Arise, my soul! on wings enraptured rise,To praise the Monarch of the earth and skies,Whose goodness and beneficence appear,As round its centre moves the rolling year;Or when the morning glows with rosy charms,Or the sun slumbers in the ocean's arms.Of light divine be a rich portion lent,To guide my soul and favor my intent.Celestial Muse, my arduous flight sustain,And raise my mind to a seraphic strain!Adored forever be the God unseen,Who round the sun revolves this vast machine;Though to his eye its mass a point appears:Adored the God that whirls surrounding spheres,Who first ordained that mighty Sol[5]should reign,The peerless monarch of th' ethereal train.Of miles twice forty millions is his height,And yet his radiance dazzles mortal sight,So far beneath,—from him th' extended earthVigor derives, and every flowery birth.Vast through her orb she moves, with easy grace,Around her Phœbus[6]in unbounded space;True to her course, the impetuous storm derides,Triumphant o'er the winds and surging tides.Almighty! in these wondrous works of thine,What power, what wisdom, and what goodness shine!And are thy wonders, Lord, by men explored,And yet creating glory unadored?Creation smiles in various beauty gay,While day to night, and night succeeds to day.That wisdom which attends Jehovah's ways,Shines most conspicuous in the solar rays.Without them, destitute of heat and light,This world would be the reign of endless night.In their excess, how would our race complain,Abhorring life! how hate its lengthened chain!From air, or dust, what numerous ills would rise!What dire contagion taint the burning skies!What pestilential vapor, fraught with death,Would rise, and overspread the lands beneath!Hail, smiling Morn, that, from the orient mainAscending, dost adorn the heavenly plain!So rich, so various are thy beauteous dyes,That spread through all the circuit of the skies,That, full of thee, my soul in rapture soars,And thy great God, the cause of all, adores!O'er beings infinite his love extends,His wisdom rules them, and his power defends.When tasks diurnal tire the human frame,The spirits faint, and dim the vital flame,Then, too, that ever-active bounty shines,Which not infinity of space confines.The sable veil, that Night in silence draws,Conceals effects, but shows th' Almighty Cause.Night seals in sleep the wide creation fair,And all is peaceful, but the brow of care.Again gay Phoebus, as the day before,Wakes every eye but what shall wake no more;Again the face of Nature is renewed,Which still appears harmonious, fair, and good.May grateful strains salute the smiling morn,Before its beams the eastern hills adorn!
Arise, my soul! on wings enraptured rise,To praise the Monarch of the earth and skies,Whose goodness and beneficence appear,As round its centre moves the rolling year;Or when the morning glows with rosy charms,Or the sun slumbers in the ocean's arms.Of light divine be a rich portion lent,To guide my soul and favor my intent.Celestial Muse, my arduous flight sustain,And raise my mind to a seraphic strain!
Adored forever be the God unseen,Who round the sun revolves this vast machine;Though to his eye its mass a point appears:Adored the God that whirls surrounding spheres,Who first ordained that mighty Sol[5]should reign,The peerless monarch of th' ethereal train.Of miles twice forty millions is his height,And yet his radiance dazzles mortal sight,So far beneath,—from him th' extended earthVigor derives, and every flowery birth.Vast through her orb she moves, with easy grace,Around her Phœbus[6]in unbounded space;True to her course, the impetuous storm derides,Triumphant o'er the winds and surging tides.
Almighty! in these wondrous works of thine,What power, what wisdom, and what goodness shine!And are thy wonders, Lord, by men explored,And yet creating glory unadored?
Creation smiles in various beauty gay,While day to night, and night succeeds to day.That wisdom which attends Jehovah's ways,Shines most conspicuous in the solar rays.Without them, destitute of heat and light,This world would be the reign of endless night.In their excess, how would our race complain,Abhorring life! how hate its lengthened chain!From air, or dust, what numerous ills would rise!What dire contagion taint the burning skies!What pestilential vapor, fraught with death,Would rise, and overspread the lands beneath!
Hail, smiling Morn, that, from the orient mainAscending, dost adorn the heavenly plain!So rich, so various are thy beauteous dyes,That spread through all the circuit of the skies,That, full of thee, my soul in rapture soars,And thy great God, the cause of all, adores!O'er beings infinite his love extends,His wisdom rules them, and his power defends.When tasks diurnal tire the human frame,The spirits faint, and dim the vital flame,Then, too, that ever-active bounty shines,Which not infinity of space confines.The sable veil, that Night in silence draws,Conceals effects, but shows th' Almighty Cause.Night seals in sleep the wide creation fair,And all is peaceful, but the brow of care.Again gay Phoebus, as the day before,Wakes every eye but what shall wake no more;Again the face of Nature is renewed,Which still appears harmonious, fair, and good.May grateful strains salute the smiling morn,Before its beams the eastern hills adorn!
BY FRANCES E. W. HARPER.
The silver cord was loosened,We knew that she must die;We read the mournful tokenIn the dimness of her eye.Like a child oppressed with slumber,She calmly sank to rest,With her trust in her Redeemer,And her head upon his breast.She faded from our vision,Like a thing of love and light;But we feel she lives forever,A spirit pure and bright.
The silver cord was loosened,We knew that she must die;We read the mournful tokenIn the dimness of her eye.
Like a child oppressed with slumber,She calmly sank to rest,With her trust in her Redeemer,And her head upon his breast.
She faded from our vision,Like a thing of love and light;But we feel she lives forever,A spirit pure and bright.
BY L. MARIA CHILD.
There are not many people who are conscientious about being kind in their relations with human beings; and therefore it is not surprising that still fewer should be considerate about humanity to animals. But the Father of all created beings made dumb creatures to enjoy existence in their way, as he made human beings to enjoy life in their way. We do wrong in his sight if we abuse them, or keep them without comfortable food and shelter. The fact that they cannot speak to tell of what they suffer makes the sad expression of their great patient eyes the more touching to any compassionate heart. Fugitive slaves, looking out mournfully and wearily upon a cold, unsympathizing world, have often reminded me of overworked and abused oxen; for though slaves were endowed by their Creator with the gift of speech, their oppressors have made them afraid to use it to complain of their wrongs. In fact, they have been in a more trying situation than abused oxen, for they have been induced by fear to use their gift of speech in professions of contentment with their bondage. Therefore, those who have been slaves know how to sympathize with the dumb creatures of God; and they, more than others, ought to have compassion on them. The great and good Toussaint l'Ouverture was always kind to the animals under his care, and I consider it by no means the smallest of his merits.
It is selfish and cruel thoughtlessness to stand laughing and talking, or to be resting at ease, while horses or oxen are tied where they will be tormented by flies or mosquitos. Last summer I read of a horse that was left fastened in a swamp, where he could not get away from the swarm of venomous insects, which stung him to death, while his careless, hard-hearted driver was going about forgetful of him. It would trouble my conscience ever afterward if I had the death of that poor helpless animal to answer for.
There is a difference in the natural disposition of animals, as there is in the dispositions of men and women; but, generally speaking, if animals are bad-tempered and stubborn, it is owing to their having been badly treated when they were young. When a horse has his mouth hurt by jerking his bridle, it irritates him, as it irritates a man to be violently knocked about; and in both cases such treatment produces an unwillingness to oblige the tormentor. Lashing a horse with a whip, to compel him to draw loads too heavy for his strength, makes him angry and discouraged; and at last, in despair of getting any help for his wrongs, he stands stock still when he finds himself fastened to a heavy load, and no amount of kicking or beating will make him stir. He has apparently come to the conclusion that it is better to be killed at once than to die daily. Slaves, who are under cruel taskmasters, also sometimes sink down in utter discouragement, and do not seem to care for being whipped to death. The best way to cure the disheartened and obstinate laborer is to give him just wages and kind treatment; and the best way to deal with the discouraged and stubborn horse is to give him light loads and humane usage.
It is a very bad custom to whip a horse when he is frightened. It only frightens the poor creature all the more. Habits of running when frightened, or of sheering at the sight of things to which they are not accustomed, is generally produced in horses by mismanagement when they are colts. By gentle and rational treatment better characters are formed, both in animals and human beings. There was a gentleman in the neighborhood of Boston who managed colts so wisely, that all who were acquainted with him wanted a horse of his training. He was very firm with the young animals; he never allowed them to get the better of him; but he was never in a passion with them. He cured them of bad tricks by patient teaching and gentle words; holding them tight all the while, till they did what he wanted them to do. When they became docile, he rubbed their heads, and patted their necks, and talked affectionately to them, and gave them a handful of oats. In that way, he obtained complete control over them. He never kicked them, or jerked their mouths with the bridle; he never whipped them, or allowed a whip to be used; and the result was that they learned to love him, and were always ready to do as he bade them.
I have read of a horse that was so terrified by the sound of a drum, that if he heard it, even from a distance, he would run furiously and smash to pieces any carriage to which he was harnessed. In consequence of this, he was sold very cheap, though he was a strong, handsome animal. The man who sold him said he had whipped and whipped him, to cure him of the trick, but it did no good. People laughed at the man who bought him, and said he had thrown money away upon a useless and dangerous creature; but he replied, "I have some experience in horses, and I think I can cure him."
He resolved to use no violence, but to deal rationally and humanely with the animal, as he would like to be dealt with if he were a horse.
He kept him without food till he had become very hungry, and then he placed a pan of oats before him on the top of a drum. As soon as he began to eat, the man beat upon the drum. The horse reared and plunged and ran furiously round the enclosure. He was led back to the stable without any provender. After a while, oats were again placed before him on the top of a drum. As soon as the drum was beaten, the horse reared and ran away. I suppose he remembered the terrible whippings he had had whenever he heard a drum, and so he thought the thing that made the noise was an enemy to him. The third time the experiment was tried, he had become excessively hungry. He pricked up his ears and snorted when he heard the sound of the drum; but he stood still and looked at the oats wistfully, while the man played a loud, lively tune. Finding the noise did him no harm, he at last ventured to taste of the oats, and his owner continued to play all the while he was eating. When the breakfast was finished, he patted him on the neck and talked gently to him. For several days his food was given to him in the same way. He was never afraid of the sound of a drum afterward. On the contrary, he learned to like it, because it made him think of sweet oats.
The fact is, reasonable and kind treatment will generally produce a great and beneficial change in vicious animals as well as in vicious men.
BY L. MARIA CHILD.
James Forten was born in 1766, nearly a hundred years ago. His ancestors had lived in Pennsylvania for several generations, and, so far as he could trace them, they had never been slaves. In his boyhood the war of the American Revolution began. The States of this Union were then colonies of Great Britain. Being taxed without being represented in the British Parliament, they remonstrated against it as an act of injustice. The king, George the Third, was a dull, obstinate man, disposed to be despotic. The loyal, respectful petitions of the Colonies were treated with indifference or contempt; and at last they resolved to become independent of England. When James Forten was about fourteen years old he entered into the service of the Colonial navy, in the ship Royal Louis, commanded by Captain Decatur, father of the celebrated commodore. It was captured by the British ship Amphion, commanded by Sir John Beezly. Sir John's son was on board, as midshipman. He was about the same age as James Forten; and when they played games together on the deck, the agility and skill of the brown lad attracted his attention. They became much attached to each other; and the young Englishman offered to provide for the education of his colored companion, and to help him on in the world, if he would go to London with him. But James preferred to remain in the service of his native country. The lads shed tears at parting, and Sir John's son obtained a promise from his father that his friendshould not be enlisted in the British army. This was a great relief to the mind of James; for his sympathies were on the side of the American Colonies, and he knew that colored men in his circumstances were often carried to the West Indies and sold into Slavery. He was transferred to the prison-ship Old Jersey, then lying near New York. He remained there, through a raging pestilence on board, until prisoners were exchanged.
After the war was over, he obtained employment in a sail-loft in Philadelphia, where he soon established a good character by his intelligence, honesty, and industry. He invented an improvement in the management of sails, for which he obtained a patent. As it came into general use, it brought him a good deal of money. In process of time, he became owner of the sail-loft, and also of a good house in the city. He married a worthy woman, and they brought up a family of eight children. But though he had served his country faithfully in his youth, though he had earned a hundred thousand dollars by his ingenuity and diligence, and though his character rendered him an ornament to the Episcopal Church, to which he belonged, yet so strong was the mean and cruel prejudice against his color, that his family were excluded from schools where the most ignorant and vicious whites could place their children. He overcame this obstacle, at great expense, by hiring private teachers in various branches of education.
By the unrivalled neatness and durability of his work, and by the uprightness of his character, he obtained extensive business, and for more than fifty years employed many people in his sail-loft. Being near the water, he had opportunities, at twelve different times, to save people from drowning, which he sometimes did at the risk of his own life. The Humane Society of Philadelphia presentedhim with an engraving, to which was appended a certificate of the number of people he had saved, and the thanks of the Society for his services. He had it framed and hung in his parlor; and when I visited him, in 1835, he pointed it out to me, and told me he would not take a thousand dollars for it. He likewise told me of a vessel engaged in the slave-trade, the owners of which applied to him for rigging. He indignantly refused; declaring that he considered such a request an insult to any honest or humane man. He always had the cause of the oppressed colored people warmly at heart, and was desirous to do everything in his power for their improvement and elevation. He early saw that colonizing free blacks to Africa would never abolish Slavery; but that, on the contrary, it tended to prolong its detestable existence. He presided at the first meeting of colored people in Philadelphia, to remonstrate against the Colonization Society. He was an earnest and liberal friend of the Anti-Slavery Society; and almost the last words he was heard to utter were expressions of love and gratitude to William Lloyd Garrison for his exertions in behalf of his oppressed race. He never drank any intoxicating liquor, and was a steadfast supporter of the Temperance Society. Being of a kindly and humane disposition, he espoused the principles of the Peace Society. His influence and pure example were also given to those who were striving against licentiousness. Indeed, he was always ready to assist in every good word and work.
He died in 1842, at the age of seventy-six years. His funeral procession was one of the largest ever seen in Philadelphia; thousands of people, of all classes and all complexions, having united in this tribute of respect to his character.
BY L. MARIA CHILD.
In 1812 there was war between the United States and Great Britain; and many people thought it likely that a portion of the British army would land in some part of the Southern States and proclaim freedom to the slaves. The more intelligent portion of the slaves were aware of this, and narrowly watched the signs of the times.
Mr. Duncan, of South Carolina, was an easy sort of master, generally thought by his neighbors to be too indulgent to his slaves. One evening, during the year I have mentioned, he received many requests for passes to go to a great Methodist meeting, and in every instance complied with the request. After a while, he rang the bell for a glass of water, but no servant appeared. He rang a second time, but waited in vain for the sound of coming footsteps. Thinking over the passes he had given, he remembered that all the house-servants had gone to Methodist meeting. Then it occurred to him that Methodist meetings had lately been more frequent than usual. He was in the habit of saying that his slaves were perfectly contented, and would not take their freedom if he offered it to them; nevertheless the frequency of Methodist meetings made him a little uneasy, and brought to mind a report he had heard, that the British were somewhere off the coast and about to land.
The next morning, he took a ride on horseback, andin a careless way asked the slaves on several plantations where was the Methodist meeting last night. Some said it was in one place, and some in another,—a circumstance which made him think still more about the report that the British were going to land. He bought a black mask for his face, and a suit of negro clothes, and waited for another Methodist meeting. In a few days his servants again asked for passes, and he gave them. When the last one had gone, he put on his disguise and followed them over field and meadow, through woods and swamps. The number of dark figures steering toward the same point continually increased. If any spoke to him as they passed, he made a very short answer, in the words and tones common among slaves. At last they arrived at an island in the swamp, surrounded by a belt of deep water, and hidden by forest-trees matted together by a luxuriant entanglement of vines. A large tree had been felled for a bridge, and over this dusky forms were swarming as thickly as ants into a new-made nest. After passing through a rough and difficult path, they came out into a large level space, surrounded by majestic trees, whose boughs interlaced, and formed a roof high overhead, from which hung down long streamers of Spanish moss. Under this canopy were assembled hundreds of black men and women. Some were sitting silent and thoughtful, some eagerly talking together, and some singing and shouting. The blaze of pine torches threw a strong light on some, and made others look like great black shadows.
Mr. Duncan felt a little disturbed by the strange, impressive scene, and was more than half disposed to wish himself at home. For some time he could make nothing out of the confused buzz of voices and chanting of hymns.But after a while a tall man mounted a stump and requested silence. "I suppose most all of ye know," said he, "that at our last meeting we concluded to go to the British, if we could get a chance; but we didn't all agree what to do about our masters. Some said we couldn't keep our freedom without we killed the whites, but others didn't like the thoughts of that. We've met again to-night to talk about it. An' now, boys, if the British land here in Caroliny, what shall we do about our masters?"
As he sat down, a tall, fierce-looking mulatto sprang upon the stump, at one leap, and exclaimed: "Scourgethem, as they have scourgedus. Shootthem, as they have shotus. Who talks of mercy to our masters?"
"I do," said an aged black man, who rose up tottering, as he leaned both hands on a wooden staff,—"I do; because the blessed Jesus always talked of mercy. They shot my bright boy Joe, an' sold my pretty little Sally; but, thanks to the blessed Jesus! I feel it in my poor old heart to forgive 'em. I've been member of a Methodist church these thirty years, an' I've heard many preachers, white and black; an' they all tell me Jesus said, Do good to them that do evil to you, an' pray for them that spite you. Now I say, Let us love our enemies; let us pray for 'em; an' when our masters flog us, let us sing,—
'You may beat upon my body,But you cannot harm my soul.I shall join the forty thousand by and by.'"
'You may beat upon my body,But you cannot harm my soul.I shall join the forty thousand by and by.'"
When the tremulous chant ceased, a loud altercation arose. Some cried out for the blood of the whites, while others maintained that the old man's doctrine was right. Louder and louder grew the sound of their excited voices, and the disguised slaveholder hid himself away deeper among the shadows. In the midst of the confusion, ayoung man of graceful figure sprang on the stump, and, throwing off a coarse cotton frock, showed his back and shoulders deeply gashed by a whip and oozing with blood. He made no speech, but turned round and round slowly, while his comrades held up their torches to show his wounds. He stopped suddenly, and said, with stern brevity, "Blood for blood."
"Would you murder 'em all?" inquired a timid voice. "Dey don'tallcruelize us."
"Dar's Massa Campbell," pleaded another. "He neber hab his boys flogged. You wouldn't murderhim, would you?"
"No, no," shouted several voices; "we wouldn't murderhim."
"I wouldn't murdermymaster," said one of Mr. Duncan's slaves. "I don't want to work for him for nothin'; I'se done got tired o' that; but he sha'n't be killed, if I can help it; for he's a good master."
"Call him a good master if ye like," said the youth with the bleeding shoulders. "If the white men don't cut up the backs that bear their burdens, if they don't shoot the limbs that make 'em rich, some are fools enough to call 'em good masters. What right have they to sleep in soft beds, while we, who do all the work, lie on the hard floor? Why should I go in coarse rags, to clothe my master in broadcloth and fine linen, when he knows, and I know, that we are sons of the same father? Ye may get on your knees to be flogged, if ye like; but I'm not the boy to do it." His high, bold forehead and flashing eye indicated an intellect too active, and a spirit too fiery, for Slavery. The listeners were spell-bound by his superior bearing, and for a while he seemed likely to carry the whole meeting in favor of revenge. But the agedblack, leaning on his wooden staff, made use of every pause to repeat the words, "Jesus told us to return good for evil"; and his gentle counsel found response in many hearts.
A short man, with roguish eyes and a laughing mouth, rose up and looked round him with an expression of drollery that made everybody begin to feel good-natured. After rubbing his head a little, he said: "I don't know how to talk like Bob, 'cause I neber had no chance. But I'sethoughta heap. Many a time I'se axed myself how de white man always git he foot on de black man. Sometimes I tink one ting, and sometimes I tink anoder ting; and dey all git jumbled up in my head, jest like seed in de cotton. At last I finds out how de white man always git he foot on de black man." He took from his old torn hat a bit of crumpled newspaper, and smoothing it out, pointed at it, while he exclaimed: "Dat'sde way dey do it! Dey got deknowledge; and dey don't let poor nigger hab de knowledge. May be de British lan', and may be de British no lan'. But I tell ye, boys, de white man can't keep he foot on de black man, ef de black man git de knowledge. I'se gwine to tell ye how I got de knowledge. I sot my mind on larning to read; but my ole boss he's de most begrudgfullest massa, an' I knows he wouldn't let me larn. So when I sees leetle massa wid he book, I ax him, 'What you call dat?' He tell me dat's A. So I take ole newspaper, an' ax missis, 'May I hab dis to rub de boots?' She say yes. Den, when I find A, I looks at him till I knows him bery well. Den I ax leetle massa, 'What you call dat?' He say dat's B. I looks at him till I knows him bery well. Den I find C A T, an' I ax leetle massa what dat spell; an' he tell mecat. Den, after a great long time, I read de newspaper.An' dar I find out dat de British gwine to lan'. I tells all de boys; and dey say mus' hab Methodist meetin'. An' what you tink dis nigger did todder day? You know Jim, Massa Gubernor's boy? Wal, I wants mighty bad to tell Jim dat de British gwine to lan'; but he lib ten mile off, and ole boss nebber let me go. Wal, Massa Gubernor come to massa's, an' I bring he hoss to de gate. I makes bow, and says, 'How Jim do, Massa Gubernor?' He tells me Jim bery well. Den I tells him Jim and I was leetle boy togeder, an' I wants to sen' Jim someting. He tells me Jim hab 'nuff ob eberyting. I says, 'O yes, Massa Gubernor, I knows you good massa, and Jim hab eberyting he want. But Jim an' I was leetle boy togeder, and I wants to sen' Jim some backy.' Massa Gubernor laugh an' say, 'Bery well, Jack.' So I gibs him de backy in de bery bit ob newspaper dat tell de British gwine to lan'. I marks it wid brack coal, so Jim be sure to see it. An' Massa Gubernor hisself carry it! Massa Gubernor hisself carry it! I has to laugh ebery time I tinks on't."
He clapped his hands, shuffled with his feet, and ended by rolling heels over head, with peals of laughter. The multitude joined loudly in his merriment, and it took some time to restore order. There was a good deal of speaking afterward, and some of it was violent. A large majority were in favor of being merciful to the masters; but all, without exception, agreed to join the British if they landed.
With thankfulness to Heaven, Mr. Duncan again found himself in the open field, alone with the stars. Their glorious beauty seemed to him clothed in new and awful power. Groups of shrubbery took startling forms, and the sound of the wind among the trees was like the unsheathing of swords. He never forgot the lesson of thatnight. In his heart he could not blame his bondmen for seeking their liberty, and he felt grateful for the merciful disposition they had manifested toward their oppressors; for alone that night, in the solemn presence of the stars, his conscience told him that Slaverywasoppression, however mild the humanity of the master might make it. He did not emancipate his slaves; for he had not sufficient courage to come out against the community in which he lived. He felt it a duty to warn his neighbors of impending danger; but he could not bring himself to reveal the secret of the meeting in the swamp, which he knew would cause the death of many helpless creatures, whose only crime was that of wishing to be free. After a painful conflict in his mind, he contented himself with advising the magistrates not to allow any meetings of the colored people for religious purposes until the war was over.
I have called him Mr. Duncan, but I have in fact forgotten his name. Years after he witnessed the meeting in the swamp, he gave an account of it to a gentleman in Boston, and I have stated the substance of it as it was told to me.
We are natives of this country; we ask only to be treatedas wellas foreigners. Not a few of our fathers suffered and bled to purchase its independence; we ask only to be treatedas wellas those who fought against it. We have toiled to cultivate it, and to raise it to its present prosperous condition; we ask only to shareequalprivileges with those who come from distant lands to enjoy the fruits of our labor.—Rev. Peter Williams,colored Rector of St. Philip's Church, New York, 1835.
Mr. James Horton, of Chatham County, North Carolina, had a slave named George, who early manifested remarkable intelligence. He labored with a few other slaves on his master's farm, and was always honest, faithful, and industrious. He contrived to learn to read, and every moment that was allowed him for his own he devoted to reading. He was especially fond of poetry, which he read and learned by heart, wherever he could find it. After a time, he began to compose verses of his own. He did not know how to write; so when he had arranged his thoughts in rhyme, he spoke them aloud to others, who wrote them down for him.
He was not contented in Slavery, as you will see by the following verses which he wrote:—
"Alas! and am I born for this,To wear this slavish chain?Deprived of all created bliss,Through hardship, toil, and pain?"How long have I in bondage lain,And languished to be free!Alas! and must I still complain,Deprived of liberty?"O Heaven! and is there no reliefThis side the silent grave,To soothe the pain, to quell the griefAnd anguish of a slave?"Come, Liberty! thou cheerful sound,Roll through my ravished ears;Come, let my grief in joys be drowned,And drive away my fears."Say unto foul oppression, Cease!Ye tyrants, rage no more;And let the joyful trump of peaceNow bid the vassal soar."O Liberty! thou golden prize,So often sought by blood,We crave thy sacred sun to rise,The gift of Nature's God."Bid Slavery hide her haggard face,And barbarism fly;I scorn to see the sad disgrace,In which enslaved I lie."Dear Liberty! upon thy breastI languish to respire;And, like the swan unto her nest,I'd to thy smiles retire."
"Alas! and am I born for this,To wear this slavish chain?Deprived of all created bliss,Through hardship, toil, and pain?
"How long have I in bondage lain,And languished to be free!Alas! and must I still complain,Deprived of liberty?
"O Heaven! and is there no reliefThis side the silent grave,To soothe the pain, to quell the griefAnd anguish of a slave?
"Come, Liberty! thou cheerful sound,Roll through my ravished ears;Come, let my grief in joys be drowned,And drive away my fears.
"Say unto foul oppression, Cease!Ye tyrants, rage no more;And let the joyful trump of peaceNow bid the vassal soar.
"O Liberty! thou golden prize,So often sought by blood,We crave thy sacred sun to rise,The gift of Nature's God.
"Bid Slavery hide her haggard face,And barbarism fly;I scorn to see the sad disgrace,In which enslaved I lie.
"Dear Liberty! upon thy breastI languish to respire;And, like the swan unto her nest,I'd to thy smiles retire."
George's poems attracted attention, and several were published in the newspaper called "The Raleigh Register." Some of them found their way into the Boston newspapers, and were thought remarkable productions for a slave. His master took no interest in any of his poems, and knew nothing about them, except what he heard others say. Dr. Caldwell, who was then President of the University of North Carolina, and several other gentlemen, became interested for him, and tried to help him to obtain his freedom. In 1829 a little volume of his poems, called "The Hope of Liberty," was printed in Raleigh, by Gales and Son. The pamphlet was sold to raise money enough for George to buy himself. He was then thirty-two years old, in the prime of his strength,both in mind and body. He was to be sent off to Liberia as soon as he was purchased; but he had such a passion for Liberty, that he was willing to follow her to the ends of the earth; though he would doubtless have preferred to have been a freeman at home, among old friends and familiar scenes. He was greatly excited about his prospects, and eagerly set about learning to write. When he first heard the news that influential gentlemen were exerting themselves in his behalf, he wrote:—
"'Twas like the salutation of the dove,Borne on the zephyr through some lonesome grove,When spring returns, and winter's chill is past,And vegetation smiles above the blast."The silent harp, which on the osiers hung,Again was tuned, and manumission sung;Away by hope the clouds of fear were driven,And music breathed my gratitude to Heaven."
"'Twas like the salutation of the dove,Borne on the zephyr through some lonesome grove,When spring returns, and winter's chill is past,And vegetation smiles above the blast.
"The silent harp, which on the osiers hung,Again was tuned, and manumission sung;Away by hope the clouds of fear were driven,And music breathed my gratitude to Heaven."
It would have been better for him if his hopes had not been so highly excited. His poems did not sell for enough to raise the sum his master demanded for him, and his friends were not sufficiently benevolent to make up the deficiency. In 1837, when he was forty years old, he was still working as a slave at Chapel Hill, the seat of the University of North Carolina. It was said at that time that he had ceased to write poetry. I suppose the poor fellow was discouraged. If he is still alive, he is sixty-seven years old; and I hope it will comfort his poor, bruised heart to know that some of his verses are preserved, and published for the benefit of those who have been his companions in Slavery, and who, more fortunate than he was, have become freemen before their strength has left them.
BY MATTIE GRIFFITH.
I want to tell you a story of a poor little slave-girl who lived and died away down South.
This little girl's name was Rachel, but they used to call her Ratie. She was a hunchback and a dwarf, with an ugly black face, coarse and irregular features, but a low, pleasant voice, and nice manners. Nobody ever scolded Ratie, for she never deserved it. She always did her work—the little that was assigned her—with a cheerful heart and willing hand. This work was chiefly to gather up little bits of chips in baskets, or collect shavings from the carpenters' shops, and take them to the cabins or the great kitchen, where they were used for kindling fires. She had a sweet, gentle spirit, and a low, cheery laugh that charmed everybody. Even the white folks who lived up at the great house loved her, and somehow felt better when she was near.
Ratie used to go out into the fields on summer days, or in the early spring, and pick the first flowers. Later in the season she caught the butterflies or grasshoppers, but she never hurt them. She would look at the bright spangled wings of the butterflies, or the green coats of the pretty, chirping grasshoppers, with an eye full of admiration; and she always seemed sorry when she gave them up. The lambs used to run to her, and eat fromher hands. If she went into the park, the deer came to her side lovingly, and the young fawns sported and played around her. No one harmed Ratie or expected harm from her.
Poor little hunchback! Many an idle traveller has paused in his slow wanderings to listen to her song, as she sat on the wayside stump, knitting stockings for the work-people, and singing old snatches of songs, and airs that bring back to the heart glimpses of the paradise of our lost childhood! No broad-throated robin ever poured out a wilder, fuller gush of melody than the songs of this untaught child!
Little Ratie's days were passed in the same even routine, without thought or chance of change. Up at the house they loved her; and her young mistresses used to supply her with cast-off ribbons and shawls and fancy trappings from their own wardrobes, which she prized very much,—delighting to deck out her odd little person with these old fineries.
Once, as she sat singing on an old stile, and knitting a stocking, a rough sort of gentleman, driving by in his neat little tilbury, stopped and listened to Ratie's song. When he looked at the strange child he felt a little shocked; but he called out in a loud voice, "Halloo, Dumpey Blackie! here is a fip for your song"; and he tossed her a small coin. "Take that, and give me another song."
The child was pleased with the gift, took it up from where it had rolled on the ground at her feet, and soon began another of her wild little ditties. As she sang on, she forgot the exact words, and put in some of her own, which harmonized just as well with the air. The stranger was so much pleased, that he gave her another fip,and called for another song, and still another. At length, he asked the child to whom she belonged. She told him that she belonged to her old master.
"And what is your old master's name?" asked the gentleman.
Ratie, who had never been two miles beyond the borders of the plantation, laughed, thinking it a fine joke that anybody should not know the name of her "old master"; for, to her, he was the most important personage in the world. So she only laughed and shook her head derisively in answer.
"Will you not tell me his name?" again asked the stranger.
But the child smiled still more incredulously; so the gentleman deemed it best to follow her home, which he accordingly did, and found that Colonel Williams, a rich old planter, was the owner of this little melodious blackbird.
The stranger alighted and asked to see Colonel Williams. After a little conversation he proposed to buy Ratie from her master. Colonel Williams had never thought of selling the little deformity. He kept her on the place more through charity than aught else. The extent of her musical genius was unappreciated, and even unknown to him; but as she was a happy little creature, much liked by all the family, and was only a trifling expense, he had never thought of parting with her. Now, however, when a handsome price was offered, she assumed something like importance and interest in his eyes. He called her into the house, and she obeyed with great alacrity, coming in neatly dressed, with a fresh white apron, and sundry bits of bright-colored ribbons tied round her head and neck.
"Give us one of your best songs, Ratie," said her master.
The girl broke out in a wild, warbling strain, clear, bird-like, and musical, filling the long room with gushes of melody, until the lofty arches echoed and re-echoed with the wild notes. When she had finished, the enthusiastic stranger exclaimed, "That throat is a mint of gold!"
And so little hunchback Ratie sang song after song, until she exhausted herself; when her master sent her off to the slave-quarters, where she continued her ditties out under the broad, soft light of the low-hanging southern moon.
The gentlemen sat up late that night, talking upon different subjects; but, before they parted, it was arranged that the stranger should buy Ratie at the high price he offered.
The next morning, long before the sun rose, little Ratie was up, walking through the quarter. She stooped down to look at every drop of dew that glittered and sparkled on the green leaves and shrubs; and when the great, round, golden sun began to creep up the eastern sky, and set it all ablaze with red and gold and purple clouds, glorious as the pavilion of the prophet, Ratie's little spirit danced within her, and broke forth in hymns of music such as the wise men long ago—eighteen hundred years past—sang at the foot of a little manger in a stable in Bethlehem of Judæa.
The child was too young and ignorant to know the meaning of the emotions which fluttered and set on fire her own soul, but she was none the less happy for this ignorance. God is very good!
As Ratie wandered on, singing to herself, she grew so happy that the rush of passionate fervor half frightenedher. Tears came to her eyes, and choked the song in her throat. She paused in her walk, and seated herself on a little rock that lay in one corner of the quarter. As she sat there alone, she continued to sing and weep; wherefore she could not tell. By and by the great, rusty bell of the quarter rang out from its hoarse, iron tongue the morning summons for the slaves to assemble. Ragged, tattered, unshorn and unshaven, dirty, ill and angry-looking, the negroes—men, women, and children, in large numbers—collected in the quarter-yard, where the overseer, an ugly, harsh white man, with a pistol in his belt, knife at his side, and whip in hand, stood to call the roll. At the mention of each name, a slave came forward, saying with a bow, "Here I am, massa."
Ratie, who had no particular work to do, went limping on past the place of the roll-call, when she saw her master and the strange gentleman coming toward her. She did not, however, notice them. They were talking together quite earnestly, and looking at her. Her master called out, "Stop, Ratie; come this way."
She obeyed the order with pleasing readiness.
"Ratie," said the master, "how do you like this gentleman?"
The child smiled, but made no answer in words. The master also smiled as he added: "He thinks that you sing very prettily, and he has bought you. He will be very kind and good to you; and as soon as you have had breakfast, you must get your things ready to go off with him. Here is a present for you"; and he tossed her a bright, shining, silver coin.
The child seized the money, but did not seem to comprehend her master's words. To be sold to her implied some sort of disgrace or hardship, which she did not think shedeserved; besides, she had always lived on the "old plantation." She knew no other home; she did not want to leave "the people" of the quarter; nor did she feel happy in going away from the "white folks," particularly the "young mistresses," who had always been so kind to her. She had also some vague yearning of heart to be close to her mammy's grave, rough as it was; and near also to Grandpap's cabin, where she roasted apples and potatoes on winter nights.
She looked around upon the familiar quarter, the well-known people, the row of cabins; and strained her gaze far away to the rolling fields in the distance, where the negroes, like a swarm of crows, were busy at their morning's work; and as she gazed, the whole landscape flushed with the bloom and beauty of the risen sun. Then the wild, pealing horn called the "sons of toil" from their morning hour's work to their frugal breakfast.
Ratie's little heart began to beat in its narrow limits as the word "sold" wrote itself there, and broke through her comprehension with all its horrors. She started quickly after her master, and, with the freedom of a petted slave, caught hold of the skirt of his coat. Colonel Williams turned suddenly round; and there, crouching on the earth at his feet, was the hunchback child. She held up the money which he had given her, and, in a sweet, tremulous voice, asked: "Massa, why has you sold me? I has not behaved bad, as de boys did dat you sold last year. I doesn't steal nor tell lies. Is it bekase I'se lazy? I do all de work dey gives me to do. I'll do more. I'll go into de fields. I'll plant and pick de cotton. Please don't sell me. I doesn't want to leave de ole place. Mammy is buried here; so I wants to be when I dies. I wants allers to live here."
The stranger and Colonel Williams were much moved. They did not venture to speak to the child, but tried to get away from the sound of her plaintive cries.
When the negroes drew around their morning meal, and learned that Ratie was sold, they were unhappy, and refused to eat anything. They looked sorrowfully at one another, and turned away from their untasted food. "Poor Ratie!" exclaimed the old negroes, as they shook their heads in mournful discontent, "we shall not hear any more her sweet songs in de evenin' time."
The young mistresses came to Ratie with kind gifts and kinder words. They told her, with tears in their eyes, how sorry they were to part with her, how good they knew she had been, and how much they wished their papa would allow her to stay. Words and acts like these softened the blow to the unfortunate child, and strengthened her for the coming trial. She looked up smilingly through her tears, as she said to her young mistresses: "Please not to cry for me. God is good, and de preacher says he is everywhar; so I shall not be fur from de ole plantation."
When she was starting away, each of the negroes brought her some little gift, such as cotton handkerchiefs, old ribbon-ends, bright-colored glass beads, or autumn berries, dried and strung on threads for neck ornaments. Each of these humble little tokens possessed an individual interest which touched some spring in Ratie's little heart. When the hour of separation came, she had nerved herself to the highest courage of which she was capable. She took leave of each of the slaves, all of them calling down the blessings of God upon her life. An old, lame negro man, whom the slaves addressed as Grandpap, hobbled from his cabin, on a broken crutch, to utter his farewell.
"Good by, Ratie," he began, and his voice choked with emotion; "good by, little Ratie, and may de good Lord be wid you. Him dat keres fur de poor, de lowly, and de despised, up yonder, way fur and high up dere, is a God dat loves all of his chillens alike. He doesn't kere fur de color ob de skin or de quality ob de hair. In his sight, wool is jist as good as de fair, straight hair. He loves de heart, and looks straight and deep into dat, and keres fur nothin' else. Never you be afeard, Ratie, Him'll take kere ob you, an' all sich as you, bekase He loves dem dat He smites and afflicts. Now, He didn't break your poor little back for nothin'. Him has Him's eye upon you. You is a lamb ob de fold, dat de great Shepherd will go fur and long to look arter. Him holds you in the holler ob Him's hand, an' He'll keep you dar. Mind what I tell you. Good by, Ratie. God bless you. Allers trust Him. 'Member my last words; dat is, Allers trust Him. Look to Him, and He'll never forget you."
As he uttered these words, in a slow, oracular manner, he brushed a tear from his eye with the back of his old, hard hand, and looking tenderly toward the child, his lips moved slowly, and the words seemed to melt unheard in the thin, morning air. He turned from her and hobbled off in the direction of his cabin.
The other slaves were more passionately demonstrative in their farewells; but little Ratie bore up with a beautiful and proud composure.
The new owner proved very kind to the gentle little creature; but her heart had received a blow from which it could not recover.
The master took her to New Orleans, intending to have her taught music, that she might make money for him;but the poor child pined for "de ole plantation" and "de ole folks at home,"—the kind people—"my people," as she fondly called them—with whom she had been brought up.
In the great city of New Orleans she was literally lost. She missed the free country air, the green trees, the sweet singing-birds, the fields blooming with early flowers, the meadows and the running brooks. It was easy to see that the little hunchback was not happy. She grew thinner and thinner, and her voice lost its flexible sweetness, its clear and liquid roundness of tone. At last she fell away to a mere skeleton; then sharp, burning fever set in, and little Ratie was taken down to her bed. Day and night, in the delirium of fever, she raved for "de ole plantation" and her own people.
The new master promised, when she got better, to take her back to her old home,—at least for a little while. But, alas! she never grew any better. She faded slowly away, until one evening, just at sundown, in the gay city of New Orleans, little Ratie breathed her last.
Just before she died, she lifted her head from the pillow, and, resting on her hand, she pointed eastward, saying: "Over dar is de ole plantation. Don't you see? How pretty and nice it looks! Dar is all de peoples at work. How busy dey is! But I'se not gwine dar. I doesn't want to, any more. Dere up dar is God's plantation, and it is betterer far. Dere is no slaves dar, but all is free and happy,—loving friends; and it is dar dat I wants to go; and I hopes dat all de plantation folks will come to me."
And so little Ratie died.
From the New York Independent.
BY JAMES MONTGOMERY.