though she didn't seem to care much about that, except for the boy—she took on terrible about him. She didn't know whatwouldbecome of him. I've to scrape very hard to get along, sir, for times is hard, and my rent is a thousand dollars; but I couldn't see her die there, so I took her in, and put a bed up in the basement, and let her have it. 'Twas all I could do; but, poor thing! she won't want even that long.'

'It was very good of you. How has she obtained food?'

'The little boy sells papers and ballads about the streets. The newsman round the corner trusts him for 'em, and he's managed to make twenty-five cents or more most every day.'

'Can't you give her another room? She should not die where she is.'

'I know she shouldn't, sir, but I hain't got another—all of 'em is taken up; and besides, sir,' and she hesitated a moment, 'the noise up here would disturb her.'

I had not thought of that; and expressing myself gratified with her kindness, I passed down again to the basement. The sick girl smiled as I opened the door, and held out her hand again to me. Taking it in mine, I asked:

'Do you feel better?'

'Much better,' she said, in a voice stronger than before. 'I have not felt so well for a long time. I owe it to you, sir! I am very grateful.'

'Don't speak of it, madam. Won't you have more of the broth?'

'No more, thank you. I won't trouble you any more, sir—I shan't trouble any one long;' and her eyes filled, and her voice quivered; 'but, O sir! my child! my little boy! Whatwillbecome of him when I'm gone?' and she burst into a hysterical fit of weeping.

'Don't weep so, madam. Calm yourself; such excitement will kill you. God will provide for your child. I will try to help him, madam.'

She looked at me with those deep, intense eyes. A new light seemed to come into them; it overspread her face, and lit up her thin, wan features with a strange glow.

'It must be so,' she said, 'else why were you led here? God must have sent you to me for that!'

'No doubt he did, madam. Let it comfort you to think so.'

'It does, oh! it does. And, O my Father!' and she looked up to Him as she spoke: 'I thank thee! Thy poor, sinful, dying child thanks thee; and, oh! blesshim, forever bless him, for it!'

I turned away to hide the emotion I could not repress. A moment after, not seeing the little boy, I asked:

'Where is your son?'

'Here, sir.' And turning down the bed-clothing, she showed him sleeping quietly by her side, all unconscious of the misery and the sin around him, and of the mighty crisis through which his young life was passing.

Saying I would return on the following day, I shortly afterward bade her 'good-night,' and left the house.

It was noon on the following day when I again visited the house in Anthony street. As I opened the door of the sick woman's room, I was startled by her altered appearance. Her eye had a strange, wild light, and her face already wore the pallid hue of death. She was bolstered up in bed, and the little boy was standing by her side, weeping, his arms about her neck. I took her hand in mine, and in a voice which plainly spoke my fears, said:

'You are worse!'

In broken gasps, and in a low, a verylow tone, her lips scarcely moving, she answered:

'No! I am—better—much—better. I knew you—were coming. She told me so.'

'Whotold you so?' I asked, very kindly, for I saw that her mind was wandering.

'My mother—she has been with me—all the day—and I have been so—so happy, so—veryhappy! I am going now—going with her—I've only waited—for you!'

'Say no more now, madam, say no more; you are too weak to talk.'

'But Imusttalk. I am—dying, and I must tell—you all before—I go!'

'I would gladly hear you, but you have not strength for it now. Let me get something to revive you.'

She nodded assent, and looking at her son, said:

'Take Franky.'

The little boy kissed her, and followed me from the room. When we had reached the upper-landing, I summoned the woman of the house, and said to him:

'Now, Franky, I want you to stay a little while with this good lady; your mother would talk with me.'

'But mother says she's dying, sir,' cried the little fellow, clinging closely to me; 'I don't want her to die, sir. Oh! I want to be with her, sir!'

'You shall be, very soon, my boy; yourmotherwants you to stay with this lady now.'

He released his hold on my coat, and sobbing violently, went with the red-faced woman. I hurried back from the apothecary's, and seating myself on the one rickety chair by her bedside, gave the sick woman the restorative. She soon revived, and then, in broken sentences, and in a low, weak voice, pausing every now and then to rest or to weep, she told me her story. Weaving into it some details which I gathered from others after her death, I give it to the reader as she outlined it to me.

She was the only daughter of a well-to-do farmer in the town of B——, New-Hampshire. Her mother died when she was a child, and left her to the care of a paternal aunt, who became her father's housekeeper. This aunt, like her father, was of a cold, hard nature, and had no love for children. She was, however, an exemplary, pious woman. She denied herself every luxury, and would sit up late of nights to braid straw and knit socks, that she might send tracts and hymn-books to the poor heathen; but she never gave a word of sympathy, or a look of love to the young being that was growing up by her side. The little girl needed kindness and affection, as much as plants need the sun; but the good aunt had not these to give her. When the child was six years old, she was sent to the district-school. There she met a little boy not quite five years her senior, and they soon became warm friends. He was a brave, manly lad, and she thought no one was ever so good, or so handsome as he. Her young heart found in him what it craved for—some one to lean on and to love, and she loved him with all the strength of her child-nature. He was very kind to her. Though his home was a mile away, he came every morning to take her to school, and in the long summer vacations he almost lived at her father's house. And thus four years flew away—flew as fast as years that are winged with youth and love always fly—and though her father was harsh, and her aunt cold and stern, she did not know a grief, or shed a tear in all that time.

One day, late in summer, toward the close of those four years, John—that was his name—came to her, his face beaming all over with joy, and said:

'O Fanny! I am going—going to Boston. Father [he was a richer man than her father] has got me into a great store there—a great store, and I'm to stay till I'm twenty-one—they won't pay me hardly any thing—only fifty dollars the first year, and twenty-five more every other year—but father says it's a great store, and it'll be the making of me.' And he danced and sung for joy, but she wept in bitter grief.

Well, five more years rolled away—this time they were not winged as before—and John came home to spend his two weeks of summer vacation. He had come every year, but then he said to her what he had never said before—that which a woman never forgets. He told her that the old Quaker gentleman, the head of the great house he was with, had taken a fancy to him, and was going to send him to Europe, in the place of the junior partner, who was sick, and might never get well. That he should stay away a year, but when he came back, he was sure the old fellow would make him a partner, and then—and he strained her to his heart as he said it—'then I will make you my little wife, Fanny, and take you to Boston, and you shall be a fine lady—as fine a lady as Kate Russell, the old man's daughter.' And again he danced and sung, and again she wept, but this time it was for joy.

He staid away a little more than a year, and when he returned he did not come at once to her, but he wrote that he would very soon. In a few days he sent her a newspaper, in which was a marked notice, which read somewhat as follows:

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