<SPAN name="startofbook"></SPAN>
<h2><span style="text-align: center; font-size: 141%"> THREE YEARS IN EUROPE;</span><br/> <span style="font-size: 50%">OR,</span><br/> PLACES I HAVE SEEN AND PEOPLE I HAVE MET.<br/> <br/> <br/> BY W. WELLS BROWN,<br/> <span style="font-size: 50%">A FUGITIVE SLAVE.</span><br/> <br/> <span style="font-size: 41%">WITH</span><br/> <br/> A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR,<br/> <span style="font-size: 71%">BY WILLIAM FARMER, Esq.</span><br/> <br/> <br/> <span style="font-size: 71%">LONDON:<br/> CHARLES GILPIN, 5, BISHOPSGATE STREET, WITHOUT.<br/> EDINBURGH: OLIVER AND BOYD.<br/> 1852.</span></h2>
<div><!-- Page -27 --><SPAN name="Page_v" id="Page_v" title="v" class="pagenum"></SPAN></div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></SPAN>CONTENTS.</h2>
<p /> <!-- bizarrely, without this line, IE5 doesn't show the TOC at all!! (just a big blank) -->
<ul class="TOC">
<li><SPAN href="#MEMOIR_OF_WILLIAM_WELLS_BROWN">
<span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Memoir of William Wells Brown,</span></SPAN>
<span class="tocright"><i>Page</i> ix-xxix</span>
<br/></li>
<li><SPAN href="#PREFACE"><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Author's Preface,</span></SPAN>
<span class="tocright">xxxi-xxxii</span></li>
<li style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><SPAN href="#LETTER_I"><b>LETTER I.</b></SPAN></li>
<li>Departure from Boston—the Passengers—Halifax—the Passage—First
Sight of Land—Liverpool, <span class="tocright">1-9</span></li>
<li style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><SPAN href="#LETTER_II"><b>LETTER II.</b></SPAN></li>
<li>Trip to Ireland—Dublin—Her Majesty's Visit—Illumination of the City—the
Birth-Place of Thomas Moore—a Reception, <span class="tocright">9-21</span></li>
<li style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><SPAN href="#LETTER_III"><b>LETTER III.</b></SPAN></li>
<li>Departure from Ireland—London—Trip to Paris—Paris—The Peace Congress:
first day—Church of the Madeleine—Column Vendome—the
French, <span class="tocright">21-38</span></li>
<li style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><SPAN href="#LETTER_IV"><b>LETTER IV.</b></SPAN></li>
<li>Versailles—The Palace—Second Session of the Congress—Mr. Cobden—Henry
Vincent—M. Girardin—Abbe Duguerry—Victor Hugo: his
Speech, <span class="tocright">38-49</span></li>
<li style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><SPAN href="#LETTER_V"><b>LETTER V.</b></SPAN></li>
<li>M. de Tocqueville's Grand Soiree—Madame de Tocqueville—Visit of the Peace
Delegates to Versailles—The Breakfast—Speechmaking—The Trianons—Waterworks—St.
Cloud—The Fete, <span class="tocright">50-59</span></li>
<li style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><SPAN href="#LETTER_VI"><b>LETTER VI.</b></SPAN></li>
<li>The Tuileries—Place de la Concorde—The Egyptian Obelisk—Palais Royal—Residence
of Robespierre—A Visit to the Room in which Charlotte Corday
killed Marat—Church de Notre Dame—Palais de Justice—Hotel des
Invalids—National Assembly—The Elysee, <span class="tocright">59-73</span></li>
<li style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;">
<!-- Page -26 --><SPAN name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi" title="vi" class="pagenum"></SPAN>
<SPAN href="#LETTER_VII"><b>LETTER VII.</b></SPAN></li>
<li>The Chateau at Versailles—Private Apartments of Marie Antoinette—The
Secret Door—Paintings of Raphael and David—Arc de Triomphe—Beranger
the Poet, <span class="tocright">73-82</span></li>
<li style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><SPAN href="#LETTER_VIII"><b>LETTER VIII.</b></SPAN></li>
<li>Departure from Paris—Boulogne—Folkstone—London—Geo. Thompson, Esq.,
M.P.—Hartwell House—Dr. Lee—Cottage of the Peasant—Windsor Castle—Residence
of Wm. Penn—England's First Welcome—Heath Lodge—The
Bank of England, <span class="tocright">83-104</span></li>
<li style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><SPAN href="#LETTER_IX"><b>LETTER IX.</b></SPAN></li>
<li>The British Museum—A Portrait—Night Reading—A Dark Day—A Fugitive
Slave on the Streets of London—A Friend in the time of need, <span class="tocright">104-116</span></li>
<li style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><SPAN href="#LETTER_X"><b>LETTER X.</b></SPAN></li>
<li>The Whittington Club—Louis Blanc—Street Amusements—Tower of
London—Westminster Abbey—National Gallery—Dante—Sir Joshua
Reynolds, <span class="tocright">117-134</span></li>
<li style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><SPAN href="#LETTER_XI"><b>LETTER XI.</b></SPAN></li>
<li>York-Minster—The Great Organ—Newcastle-on-Tyne—The Labouring Classes—The
American Slave—Sheffield—James Montgomery, <span class="tocright">134-145</span></li>
<li style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><SPAN href="#LETTER_XII"><b>LETTER XII.</b></SPAN></li>
<li>Kirkstall Abbey—Mary the Maid of the Inn—Newstead Abbey: Residence of
Lord Byron—Parish Church of Hucknall—Burial Place of Lord Byron—Bristol:
"Cook's Folly"—Chepstow Castle and Abbey—Tintern Abbey—Redcliffe
Church, <span class="tocright">145-162</span></li>
<li style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><SPAN href="#LETTER_XIII"><b>LETTER XIII.</b></SPAN></li>
<li>Edinburgh—The Royal Institute—Scott's Monument—John Knox's Pulpit—Temperance
Meeting—Glasgow—Great Meeting in the City Hall, <span class="tocright">163-176</span></li>
<li style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><SPAN href="#LETTER_XIV"><b>LETTER XIV.</b></SPAN></li>
<li>Stirling—Dundee—Dr. Dick—Geo. Gilfillan—Dr. Dick at home, <span class="tocright">177-184</span></li>
<li style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><SPAN href="#LETTER_XV"><b>LETTER XV.</b></SPAN></li>
<li>Melrose Abbey—Abbotsford—Dryburgh Abbey—The Grave of Sir Walter
Scott—Hawick—Gretna Green—Visit to the Lakes, <span class="tocright">185-196</span></li>
<li style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;">
<!-- Page -25 --><SPAN name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii" title="vii" class="pagenum"></SPAN>
<SPAN href="#LETTER_XVI"><b>LETTER XVI.</b></SPAN></li>
<li>Miss Martineau—"The Knoll"—"Ridal Mount"—"The Dove's Nest"—Grave
of William Wordsworth, Esq.—The English Peasant, <span class="tocright">196-207</span></li>
<li style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><SPAN href="#LETTER_XVII"><b>LETTER XVII.</b></SPAN></li>
<li>A Day in the Crystal Palace, <span class="tocright">207-219</span></li>
<li style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><SPAN href="#LETTER_XVIII"><b>LETTER XVIII.</b></SPAN></li>
<li>The London Peace Congress—Meeting of Fugitive Slaves—Temperance Demonstration—The
Great Exhibition: Last Visit, <span class="tocright">219-226</span></li>
<li style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><SPAN href="#LETTER_XIX"><b>LETTER XIX.</b></SPAN></li>
<li>Oxford—Martyrs' Monument—Cost of the Burning of the Martyrs—The Colleges—Dr.
Pusey—Energy, the Secret of Success, <span class="tocright">227-235</span></li>
<li style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><SPAN href="#LETTER_XX"><b>LETTER XX.</b></SPAN></li>
<li>Fugitive Slaves in England, <span class="tocright">236-250</span></li>
<li style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><SPAN href="#LETTER_XXI"><b>LETTER XXI.</b></SPAN></li>
<li>A Chapter on American Slavery, <span class="tocright">250-273</span></li>
<li style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><SPAN href="#LETTER_XXII"><b>LETTER XXII.</b></SPAN></li>
<li>A Narrative of American Slavery, <span class="tocright">273-305</span></li>
<li style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><SPAN href="#LETTER_XXIIIA"><b>LETTER XXIII.</b></SPAN></li>
<li>Aberdeen—Passage by Steamer—Edinburgh—Visit to the College—William
and Ellen Craft, <span class="tocright">305-312</span></li>
</ul>
<div><!-- Page -24 --><SPAN name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii" title="viii" class="pagenum"></SPAN><!-- Page -23 --><SPAN name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix" title="ix" class="pagenum"></SPAN></div>
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<h2><SPAN name="MEMOIR_OF_WILLIAM_WELLS_BROWN" id="MEMOIR_OF_WILLIAM_WELLS_BROWN"></SPAN>MEMOIR OF WILLIAM WELLS BROWN.</h2>
<p>A narrative of the life of the author of the present
work has been most extensively circulated in
England and America. The present memoir will,
therefore, simply comprise a brief sketch of the
most interesting portion of Mr. Brown's history
while in America, together with a short account
of his subsequent cisatlantic career. The publication
of his adventures as a slave, and as a fugitive
from slavery in his native land, has been most
valuable in sustaining a sound anti-slavery spirit
in Great Britain. His honourable reception in
Europe may be equally serviceable in America, as
another added to the many practical protests previously
entered from this side of the Atlantic,
against the absolute bondage of three millions
and a quarter of the human race, and the semi-slavery
involved in the social and political proscription
of 600,000 free coloured people in that
country.</p>
<p>William Wells Brown was born at Lexington,
in the state of Kentucky, as nearly as he can tell
in the autumn of 1814. In the Southern States
of America, the pedigree and age of a horse or a
<!-- Page -22 --><SPAN name="Page_x" id="Page_x" title="x" class="pagenum"></SPAN>dog are carefully preserved, but no record is kept
of the birth of a slave. All that Mr. Brown
knows upon the subject is traditionally, that he
was born "about corn-cutting time" of that year.
His mother was a slave named Elizabeth, the
property of Dr. Young, a physician. His father
was George Higgins, a relative of his master.</p>
<p>The name given to our author at his birth, was
"William"—no second or surname being permitted
to a slave. While William was an infant,
Dr. Young removed to Missouri, where, in addition
to his profession as a physician, he carried
on the—to European notions—incongruous avocations
of miller, merchant, and farmer. Here
William was employed as a house servant, while
his mother was engaged as a field hand. One of
his first bitter experiences of the cruelties of slavery,
was his witnessing the infliction of ten lashes
upon the bare back of his mother, for being a few
minutes behind her time at the field—a punishment
inflicted with one of those peculiar whips in
the construction of which, so as to produce the
greatest amount of torture, those whom Lord
Carlisle has designated "the chivalry of the
South" find scope for their ingenuity.</p>
<p>Dr. Young subsequently removed to a farm
near St. Louis, in the same State. Having been
elected a Member of the Legislature, he devolved
the management of his farm upon an overseer,
having, what to his unhappy victims must have
been the ironical name of "Friend Haskall." The
mother and child were now separated. The boy
was levied to a Virginian named Freeland, who
bore the military title of Major, and carried on the
<!-- Page -21 --><SPAN name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi" title="xi" class="pagenum"></SPAN>plebeian business of a publican. This man was of
an extremely brutal disposition, and treated his
slaves with most refined cruelty. His favourite
punishment, which he facetiously called "Virginian
play," was to <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "flag" in the original text">flog</ins> his slaves severely, and
then expose their lacerated flesh to the smoke of
tobacco stems, causing the most exquisite agony.
William complained to his owner of the treatment
of Freeland, but, as in almost all similar instances,
the appeal was in vain. At length he was induced
to attempt an escape, not from that love of liberty
which subsequently became with him an unconquerable
passion, but simply to avoid the
cruelty to which he was habitually subjected. He
took refuge in the woods, but was hunted and
"traced" by the blood-hounds of a Major
O'Fallon, another of "the chivalry of the South,"
whose gallant occupation was that of keeping an
establishment for the hire of ferocious dogs with
which to hunt fugitive slaves. The young slave
received a severe application of "Virginia play" for
his attempt to escape. Happily the military
publican soon afterwards failed in business, and
William found a better master and a more congenial
employment with Captain Cilvers, on board
a steam-boat plying between St. Louis and
Galena. At the close of the sailing season he
was levied to an hotel-keeper, a native of a free
state, but withal of a class which exist north as
well as south—a most inveterate negro hater. At
this period of William's history, a circumstance
occurred, which, although a common incident in
the lives of slaves, is one of the keenest trials they
have to endure—the breaking up of his family
<!-- Page -20 --><SPAN name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii" title="xii" class="pagenum"></SPAN>circle. Her master wanted money, and he
therefore sold Elizabeth and six of her children
to seven different purchasers. The family
relationship is almost the only solace of slavery.
While the mother, brothers, and sisters are
permitted to meet together in the negro hut
after the hour of labour, the slaves are comparatively
content with their oppressed condition; but
deprive them of this, the only privilege which they
as human beings are possessed of, and nothing is
left but the animal part of their nature—the
living soul is extinguished within them. With
them there is nothing to love—everything to
hate. They feel themselves degraded to the condition
not only of mere animals, but of the most
ill-used animals in the creation.</p>
<p>Not needing the services of his young relative,
Dr. Young hired him to the proprietor of the <i>St.
Louis Times</i>, the best master William ever had in
slavery. Here he gained the scanty amount of
education he acquired at the South. This kind
treatment by his editorial master appears to have
engendered in the heart of William a consciousness
of his own manhood, and led him into the
commission of an offence similar to that perpetrated
by Frederick Douglass, under similar circumstances—the
assertion of the right of self-defence.
He gallantly defended himself against
the attacks of several boys older and bigger than
himself, but in so doing was guilty of the unpardonable
sin of lifting his hand against white lads;
and the father of one of them, therefore, deemed
it consistent with his manhood to lay in wait for
the young slave, and beat him over the head with
<!-- Page -19 --><SPAN name="Page_xiii" id="Page_xiii" title="xiii" class="pagenum"></SPAN>a heavy cane till the blood gushed from his nose
and ears. From the effects of that treatment the
poor lad was confined to his bed for five weeks, at
the end of which time he found that, to his personal
sufferings, were superadded the calamity of the loss
of the best master he ever had in slavery.</p>
<p>His next employment was that of waiter on
board a steam-boat plying on the Mississippi.
Here his occupation again was pleasant, and his
treatment good; but the freedom of action enjoyed
by the passengers in travelling whithersoever
they pleased, contrasted strongly in his mind
with his own deprivation of will as a slave. The
natural result of this comparison was an intense
desire for freedom—a feeling which was never
afterwards eradicated from his breast. This love
of liberty was, however, so strongly counteracted
by affection for his mother and sisters, that although
urgently entreated by one of the latter to
take advantage of his present favourable opportunity
for escape, he would not bring himself to
do so at the expense of a separation for life from
his beloved relatives.</p>
<p>His period of living on board the steamer
having expired, he was again remitted to field
labour, under a burning sun. From that labour,
from which he suffered severely, he was soon removed
to the lighter and more agreeable occupation
of house-waiter to his master. About this
time Dr. Young, in the conventional phraseology
of the locality, "got religion." The fruit of his
alleged spiritual gain, was the loss of many material
comforts to the slaves. Destitute of the resources
of education, they were in the habit of
<!-- Page -18 --><SPAN name="Page_xiv" id="Page_xiv" title="xiv" class="pagenum"></SPAN>employing their otherwise unoccupied minds on
the Sunday in fishing and other harmless pursuits;
these were now all put an end to. The
Sabbath became a season of dread to William: he
was required to drive the family to and from the
church, a distance of four miles either way; and
while they attended to the salvation of their
souls within the building, he was compelled
to attend to the horses without it, standing
by them during divine service under a burning
sun, or drizzling rain. Although William
did not get the religion of his master, he acquired
a family passion which appears to have been
strongly intermixed with the devotional exercises
of the household of Dr. Young—a love of sweet
julep. In the evening, the slaves were required
to attend family worship. Before commencing
the service, it was the custom to hand a pitcher of
the favourite beverage to every member of the
family, not excepting the nephew, a child of
between four and five years old. William was in
the habit of watching his opportunity during the
prayer and helping himself from the pitcher, but
one day letting it fall, his propensity for this intoxicating
drink was discovered, and he was
severely punished for its indulgence.</p>
<p>In 1830, being then about sixteen years of age,
William was hired to a slave-dealer named
Walker. This change of employment led the
youth away south and frustrated, for a time, his
plans for escape. His experience while in this
capacity furnishes some interesting, though painful,
details of the legalized traffic in human beings
carried on in the United States. The desperation
<!-- Page -17 --><SPAN name="Page_xv" id="Page_xv" title="xv" class="pagenum"></SPAN>to which the slaves are driven at their forced
separation from husband, wife, children, and
kindred, he found to be a frequent cause of suicide.
Slave-dealers he discovered were as great
adepts at deception in the sale of their commodity
as the most knowing down-easter, or tricky horse
dealer. William's occupation on board the
steamer, as they steamed south, was to prepare
the stock for the market, by shaving off whiskers
and blacking the grey hairs with a colouring
composition.</p>
<p>At the expiration of the period of his hiring
with Walker, William returned to his master
rejoiced to have escaped an employment so repugnant
to his feelings. But this joy was not of
long duration. One of his sisters who, although
sold to another master had been living in the
same city with himself and mother, was again
sold to be sent away south, never in all probability
to meet her sorrowing relatives. Dr. Young also,
wanting money, intimated to his young kinsman
that he was about to sell him. This intimation
determined William, in conjunction with his
mother, to attempt their escape. For ten nights
they travelled northwards, hiding themselves in
the woods by day. The mother and son at length
deemed themselves safe from re-capture, and,
although weary and foot-sore, were laying down
sanguine plans for the acquisition of a farm in
Canada, the purchase of the freedom of the six
other members of the family still in slavery,
and rejoicing in the anticipated happiness of their
free home in Canada. At that moment three
men made up to and seized them, bound the son
<!-- Page -16 --><SPAN name="Page_xvi" id="Page_xvi" title="xvi" class="pagenum"></SPAN>and led him, with his desponding mother, back
to slavery. Elizabeth was sold and sent away
south, while her son became the property of a
merchant tailor named Willi. Mr. Brown's description
of the final interview between himself
and his mother, is one of the most touching
portions of his narrative. The mother, after
expressing her conviction of the speedy escape
from slavery by the hand of death, enjoined her
child to persevere in his endeavours to gain his
freedom by flight. Her blessing was interrupted
by the kick and curse bestowed by her dehumanized
master upon her beloved son.</p>
<p>After having been hired for a short time to the
captain of the steam-boat <i>Otto</i>, William was
finally sold to Captain Enoch Price for 650 dollars.
That the quickness and intelligence of William
rendered him very valuable as a slave, is favoured
by the evidence of Enoch Price himself, who states
that he was offered 2000 dollars for Sanford (as
he was called), in New Orleans. William was
strongly urged by his new mistress to marry. To
facilitate this object, she even went so far as
to purchase a girl for whom she fancied he had an
affection. He himself, however, had secretly
resolved never to enter into such a connexion
while in slavery, knowing that marriage, in the
true and honourable sense of the term, could not
exist among slaves. Notwithstanding the multitude
of petty offences for which a slave is severely
punished, it is singular that one crime—bigamy—is
visited upon a white with severity, while no
slave has ever yet been tried for it. In fact, the man
is allowed to form connections with as many
<!-- Page -15 --><SPAN name="Page_xvii" id="Page_xvii" title="xvii" class="pagenum"></SPAN>women, and the women with as many men, as
they please.</p>
<p>At St. Louis, William was employed as coachman
to Mr. Price; but when that gentleman
subsequently took his family up the river to Cincinnati,
Sanford acted as appointed steward.
While lying off this city, the long-looked-for
opportunity of escape presented itself; and on the
1st of January, 1834—he being then almost
twenty years of age—succeeded in getting from
the steamer to the wharf, and thence to the
woods, where he lay concealed until the shades of
night had set in, when he again commenced his
journey northwards. While with Dr. Young, a
nephew of that gentleman, whose christian name
was William, came into the family: the slave was,
therefore, denuded of the name of William, and
thenceforth called Sanford. This deprivation of
his original name he had ever regarded as an
indignity, and having now gained his freedom he
resumed his original name; and as there was no
one by whom he could be addressed by it, he
exultingly enjoyed the first-fruits of his freedom
by calling himself aloud by his old name "William!"
After passing through a variety of painful
vicissitudes, on the eighth day he found himself
destitute of pecuniary means, and unable, from
severe illness, to pursue his journey. In that
condition he was discovered by a venerable member
of the Society of Friends, who placed him in
a covered waggon and took him to his own house.
There he remained about fifteen days, and by the
kind treatment of his host and hostess, who were
what in America are called "Thompsonians,"
<!-- Page -14 --><SPAN name="Page_xviii" id="Page_xviii" title="xviii" class="pagenum"></SPAN>he was restored to health, and supplied with
the means of pursuing his journey. The name
of this, his first kind benefactor, was "Wells
Brown." As William had risen from the degradation
of a slave to the dignity of a man, it
was expedient that he should follow the customs
of other men, and adopt a second name. His
venerable friend, therefore, bestowed upon him
his own name, which, prefixed by his former
designation, made him "William Wells Brown,"
a name that will live in history, while those of the
men who claimed him as property would, were it
not for his deeds, have been unknown beyond the
town in which they lived. In nine days from the
time he left Wells Brown's house, he arrived at
Cleveland, in the State of Ohio, where he found
he could remain comparatively safe from the pursuit
of the man-stealer. Having obtained employment
as a waiter, he remained in that city until
the following spring, when he procured an engagement
on board a steam-boat plying on Lake Erie.
In that situation he was enabled, during seven
months, to assist no less than sixty-nine slaves to
escape to Canada. While a slave he had regarded
the whites as the natural enemies of his race. It
was, therefore, with no small pleasure that he discovered
the existence of the salt of America, in the
despised Abolitionists of the Northern States. He
read with assiduity the writings of Benjamin Lundy,
William Lloyd Garrison, and others; and after
his own twenty years' experience of slavery, it is not
surprising that he should have enthusiastically
embraced the principles of "total and immediate
emancipation," and "no union with slaveholders."</p>
<p><!-- Page -13 --><SPAN name="Page_xix" id="Page_xix" title="xix" class="pagenum"></SPAN>In proportion as his mind expanded under the
more favourable circumstances in which he was
placed, he became anxious, not merely for the
redemption of his race from personal slavery, but
for the moral elevation of those among them who
were free. Finding that habits of intoxication
were too prevalent amongst his coloured brethren,
he, in conjunction with others, commenced a
temperance reformation in their body. Such was
the success of their efforts that in three years, in
the city of Buffalo alone, a society of upwards of
500 members was raised out of a coloured population
of 700. Of that society Mr. Brown was
thrice elected President.</p>
<p>The intellectual powers of our author, coupled
with his intimate acquaintance with the workings
of the slave system, recommended him to the
Abolitionists as a man eminently qualified to
arouse the attention of the people of the Northern
States to the great national sin of America. In
1843 he was engaged as a lecturer by the Western
New-York Anti-Slavery Society. From 1844
to 1847 he laboured in the anti-slavery
cause in connection with the American Anti-Slavery
Society, and from that period up to the
time of his departure for Europe, in 1849,
he was an agent of the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery
Society. The records of those societies
furnish abundant evidence of the success of
his labours. From the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery
Society he early received the following
testimony:—</p>
<p>"Since Mr. Brown became an agent of the
Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society, he has lec<!-- Page -12 --><SPAN name="Page_xx" id="Page_xx" title="xx" class="pagenum"></SPAN>tured
in very many of the towns of this Commonwealth,
and won for himself general respect and
approbation. He combines true self-respect with
true humility, and rare judiciousness with great
moral courage. Himself a fugitive slave, he can
experimentally describe the situation of those in
bonds as bound with them; and he powerfully
illustrates the diabolism of that system which
keeps in chains and darkness a host of minds,
which, if free and enlightened, would shine
among men like stars in a firmament."</p>
<p>Another member of that Society speaks thus
of him:—"I need not attempt any description
of the ability and efficiency which characterized
his speaking throughout the meetings. To you
who know him so well, it is enough to say that
his lectures were worthy of himself. He has left
an impression on the minds of the people, that
few could have done. Cold, indeed, must be the
heart that could resist the appeals of so noble a
specimen of humanity, in behalf of a crushed and
despised race."</p>
<p>Notwithstanding the celebrity Mr. Brown had
acquired in the north, as a man of genius and
talent, and the general respect his high character
had gained him, the slave spirit of America
denied him the rights of a citizen. By the constitution
of the United States, he was every moment
liable to be seized and sent back to slavery.
He was in daily peril of a gradual legalized murder,
under a system one of whose established
economical principles is, that it is more profitable
to work up a slave on a plantation in a short
time, by excessive labour and cheap food, than to
<!-- Page -11 --><SPAN name="Page_xxi" id="Page_xxi" title="xxi" class="pagenum"></SPAN>obtain a lengthened remuneration by moderate
work and humane treatment. His only protection
from such a fate was the anomaly of the
ascendancy of the public opinion over the law of
the country. So uncertain, however, was that
tenure of liberty, that even before the passage
of the Fugitive Slave Law, it was deemed expedient
to secure the services of Frederick Douglass
to the anti-slavery cause by the purchase of
his freedom. The same course might have
been taken to secure the labours of Mr. Brown,
had he not entertained an unconquerable repugnance
to its adoption. On the 10th of January,
1848, Enoch Price wrote to Mr. Edmund Quincy
offering to sell Mr. Brown to himself or friends
for 325 dollars. To this communication the
fugitive returned the following pithy and noble
reply:—</p>
<p>"I cannot accept of Mr. Price's offer to become
a purchaser of my body and soul. God made me
as free as he did Enoch Price, and Mr. Price shall
never receive a dollar from me or my friends with
my consent."</p>
<p>There were, however, other reasons besides his
personal safety which led to Mr. Brown's visit to
Europe. It was thought desirable always to have
in England some talented man of colour who
should be a living lie to the doctrine of the
inferiority of the African race: and it was moreover
felt that none could so powerfully advocate
the cause of "those in bonds" as one who had
actually been "bound with them." This had
been proved in the extraordinary effect produced
in Great Britain by Frederick Douglass in 1845
<!-- Page -10 --><SPAN name="Page_xxii" id="Page_xxii" title="xxii" class="pagenum"></SPAN>and 1846. The American Committee in connection
with the Peace Congress were also desirous
of sending to Europe coloured representatives of
their Society, and Mr. Brown was selected for that
purpose, and duly accredited by them to the Paris
Congress.</p>
<p>On the 18th of July, 1849, a large meeting of
the coloured citizens of Boston was held in
Washington Hall to bid him farewell. At that
meeting the following resolutions were unanimously
adopted:—</p>
<p class="noindent" style="padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;">
"<i>Resolved</i>,—That we bid our brother, William
Wells Brown, God speed in his mission to
Europe, and commend him to the hospitality
and encouragement of all true friends of
humanity.</p>
<p class="noindent" style="padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;">
"<i>Resolved</i>,—That we forward by him our renewed
protest against the American Colonization
Society; and invoke for him a candid hearing
before the British public, in reply to the
efforts put forth there by the Rev. Mr. Miller,
or any other agent of said Society."</p>
<p>Two days afterwards he sailed for Europe,
encountering on his voyage his last experience of
American prejudice against colour.</p>
<p>On the 28th of August he landed at Liverpool,
a time and place memorable in his life as the
first upon which he could truly call himself a free
man upon God's earth. In the history of nations,
as of individuals, there is often singular retributive
mercy as well as retributive justice. In
the seventeenth century the victims of monarchical
tyranny in Great <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "Britian" in the original text">Britain</ins> found social and
<!-- Page -9 --><SPAN name="Page_xxiii" id="Page_xxiii" title="xxiii" class="pagenum"></SPAN>political freedom when they set foot upon Plymouth
Rock in New England: in the nineteenth
century the victims of the oppressions of the
American Republic find freedom and social
equality upon the shores of monarchical England.
Liverpool, which seventy years back was so
steeped in the guilt of negro slavery that Paine
expressed his surprise that God did not sweep it
from the face of the earth, is now to the hunted
negro the Plymouth Rock of Old England.
From Liverpool he proceeded to Dublin where he
was warmly received by Mr. Haughton, Mr.
Webb, and other friends of the slave, and publicly
welcomed at a large meeting presided over
by the first named gentleman.</p>
<p>The reception of Mr. Brown at the Peace Congress
in Paris was most flattering. In a company,
comprising a large portion of the <i>elite</i> of Europe,
he admirably maintained his reputation as a
public speaker. His brief address, upon that
"war spirit of America which holds in bondage
three million of his brethren," produced a profound
sensation. At its conclusion the speaker
was warmly greeted by Victor Hugo, the Abbe
Duguerry, Emile de Girardin, the Pastor
Coquerel, Richard Cobden, and every man of note
in the Assembly. At the soiree given by M. De
Tocqueville, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, and
the other fetes given to the Members of the Congress,
Mr. Brown was received with marked
attention.</p>
<p>Having finished his Peace mission in France, he
commenced an Anti-slavery tour in England and
Scotland. With that independence of feeling
<!-- Page -8 --><SPAN name="Page_xxiv" id="Page_xxiv" title="xxiv" class="pagenum"></SPAN>which those who are acquainted with him know to
be his chief characteristic, he rejected the idea of
anything like eleemosynary support. He determined
to maintain himself and family by his own
exertions—by his literary labours, and the
honourable profession of a public lecturer. His
first metropolitan reception in England was at a
large, influential, and enthusiastic meeting in the
Music Hall, Stone Street. The members of the
Whittington Club—an institution numbering
nearly 2000 members, among whom are Lords
Brougham, Dudley Coutts Stuart, and Beaumont;
Charles Dickens, Douglass Jerrold, Martin
Thackeray, Charles Lushington, M.P., Monckton
Milnes, M.P., and several other of the most distinguished
legislators and literary men and women
in this country—elected Mr. Brown an honorary
member of the Club, as a mark of respect to his
character; and, as the following extract from the
Secretary, Mr. Stundwicke, will show, as a protest
against the distinctions made between man and
man on account of colour in America:—"I have
much pleasure in conveying to you the best thanks
of the managing committee of this institution for
the excellent lecture you gave here last evening on
the subject of 'Slavery in America,' and also in
presenting you in their names with an honorary
membership of the Club. It is hoped that you
will often avail yourself of its privileges by coming
amongst us. You will then see, by the cordial
welcome of the members, that they protest against
the odious distinctions made between man and
man, and the abominable traffic of which you have
been the victim."</p>
<p><!-- Page -7 --><SPAN name="Page_xxv" id="Page_xxv" title="xxv" class="pagenum"></SPAN>For the last three years Mr. Brown has been
engaged in visiting and holding meetings in nearly
all the large towns in the kingdom upon the
question of American Slavery, Temperance, and
other subjects. Perhaps no coloured individual,
not excepting that extraordinary man, Frederick
Douglass, has done more good in disseminating
anti-slavery principles in England, Scotland, and
Ireland.</p>
<p>In the spring of 1851, two most interesting
fugitives, William and Ellen Craft, arrived in
England. They had made their escape from the
South, the wife disguised in male attire, and the
husband in the capacity of her slave. William
Craft was doing a thriving business in Boston,
but in 1851 was driven with his wife from
that city by the operation of the Fugitive
Slave Law. For several months they travelled
in company with Mr. Brown in this country,
deepening the disgust created by Mr. Brown's
eloquent denunciation of slavery by their simple
but touching narrative. At length they were
enabled to gratify their thirst for education by
gaining admission to Lady Byron's school at
Oakham, Surrey. In the month of May, Mr.
Brown and Mr. and Mrs. Craft were taken by a
party of anti-slavery friends to the Great Exhibition.
The honourable manner in which they
were received by distinguished persons to whom
their history was known, and the freedom with
which they perambulated the American department,
was a salutary rebuke to the numerous
Americans present, in regard to the great sin
of their country—slavery; and its great folly—prejudice<!-- Page -6 --><SPAN name="Page_xxvi" id="Page_xxvi" title="xxvi" class="pagenum"></SPAN>
of colour. A curious circumstance occurred
during the Exhibition. Among the hosts
of American visitors to this country was Mr.
Brown's late master, Enoch Price, who made diligent
inquiry after his lost piece of property—not,
of course, with any view to its reclamation—but,
to the mutual regret of both parties, without success.
It is gratifying to state that the master
spoke highly of, and expressed a wish for the
future prosperity of, his fugitive slave; a fact
which tends to prove that prejudice of colour is
to a very great extent a thing of locality and
association. Had Mr. Price, however, left behind
him letters of manumission for Mr. Brown, enabling
him, if he chose, to return to his native
land, he would have given a more practical proof
of respect, and of the sincerity of his desire for the
welfare of Mr. Brown.</p>
<p>It would extend these pages far beyond their
proposed length were anything like a detailed
account of Mr. Brown's anti-slavery labours in
this country to be attempted. Suffice it to say
that they have everywhere been attended with
benefit and approbation. At Bolton an admirable
address from the ladies was presented to him, and
at other places he has received most honourable
testimonials.</p>
<p>Since Mr. Brown left America, the condition of
the fugitive slaves in his own country has,
through the operation of the Fugitive Slave
Law, been rendered so perilous as to preclude
the possibility of return without the
almost certain loss of liberty. His expatriation
has, however, been a gain to the cause of human<!-- Page -5 --><SPAN name="Page_xxvii" id="Page_xxvii" title="xxvii" class="pagenum"></SPAN>ity
in this country, where an intelligent representative
of the oppressed coloured Americans is constantly
needed, not only to describe, in language
of fervid eloquence, the wrongs inflicted upon his
race in the United States, but to prevent their
bonds being strengthened in this country by holding
fellowship with slave-holding and slave-abetting
ministers from America. In his lectures he has
clearly demonstrated the fact, that the sole support
of the slavery of the United States is its
churches. This knowledge of the standing of
American ministers in reference to slavery has,
in the case of Dr. Dyer, and in many other instances,
been most serviceable, preventing their
reception into communion with British churches.
Last year Mr. Brown succeeded in getting over
to this country his daughters, two interesting
girls twelve and sixteen years of age respectively,
who are now receiving an education which will
qualify them hereafter to become teachers in their
turn—a description of education which would
have been denied them in their native land. In
1834 Mr. Brown married a free coloured woman,
who died in January of the present year.</p>
<p>The condition of escaped slaves has engaged
much of his attention while in this country. He
found that in England no anti-slavery organization
existed whose object was to aid fugitive slaves
in obtaining an honourable subsistence in the
land of their exile. In most cases they are thrown
upon the support of a few warm-hearted anti-slavery
advocates in this country, pre-eminent
among whom stands Mr. Brown's earliest friend,
Mr. George Thompson, M.P., whose house is
<!-- Page -4 --><SPAN name="Page_xxviii" id="Page_xxviii" title="xxviii" class="pagenum"></SPAN>rarely free from one or more of those who have
acquired the designation of his "American constituents."
This want has recently been attempted
to be supplied, partly through Mr. Brown's exertions,
and partly by the establishment of the
Anglo-American Anti-Slavery Association.</p>
<p>On the 1st of August, 1851, a meeting of the
most novel character was held at the Hall of
Commerce, London, being a soiree given by
fugitive slaves in this country to Mr. George
Thompson, on his return from his American mission
on behalf of their race. That meeting was most
ably presided over by Mr. Brown, and the speeches
made upon the occasion by fugitive slaves were of
the most interesting and creditable description.
Although a residence in Canada is infinitely preferable
to slavery in America, yet the climate of that
country is uncongenial to the constitutions of the
fugitive slaves, and their lack of education is an
almost insuperable barrier to their social progress.
The latter evil Mr. Brown attempted to remedy
by the establishment of a Manual Labour School
in Canada.</p>
<p>A public meeting, attended by between 3000
and 4000 persons, was convened by Mr. Brown,
on the 6th of January, 1851, in the City Hall,
Glasgow, presided over by Mr. Hastie, one of the
representatives of that city, at which meeting a
resolution was unanimously passed approving of
Mr. Brown's scheme, which scheme, however,
never received that amount of support which
would have enabled him to bring it into practice;
and the plan at present only remains as an
evidence of its author's ingenuity and desire for
<!-- Page -3 --><SPAN name="Page_xxix" id="Page_xxix" title="xxix" class="pagenum"></SPAN>the elevation of his depressed race. Mr. Brown
subsequently made, through the columns of the
<i>Times</i> newspaper, a proposition for the emigration
of American fugitive slaves, under fair and honourable
terms, to the West Indies, where there is a
great lack of that tillage labour which they are so
capable of undertaking. This proposition has
hitherto met with no better fate than its predecessor.</p>
<p>Mr. Brown's literary abilities may be partly
judged of from the following pages. The amount
of knowledge and education he has acquired under
circumstances of no ordinary difficulty, is a striking
proof of what can be done by combined genius
and industry. His proficiency as a linguist, without
the aid of a master, is considerable. His
present work is a valuable addition to the stock of
English literature. The honour which has hitherto
been paid, and which, so long as he resides upon
British soil, will no doubt continue to be paid to his
character and talents, must have its influence in
abating the senseless prejudice of colour in
America, and hastening the time when the object
of his mission, the abolition of the slavery of his
native country, shall be accomplished, and that
young Republic renouncing with penitence its
national sin, shall take its proper place amongst
the most free, civilized, and Christian nations of
the earth.</p>
<p class="quotdate">
W.F.</p>
<div><!-- Page -2 blank--><SPAN name="Page_xxx" id="Page_xxx" title="xxx"></SPAN><!-- Page -1 --><SPAN name="Page_xxxi" id="Page_xxxi" title="xxxi" class="pagenum"></SPAN></div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="PREFACE" id="PREFACE"></SPAN>PREFACE.</h2>
<p>While I feel conscious that most of the contents
of these Letters will be interesting chiefly to
American readers, yet I may indulge the hope,
that the fact of their being the first production of
a Fugitive Slave, as a history of travels, may carry
with them novelty enough to secure for them, to
some extent, the attention of the reading public
of Great Britain. Most of the letters were
written for the private perusal of a few personal
friends in America; some were contributed to
"Frederick Douglass's paper," a journal published
in the United States. In a printed circular sent
some weeks since to some of my friends, asking
subscriptions to this volume, I stated the reasons
for its publication: these need not be repeated
<!-- Page 0 --><SPAN name="Page_xxxii" id="Page_xxxii" title="xxxii" class="pagenum"></SPAN>here. To those who so promptly and kindly
responded to that appeal, I tender my most sincere
thanks. It is with no little diffidence that I
lay these letters before the public; for I am not
blind to the fact, that they must contain many
errors; and to those who shall find fault with
them on that account, it may not be too much for
me to ask them kindly to remember, that the
author was a slave in one of the Southern States
of America, until he had attained the age of
twenty years; and that the education he has
acquired, was by his own exertions, he never having
had a day's schooling in his life.</p>
<p class="quotdate">
W. WELLS BROWN.</p>
<p>22, CECIL STREET, STRAND,<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">LONDON.</span></p>
<div><!-- Page 1 --><SPAN name="Page_1" id="Page_1" title="1" class="pagenum"></SPAN></div>
<!-- Repeat title not needed
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="THREE_YEARS_IN_EUROPE" id="THREE_YEARS_IN_EUROPE"></SPAN>THREE YEARS IN EUROPE;</h2>
<p>OR,</p>
<p>PLACES I HAVE SEEN AND PEOPLE I HAVE MET.</p>
-->
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="LETTER_I" id="LETTER_I"></SPAN>LETTER I.</h2>
<h3>Departure from Boston—the Passengers—Halifax—the Passage—First Sight of Land—Liverpool.</h3>
<p class="quotdate"><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Liverpool</span>, <i>July 28</i>.</p>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">On</span> the 18th July, 1849, I took passage in the
steam-ship <i>Canada</i>, Captain Judkins, bound for
Liverpool. The day was a warm one; so much
so, that many persons on board, as well as several
on shore, stood with their umbrellas up, so intense
was the heat of the sun. The ringing of
the ship's bell was a signal for us to shake hands
with our friends, which we did, and then stepped
on the deck of the noble craft. The <i>Canada</i>
quitted her moorings at half-past twelve, and we
<!-- Page 2 --><SPAN name="Page_2" id="Page_2" title="2" class="pagenum"></SPAN>were soon in motion. As we were passing out of
Boston Bay, I took my stand on the quarter-deck,
to take a last farewell (at least for a time), of my
native land. A visit to the old world, up to that
time had seemed but a dream. As I looked back
upon the receding land, recollections of the past
rushed through my mind in quick succession.
From the treatment that I had received from the
Americans as a victim of slavery, and the knowledge
that I was at that time liable to be seized
and again reduced to whips and chains, I had
supposed that I would leave the country without
any regret; but in this I was mistaken, for when
I saw the last thread of communication cut off
between me and the land, and the dim shores
dying away in the distance, I almost regretted
that I was not on shore.</p>
<p>An anticipated trip to a foreign country appears
pleasant when talking about it, especially
when surrounded by friends whom we love; but
when we have left them all behind, it does not
seem so pleasant. Whatever may be the fault
of the government under which we live, and no
matter how oppressive her laws may appear, yet
<!-- Page 3 --><SPAN name="Page_3" id="Page_3" title="3" class="pagenum"></SPAN>we leave our native land (if such it be) with feelings
akin to sorrow. With the steamer's powerful
engine at work, and with a fair wind, we were
speedily on the bosom of the Atlantic, which was
as calm and as smooth as our own Hudson in its
calmest aspect. We had on board above one hundred
passengers, forty of whom were the "<ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "Vienneise" in the original text">Viennese</ins>
children"—a troop of dancers. The passengers
represented several different nations, English,
French, Spaniards, Africans, and Americans. One
man who had the longest pair of mustaches that
mortal man was ever doomed to wear, especially
attracted my attention. He appeared to belong
to no country in particular, but was yet the busiest
man on board. After viewing for some time
the many strange faces around me, I descended
to the cabin to look after my luggage, which had
been put hurriedly on board. I hope that all
who take a trip of so great a distance may be as
fortunate as I was, in being supplied with books
to read on the voyage. My friends had furnished
me with literature, from "Macaulay's History of
England" to "Jane Eyre," so that I did not want
for books to occupy my time.</p>
<p><!-- Page 4 --><SPAN name="Page_4" id="Page_4" title="4" class="pagenum"></SPAN>A pleasant passage of about thirty hours,
brought us to Halifax, at six o'clock in the evening.
In company with my friend the President
of the Oberlin Institute, I took a stroll through
the town; and from what little I saw of the
people in the streets, I am sure that the taking of
the Temperance pledge would do them no injury.
Our stay at Halifax was short. Having taken in
a few sacks of coals, the mails, and a limited
number of passengers, we were again out, and
soon at sea. After a pleasant run of seven days
more, and as I was lying in my bed, I heard the
cry of "Land a-head." Although our passage had
been unprecedentedly short, yet I need not inform
you that this news was hailed with joy by all on
board. For my own part, I was soon on deck.
Away in the distance, and on our larboard
quarter, were the grey hills of Ireland. Yes!
we were in sight of the land of <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "Emmitt" in the original text">Emmett</ins> and
O'Connell. While I rejoiced with the other passengers
at the sight of land, and the near approach
to the end of the voyage, I felt low spirited,
because it reminded me of the great distance I
was from home. But the experience of above
<!-- Page 5 --><SPAN name="Page_5" id="Page_5" title="5" class="pagenum"></SPAN>twenty years' travelling, had prepared me to
undergo what most persons must lay their account
with, in visiting a strange country. This was the
last day but one that we were to be on board;
and as if moved by the sight of land, all seemed
to be gathering their different things together—brushing
up their old clothes and putting on their
new ones, as if this would bring them any sooner
to the end of their journey.</p>
<p>The last night on board was the most pleasant,
apparently, that we had experienced; probably,
because it was the last. The moon was in her
meridian splendour, pouring her broad light over
the calm sea; while near to us, on our starboard
side, was a ship with her snow-white sails spread
aloft, and stealing through the water like a thing
of life. What can present a more picturesque
view, than two vessels at sea on a moonlight
night, and within a few rods of each other?
With a gentle breeze, and the powerful engine at
work, we seemed to be flying to the embrace of
our British neighbours.</p>
<p>The next morning I was up before the sun, and
found that we were within a few miles of Liver<!-- Page 6 --><SPAN name="Page_6" id="Page_6" title="6" class="pagenum"></SPAN>pool.
The taking of a pilot on board at eleven
o'clock, warned us to prepare to quit our ocean
palace and seek other quarters. At a little past
three o'clock, the ship cast anchor, and we were
all tumbled, bag and baggage, into a small
steamer, and in a few moments were at the door
of the Custom-House. The passage had only been
nine days and twenty-two hours, the quickest on
record at that time, yet it was long enough. I
waited nearly three hours before my name was
called, and when it was, I unlocked my trunks
and handed them over to one of the officers, whose
dirty hands made no improvement on the work of
the laundress. First one article was taken out,
and then another, till an <i>Iron Collar</i> that had
been worn by a female slave on the banks of the
Mississippi, was hauled out, and this democratic
instrument of torture became the centre of attraction;
so much so, that instead of going on with
the examination, all hands stopped to look at the
"Negro Collar."</p>
<p>Several of my countrymen who were standing
by, were not a little displeased at answers which I
gave to questions on the subject of Slavery; but
<!-- Page 7 --><SPAN name="Page_7" id="Page_7" title="7" class="pagenum"></SPAN>they held their peace. The interest created by
the appearance of the Iron Collar, closed the
examination of my luggage. As if afraid that they
would find something more hideous, they put the
Custom-House mark on each piece, and passed
them out, and I was soon comfortably installed at
Brown's Temperance Hotel, Clayton Square.</p>
<p><br/>
No person of my complexion can visit this
country without being struck with the marked difference
between the English and the Americans.
The prejudice which I have experienced on all and
every occasion in the United States, and to some
extent on board the <i>Canada</i>, vanished as soon as
I set foot on the soil of Britain. In America I
had been bought and sold as a slave, in the
Southern States. In the so-called free States, I
had been treated as one born to occupy an
inferior position,—in steamers, compelled to take
my fare on the deck; in hotels, to take my
meals in the kitchen; in coaches, to ride on the
outside; in railways, to ride in the "negro car;"
and in churches, to sit in the "negro pew." But
no sooner was I on British soil, than I was
<!-- Page 8 --><SPAN name="Page_8" id="Page_8" title="8" class="pagenum"></SPAN>recognised as a man, and an equal. The very
dogs in the streets appeared conscious of my
manhood. Such is the difference, and such is the
change that is brought about by a trip of nine
days in an Atlantic steamer.</p>
<p>I was not more struck with the treatment of
the people, than with the appearance of the great
seaport of the world. The grey appearance of the
stone piers and docks, the dark look of the magnificent
warehouses, the substantial appearance of
every thing around, causes one to think himself in
a new world instead of the old. Every thing in
Liverpool looks old, yet nothing is worn out.
The beautiful <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: Erratum applied, "villages" in the original text">villas</ins> on the opposite side of the
river, in the vicinity of Birkenhead, together with
the countless number of vessels in the river, and
the great ships to be seen in the stream, give life
and animation to the whole scene.</p>
<p>Every thing in and about Liverpool seems to be
built for the future as well as the present. We
had time to examine but few of the public buildings,
the first of which was the Custom-House,
an edifice that would be an ornament to any city
in the world.</p>
<p><!-- Page 9 --><SPAN name="Page_9" id="Page_9" title="9" class="pagenum"></SPAN>For the first time in my life, I can say "I am
truly free." My old master may make his appearance
here, with the Constitution of the United
States in his pocket, the Fugitive Slave Law in
one hand and the chains in the other, and claim
me as his property, but all will avail him nothing.
I can here stand and look the tyrant in the face,
and tell him that I am his equal! England is,
indeed, the "land of the free, and the home of
the brave."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="LETTER_II" id="LETTER_II"></SPAN>LETTER II.</h2>
<h3>Trip to Ireland—Dublin—Her Majesty's Visit—Illumination of the City—the Birth-Place of Thomas Moore—a Reception.</h3>
<p class="quotdate"><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Dublin</span>, <i>August 6</i>.</p>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">After</span> remaining in Liverpool two days, I took
passage in the little steamer <i>Adelaide</i> for this
city. The wind being high on the night of our
voyage, the vessel had scarcely got to sea ere we
<!-- Page 10 --><SPAN name="Page_10" id="Page_10" title="10" class="pagenum"></SPAN>were driven to our berths; and though the distance
from Liverpool to Dublin is short, yet,
strange to say, I witnessed more effects of the sea
and rolling of the steamer upon the passengers,
than was to be seen during the whole of our
voyage from America. We reached Kingstown,
five miles below Dublin, after a passage of nearly
fifteen hours, and were soon seated on a car, and
on our way to the city. While coming into the
bay, one gets a fine view of Dublin and the surrounding
country. Few sheets of water make a
more beautiful appearance than Dublin Bay. We
found it as still and smooth as a mirror, with a
soft mist on its surface—a strange contrast to the
boisterous sea that we had left a moment before.</p>
<p>The curious phrases of the Irish sounded
harshly upon my ear, probably, because they
were strange to me. I lost no time on reaching
the city in seeking out some to whom I had letters
of introduction, one of whom gave me an invitation
to make his house my home during my stay,
an invitation which I did not think fit to decline.</p>
<p>Dublin, the Metropolis of Ireland, is a city of
above two hundred thousand inhabitants, and is
<!-- Page 11 --><SPAN name="Page_11" id="Page_11" title="11" class="pagenum"></SPAN>considered by the people of Ireland to be the
second city in the British Empire. The Liffey,
which falls into Dublin Bay a little below the
Custom-House, divides the town into two nearly
equal parts. The streets are—some of them—very
fine, especially upper Sackville Street, in
the centre of which stands a pillar erected to
Nelson, England's most distinguished Naval
Commander. The Bank of Ireland, to which I
paid a visit, is a splendid building, and was
formerly the Parliament House. This magnificent
edifice fronts College Green, and near at hand
stands a bronze statue of William III. The
Bank and the Custom-House are two of the finest
monuments of architecture in the city; the latter
of which stands near the river Liffey, and its front
makes an imposing appearance, extending to
three hundred and seventy-five feet. It is built
of Portland stone, and is adorned with a beautiful
portico in the centre, consisting of four Doric
columns supporting an enriched entablature,
decorated with a group of figures in alto-relievo,
representing Hibernia and Britannia presenting
emblems of peace and liberty. A magnificent
<!-- Page 12 --><SPAN name="Page_12" id="Page_12" title="12" class="pagenum"></SPAN>dome, supporting a cupola, on whose apex stands
a colossal figure of Hope, rises nobly from the
centre of the building to a height of one hundred
and twenty-five feet. It is, withal, a fine specimen
of what man can do.</p>
<p>From this noble edifice, we bent our steps to
another part of the city, and soon found ourselves
in the vicinity of St. Patrick's, where we had a
heart-sickening view of the poorest of the poor.
All the recollections of poverty which I had ever
beheld, seemed to disappear in comparison with
what was then before me. We passed a filthy
and noisy market, where fruit and vegetable
women were screaming and begging those passing
by to purchase their commodities; while in and
about the market-place were throngs of beggars
fighting for rotten fruit, cabbage stocks, and even
the very trimmings of vegetables. On the side
walks, were great numbers hovering about the
doors of the more wealthy, and following
strangers, importuning them for "pence to buy
bread." Sickly and emaciated-looking creatures,
half naked, were at our heels at every turn.
After passing through a half dozen, or more,
<!-- Page 13 --><SPAN name="Page_13" id="Page_13" title="13" class="pagenum"></SPAN>of narrow and dirty streets, we returned to our
lodgings, impressed with the idea that we had
seen enough of the poor for one day.</p>
<p>In our return home, we passed through a respectable
looking street, in which stands a small
three storey brick building, which was pointed
out to us as the birth-place of Thomas Moore, the
poet. The following verse from one of Moore's
poems was continually in my mind while viewing
this house:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div><span style="margin-left: -.5em;">"Where is the slave, so lowly,</span></div>
<div>Condemn'd to chains unholy,</div>
<div>Who, could he burst</div>
<div>His bonds at first,</div>
<div>Would pine beneath them slowly?"</div>
</div></div>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>Yesterday was the Sabbath, but it had more the
appearance of a holiday than a day of rest. It had
been announced the day before, that the Royal
fleet was expected, and at an early hour on Sunday,
the entire town seemed to be on the move
towards Kingstown, and as the family with whom I
was staying followed the multitude, I was not inclined
to remain behind, and so went with them.
<!-- Page 14 --><SPAN name="Page_14" id="Page_14" title="14" class="pagenum"></SPAN>On reaching the station we found it utterly impossible
to get standing room in any of the trains,
much less a seat, and therefore determined to
reach Kingstown under the plea of a morning's
walk; and in this we were not alone, for during
the walk of five miles the road was filled with
thousands of pedestrians and a countless number
of carriages, phaetons, and vehicles of a more
humble order.</p>
<p>We reached the lower town in time to get a
good dinner, and rest ourselves before going to
make further searches for Her Majesty's fleet.
At a little past four o'clock, we observed the multitude
going towards the pier, a number of whom
were yelling at the top of their voices, "It's coming,
it's coming;" but on going to the quay, we
found that a false alarm had been given. However,
we had been on the look-out but a short
time, when a column of smoke rising as it were
out of the sea, announced that the Royal fleet was
near at hand. The concourse in the vicinity of
the pier was variously estimated at from eighty to
one hundred thousand.</p>
<p>It was not long before the five steamers were
<!-- Page 15 --><SPAN name="Page_15" id="Page_15" title="15" class="pagenum"></SPAN>entering the harbour, the one bearing Her Majesty
leading the way. As each vessel had a
number of distinguished persons on board, the
people appeared to be at a loss to know which was
the Queen; and as each party made its appearance
on the promenade deck, they were received with
great enthusiasm, the party having the best looking
lady being received with the greatest applause.
The Prince of Wales, and Prince Alfred, while
crossing the deck were recognised and greeted
with three cheers; the former taking off his hat
and bowing to the people, showed that he had had
some training as a public man although not ten
years of age. But not so with Prince Alfred; for,
when his brother turned to him and asked him to
take off his hat and make a bow to the people, he
shook his head and said, "No." This was received
with hearty laughter by those on board,
and was responded to by the thousands on shore.
But greater applause was yet in store for the
young prince; for the captain of the steamer being
near by, and seeing that the Prince of Wales
could not prevail on his brother to take off his
hat, stepped up to him and undertook to take it
<!-- Page 16 --><SPAN name="Page_16" id="Page_16" title="16" class="pagenum"></SPAN>off for him, when, seemingly to the delight of all,
the prince put both hands to his head and held
his hat fast. This was regarded as a sign of courage
and future renown, and was received with the
greatest enthusiasm—many crying out, "Good,
good: he will make a brave king when his day
comes."</p>
<p>After the greetings and applause had been
wasted on many who had appeared on deck, all at
once, as if by some magic power, we beheld a
lady rather small in stature, with auburn or
reddish hair, attired in a plain dress, and wearing
a sky-blue bonnet, standing on the larboard
paddle-box, by the side of a tall good-looking
man, with mustaches. The thunders of applause
that now rent the air, and cries of "The Queen,
the Queen," seemed to set at rest the question of
which was Her Majesty. But a few moments were
allowed to the people to look at the Queen,
before she again disappeared; and it was understood
that she would not be seen again that
evening. A rush was then made for the railway,
to return to Dublin.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p class="quotdate"><!-- Page 17 --><SPAN name="Page_17" id="Page_17" title="17" class="pagenum"></SPAN><i>August 8</i>.</p>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Yesterday</span> was a great day in Dublin. At an
early hour the bells began their merry peals, and
the people were soon seen in groups in the streets
and public squares. The hour of ten was fixed
for the procession to leave Kingstown, and it was
expected to enter the city at eleven. The
windows of the houses in the streets through
which the Royal train was to pass, were at a
premium, and seemed to find ready occupants.</p>
<p>Being invited the day previous to occupy part
of a window in Upper Sackville Street, I was
stationed at my allotted place, at an early hour,
with an out-stretched neck and open eyes. My
own colour differing from those about me, I
attracted not a little attention from many; and
often, when gazing down the street to see if the
Royal procession was in sight, would find myself
eyed by all around. But neither while at the
window, or in the streets, was I once insulted.
This was so unlike the American prejudice, that
it seemed strange to me. It was near twelve
o'clock before the procession entered Sackville
Street, and when it did all eyes seemed to beam
<!-- Page 18 --><SPAN name="Page_18" id="Page_18" title="18" class="pagenum"></SPAN>with delight. The first carriage contained only
Her Majesty and the Prince Consort; the second,
the Royal children; and the third, the Lords in
Waiting. Fifteen carriages were used by those
that made up the Royal party. I had a full view
of the Queen and all who followed in the train.
Her Majesty—whether from actual love for her
person, or the novelty of the occasion, I know
not which—was received everywhere with the
greatest enthusiasm. One thing, however, is
certain, and that is—Queen Victoria is beloved
by her subjects.</p>
<p>But the grand <i>fete</i> was reserved for the evening.
Great preparations had been made to have a
grand illumination on the occasion, and hints
were thrown out that it would surpass anything
ever witnessed in London. In this they were
not far out of the way; for all who witnessed
the scene admitted that it could scarcely have
been surpassed. My own idea of an illumination,
as I had seen it in the backwoods of my own
native land, dwindled into nothing when compared
with this magnificent affair.</p>
<p>In company with a few friends, and a
<!-- Page 19 --><SPAN name="Page_19" id="Page_19" title="19" class="pagenum"></SPAN>lady under my charge, I undertook to pass
through Sackville and one or two other streets,
about eight o'clock in the evening, but we
found it utterly impossible to proceed. Masses
thronged the streets, and the wildest enthusiasm
seemed to prevail. In our attempt to cross
the bridge, we were wedged in and lost our companions;
and on one occasion I was separated from
the lady, and took shelter under a cart standing
in the street. After being jammed and pulled
about for nearly two hours, I returned to my
lodgings, where I found part of my company, who
had come in one after another. At eleven o'clock
we had all assembled, and each told his adventures
and "hairbreadth escapes;" and nearly
every one had lost a pocket handkerchief or something
of the kind: my own was among the missing.
However, I lost nothing; for a benevolent
lady, who happened to be one of the company,
presented me with one which was of far more
value than the one I had lost.</p>
<p>Every one appeared to enjoy the holiday which
the Royal visit had caused. But the Irish are
indeed a strange people. How varied their
<!-- Page 20 --><SPAN name="Page_20" id="Page_20" title="20" class="pagenum"></SPAN>aspect—how contradictory their character. Ireland,
the land of genius and degradation—of
great resources and unparalleled poverty—noble
deeds and the most revolting crimes—the land of
distinguished poets, splendid orators, and the
bravest of soldiers—the land of ignorance and
beggary! Dublin is a splendid city, but its
splendour is that of chiselled marble rather than
real life. One cannot behold these architectural
monuments without thinking of the great men
that Ireland has produced. The names of Burke,
Sheridan, Flood, Grattan, O'Connell, and Shiel,
have become as familiar to the Americans as
household words. Burke is known as the statesman;
Sheridan for his great speech on the trial
of Warren Hastings; Grattan for his eloquence;
O'Connell as the agitator; and Shiel as the
accomplished orator.</p>
<p>But of Ireland's sons, none stands higher in
America than Thomas Moore, the Poet. The
vigour of his sarcasm, the glow of his enthusiasm,
the coruscations of his fancy, and the flashing of
his wit, seem to be as well understood in the new
world as the old; and the support which his pen
<!-- Page 21 --><SPAN name="Page_21" id="Page_21" title="21" class="pagenum"></SPAN>has given to civil and religious liberty throughout
the world, entitled the Minstrel of Erin to this
elevated position.</p>
<p>Before leaving America I had heard much of
the friends of my enslaved countrymen residing
in Ireland; and the reception I met with on all
hands while in public, satisfied me that what I
had heard had not been exaggerated. To the
Webbs, Allens, and Haughtons, of Dublin, the
cause of the American slave is much indebted.</p>
<p>I quitted Dublin with a feeling akin to leaving
my native land.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="LETTER_III" id="LETTER_III"></SPAN>LETTER III.</h2>
<h3>Departure from Ireland—London—Trip to Paris—Paris—The Peace Congress: first day—Church of the Madeleine—Column Vendome—the French.</h3>
<p class="quotdate"><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Paris</span>, <i>August 23</i>.</p>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">After</span> a pleasant sojourn of three weeks in Ireland,
I took passage in one of the mail steamers
<!-- Page 22 --><SPAN name="Page_22" id="Page_22" title="22" class="pagenum"></SPAN>for Liverpool, and arriving there was soon on
the road to the metropolis. The passage from
Dublin to Liverpool was an agreeable one. The
rough sea that we passed through on going to
Ireland had given way to a dead calm, and our
noble little steamer, on quitting the Dublin wharf,
seemed to understand that she was to have it all
her own way. During the first part of the evening,
the boat appeared to feel her importance,
and, darting through the water with majestic
strides, she left behind her a dark cloud of smoke
suspended in the air like a banner; while, far
astern in the wake of the vessel, could be seen
the rippled waves sparkling in the rays of the
moon, giving strength and beauty to the splendour
of the evening.</p>
<p>On reaching Liverpool, and partaking of a good
breakfast, for which we paid double price, we
proceeded to the railway station, and were soon
going at a rate unknown to those accustomed to
travel on one of our American railways. At a
little past two o'clock in the afternoon, we saw in
the distance the out-skirts of London. We could
get but an indistinct view, which had the appear<!-- Page 23 --><SPAN name="Page_23" id="Page_23" title="23" class="pagenum"></SPAN>ance
of one architectural mass, extending all round
to the horizon, and enveloped in a combination of
fog and smoke; and towering above every other
object to be seen, was the dome of St. Paul's
Cathedral.</p>
<p>A few moments more, and we were safely
seated in a "Hansom's Patent," and on our way
to Hughes's—one of the politest men of the
George Fox stamp we have ever met. Here
we found forty or fifty persons, who, like
ourselves, were bound for the Peace Congress.
The Sturges, the Wighams, the Richardsons, the
Allens, the Thomases, and a host of others not
less distinguished as friends of peace, were of the
company—many of whom I had heard of, but
none of whom I had ever seen; yet I was not an
entire stranger to many, especially to the abolitionists.
In company with a friend, I sallied
forth after tea to take a view of the city. The
evening was fine—the dense fog and smoke having
to some extent passed away, left the stars shining
brightly, while the gas light from the street
lamps and the brilliant shop windows gave it the
appearance of day-light in a new form. "What
<!-- Page 24 --><SPAN name="Page_24" id="Page_24" title="24" class="pagenum"></SPAN>street is this?" we asked. "Cheapside," was the
reply. The street was thronged, and every body
seemed to be going at a rapid rate, as if there
was something of importance at the end of the
journey. Flying vehicles of every description
passing each other with a dangerous rapidity,
men with lovely women at their sides, children
running about as if they had lost their parents—all
gave a brilliancy to the scene scarcely to be
excelled. If one wished to get jammed and pushed
about, he need go no farther than Cheapside.
But every thing of the kind is done with a degree
of propriety in London, that would put the New
Yorkers to blush. If you are run over in London,
they "beg your pardon;" if they run over you in
New York, you are "laughed at:" in London, if
your hat is knocked off it is picked up and
handed to you; if, in New York, you must pick
it up yourself. There is a lack of good manners
among Americans that is scarcely known or understood
in Europe. Our stay in the great metropolis
gave us but little opportunity of seeing
much of the place; for in twenty-four hours after
our arrival we joined the rest of the delegates,
<!-- Page 25 --><SPAN name="Page_25" id="Page_25" title="25" class="pagenum"></SPAN>and started on our visit to our Gallic neighbours.</p>
<p>We assembled at the London Bridge Railway
Station on Tuesday morning the 21st, a few
minutes past nine, to the number of 600. The
day was fine, and every eye seemed to glow with
enthusiasm. Besides the delegates, there were
probably not less than 600 more, who had come
to see the company start. We took our seats
and appeared to be waiting for nothing but the
iron-horse to be fastened to the train, when all at
once, we were informed that we must go to the
booking-office and change our tickets. At this
news every one appeared to be vexed. This
caused great trouble; for on returning to the
train many persons got into the wrong carriages;
and several parties were separated from their
friends, while not a few were calling out at the
top of their voices, "Where is my wife? Where is
my husband? Where is my luggage? Who's got
my boy? Is this the right train?" "What is that
lady going to do with all these children?" asked
the guard. "Is she a delegate: are all the children
delegates?" In the carriage where I had
<!-- Page 26 --><SPAN name="Page_26" id="Page_26" title="26" class="pagenum"></SPAN>taken my seat was a good-looking lady who gave
signs of being very much annoyed. "It is just so
when I am going anywhere: I never saw the like
in my life," said she. "I really wish I was at
home again."</p>
<p>An hour had now elapsed, and we were still at
the station. However, we were soon on our way,
and going at express speed. In passing through
Kent we enjoyed the scenery exceedingly, as the
weather was altogether in our favour; and the drapery
which nature hung on the trees, in the part
through which we passed, was in all its gaiety.
On our arrival at Folkstone, we found three
steamers in readiness to convey the party to
Boulogne. As soon as the train stopped, a
general rush was made for the steamers; and in
a very short time the one in which I had embarked
was passing out of the harbour. The
boat appeared to be conscious that we were going
on a holy mission, and seemed to be proud of her
load. There is nothing in this wide world so
like a thing of life as a steamer, from the breathing
of her steam and smoke, the energy of her
motion, and the beauty of her shape; while the
<!-- Page 27 --><SPAN name="Page_27" id="Page_27" title="27" class="pagenum"></SPAN>ease with which she is managed by the command
of a single voice, makes her appear as obedient
as the horse is to the rein.</p>
<p>When we were about half way between the two
great European Powers, the officers began to
gather the tickets. The first to whom he applied,
and who handed out his "Excursion
Ticket," was informed that we were all in the
wrong boat. "Is this not one of the boats to
take over the delegates?" asked a pretty little
lady, with a whining voice. "No, Madam,"
said the captain. "You must look to the committee
for your pay," said one of the company to
the captain. "I have nothing to do with committees,"
the captain replied. "Your fare, Gentlemen,
if you please."</p>
<p>Here the whole party were again thrown into
confusion. "Do you hear that? We are in the
wrong boat." "I knew it would be so," said the
Rev. Dr. Ritchie, of Edinburgh<ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: typo, quote deleted">.</ins> "It is indeed a
pretty piece of work," said a plain-looking lady
in a handsome bonnet. "When I go travelling
again," said an elderly looking gent with an eye-glass
to his face, "I will take the phaeton and
<!-- Page 28 --><SPAN name="Page_28" id="Page_28" title="28" class="pagenum"></SPAN>old Dobbin." Every one seemed to lay the blame
on the committee, and not, too, without some
just grounds. However, Mr. Sturge, one of the
committee, being in the boat with us, an arrangement
was entered into, by which we were not
compelled to pay our fare the second time.</p>
<p>As we neared the French coast, the first object
that attracted our attention was the Napoleon
Pillar, on the top of which is a statue of the
Emperor in the Imperial robes. We landed, partook
of refreshment that had been prepared for us,
and again repaired to the railway station. The
arrangements for leaving Boulogne were no
better than those at London. But after the delay
of another hour, we were again in motion.</p>
<p>It was a beautiful country through which we
passed from Boulogne to Amiens. Straggling
cottages which bespeak neatness and comfort
abound on every side. The eye wanders over the
diversified views with unabated pleasure, and
rests in calm repose upon its superlative beauty.
Indeed, the eye cannot but be gratified at viewing
the entire country from the coast to the metropolis.
Sparkling hamlets spring up as the steam
<!-- Page 29 --><SPAN name="Page_29" id="Page_29" title="29" class="pagenum"></SPAN>horse speeds his way, at almost every point—showing
the progress of civilization, and the
refinement of the nineteenth century.</p>
<p>We arrived at Paris a few minutes past twelve
o'clock at night, when, according to our tickets,
we should have been there at nine. Elihu Burritt,
who had been in Paris some days, and who had
the arrangements there pretty much his own way,
was at the station waiting the arrival of the train,
and we had demonstrated to us, the best evidence
that he understood his business. In no other
place on the whole route had the affairs been so
well managed; for we were seated in our respective
carriages and our luggage placed on the top,
and away we went to our hotels without the least
difficulty or inconvenience. The champion of an
"Ocean Penny Postage" received, as he deserved,
thanks from the whole company for his admirable
management.</p>
<p>The silence of the night was only disturbed by
the rolling of the wheels of the omnibus, as we
passed through the dimly lighted streets. Where,
a few months before was to be seen the flash
from the cannon and the musket, and the hearing
<!-- Page 30 --><SPAN name="Page_30" id="Page_30" title="30" class="pagenum"></SPAN>of the cries and groans behind the barricades,
was now the stillness of death—nothing save here
and there a <i>gens d'arme</i> was to be seen going his
rounds in silence.</p>
<p>The omnibus set us down at the hotel Bedford,
Rue de L'Arend, where, although near one
o'clock, we found a good supper waiting for us;
and, as I was not devoid of an appetite, I did my
share towards putting it out of the way.</p>
<p>The next morning I was up at an early hour,
and out on the Boulevards to see what might be
seen. As I was passing from the Bedford to the
Place de La Concord, all at once, and as if by
some magic power, I found myself in front of the
most splendid edifice imaginable, situated at the
end of the Rue Nationale. Seeing a number of
persons entering the church at that early hour,
and recognising among them my friend the President
of the Oberlin (Ohio) Institute, and wishing
not to stray too far from my hotel before breakfast,
I followed the crowd and entered the building.
The church itself consisted of a vast nave,
interrupted by four pews on each side, fronted
with lofty fluted Corinthian columns standing on
<!-- Page 31 --><SPAN name="Page_31" id="Page_31" title="31" class="pagenum"></SPAN>pedestals, supporting colossal arches, bearing up
cupolas, pierced with skylights and adorned with
compartments gorgeously gilt; their corners supported
with saints and apostles in <i>alto relievo</i>.
The walls of the church were lined with rich
marble. The different paintings and figures,
gave the interior an imposing appearance. On
inquiry, I found that I was in the Church of
the Madeleine. It was near this spot that some
of the most interesting scenes occurred during
the Revolution of 1848, which dethroned Louis
Philippe. Behind the Madeleine is a small but
well supplied market; and on an esplanade east
of the edifice, a flower market is held on Tuesdays
and Fridays.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>The first session of the Peace Congress is over.</p>
<p><br/>
The Congress met this morning at 11 o'clock,
in the Salle St. Cecile, Rue de la St. Lazare.
The Parisians have no "Exeter Hall:" in fact,
there is no private hall in the city of any size,
save this, where such a meeting could be held.
This hall has been fitted up for the occasion. The
<!-- Page 32 --><SPAN name="Page_32" id="Page_32" title="32" class="pagenum"></SPAN>room is long, and at one end has a raised platform;
and at the opposite end is a gallery, with
seats raised one above another. On one side of
the hall was a balcony with sofas, which were
evidently the "reserved seats."</p>
<p>The hall was filled at an early hour with the
delegates, their friends, and a good sprinkling of
the French. Occasionally, small groups of gentlemen
would make their appearance on the platform,
until it soon appeared that there was little
room left for others; and yet the officers of the
Convention had not come in. The different
countries were, many of them, represented here.
England, France, Belgium, Germany, Switzerland,
Greece, Spain, and the United States, had
each their delegates. The Assembly began to
give signs of impatience, when very soon the
train of officials made their appearance amid
great applause. Victor Hugo led the way, followed
by M. <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "Duguery" in the original text">Duguerry</ins>, curé of the Madeleine,
Elihu Burritt, and a host of others of less note.
Victor Hugo took the chair as President of the
Congress, supported by Vice-presidents from the
several nations represented. Mr. Richard, the
<!-- Page 33 --><SPAN name="Page_33" id="Page_33" title="33" class="pagenum"></SPAN>Secretary, read a dry report of the names of
societies, committees, &c., which was deemed
the opening of the Convention.</p>
<p>The President then arose, and delivered one of
the most impressive and eloquent appeals in
favour of peace that could possibly be imagined.
The effect produced upon the minds of all present
was such as to make the author of "<i>Notre Dame
de Paris</i>" a great favourite with the Congress.
An English gentleman near me said to his friend,
"I can't understand a word of what he says, but
is it not good?" Victor Hugo concluded his
speech amid the greatest enthusiasm on the part
of the French, which was followed by hurrahs in
the old English style. The Convention was
successively addressed by the President of the
Brussels Peace Society; President Mahan of the
Oberlin (Ohio) Institute, U.S.; Henry Vincent;
and Richard Cobden. The latter was not only
the <i>lion</i> of the English delegation, but the great
man of the Convention. When Mr. Cobden
speaks, there is no want of hearers. The great
power of this gentleman lies in his facts
and his earnestness, for he cannot be called an
<!-- Page 34 --><SPAN name="Page_34" id="Page_34" title="34" class="pagenum"></SPAN>eloquent speaker. Mr. Cobden addressed the
Congress first in French, then in English; and,
with the single exception of Mr. Ewart, M.P., was
the only one of the English delegation that could
speak to the French in their own language.</p>
<p>The Congress was brought to a close at five
o'clock, when the numerous audience dispersed—the
citizens to their homes, and the delegates to
see the sights.</p>
<p>I was not a little amused at an incident that
occurred at the close of the first session. On the
passage from America, there were in the same
steamer with me, several Americans, and among
these, three or four appeared to be much annoyed
at the fact that I was a passenger, and enjoying
the company of white persons; and although I
was not openly insulted, I very often heard the
remark, that "That nigger had better be on his
master's farm," and "What could the American
Peace Society be thinking about to send a black
man as a delegate to Paris." Well, at the close
of the first sitting of the Convention, and just as I
was leaving Victor Hugo, to whom I had been
introduced by an M.P., I observed near me a
<!-- Page 35 --><SPAN name="Page_35" id="Page_35" title="35" class="pagenum"></SPAN>gentleman with his hat in hand, whom I recognized
as one of the passengers who had crossed
the Atlantic with me in the <i>Canada</i>, and who
appeared to be the most horrified at having a
negro for a fellow passenger. This gentleman, as
I left M. Hugo, stepped up to me and said,
"How do you do, Mr. Brown?" "You have the
advantage of me," said I. "Oh, don't you know
me; I was a fellow passenger with you from
America; I wish you would give me an introduction
to Victor Hugo and Mr. Cobden." I need
not inform you that I declined introducing this
pro-slavery American to these distinguished men.
I only allude to this, to show what a change comes
over the dreams of my white American brother,
by crossing the ocean. The man who would not
have been seen walking with me in the streets of
New York, and who would not have shaken hands
with me with a pair of tongs while on the passage
from the United States, could come with hat in
hand in Paris, and say, "I was your fellow-passenger."
From the Salle de St. Cecile, I visited
the Column Vendome, from the top of which I
obtained a fine view of Paris and its environs.
<!-- Page 36 --><SPAN name="Page_36" id="Page_36" title="36" class="pagenum"></SPAN>This is the Bunker Hill Monument of Paris. On
the top of this pillar is a statue of the Emperor
Napoleon, eleven feet high. The monument is
built with stone, and the outside covered with a
metallic composition, made of cannons, guns,
spikes, and other warlike implements taken from
the Russians and Austrians by Napoleon. Above
1200 cannons were melted down to help to create
this monument of folly, to commemorate the success
of the French arms in the German Campaign.
The column is in imitation of the <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "Trojan" in the original text">Trajan</ins>
pillar at Rome, and is twelve feet in diameter
at the base. The door at the bottom of the
pillar, and where we entered, was decorated above
with crowns of oak, surmounted by eagles, each
weighing 500 lbs. The bas-relief of the shaft
pursues a spiral direction to the capitol, and displays,
in a chronological order, the principal
actions of the French army, from the departure
of the troops from Boulogne to the battle of
Austerlitz. The figures are near three feet high,
and their number said to be two thousand.
This sumptuous monument stands on a plinth of
polished granite, surmounted by an iron railing;
<!-- Page 37 --><SPAN name="Page_37" id="Page_37" title="37" class="pagenum"></SPAN>and, from its size and position, has an imposing
appearance when seen from any part of the city.</p>
<p>Everything here appears strange and peculiar—the
people not less so than their speech. The
horses, carriages, furniture, dress, and manners,
are in keeping with their language. The appearance
of the labourers in caps, resembling nightcaps,
seemed particularly strange to me. The
women without bonnets, and their caps turned
the right side behind, had nothing of the look
of our American women. The prettiest woman
I ever saw was without a bonnet, walking on
the Boulevards. While in Ireland, and during
the few days I was in England, I was struck with
the marked difference between the appearance
of the women from those of my own country.
The American women are too tall, too sallow,
and too long-featured to be called pretty. This
is most probably owing to the fact that in America
the people come to maturity earlier than in most
other countries.</p>
<p>My first night in Paris was spent with interest.
No place can present greater street attractions
than the Boulevards of Paris. The countless
<!-- Page 38 --><SPAN name="Page_38" id="Page_38" title="38" class="pagenum"></SPAN>number of cafés, with tables before the doors,
and these surrounded by men with long moustaches,
with ladies at their sides, whose very
smiles give indication of happiness, together with
the sound of music from the gardens in the rear,
tell the stranger that he is in a different country
from his own.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="LETTER_IV" id="LETTER_IV"></SPAN>LETTER IV.</h2>
<h3>Versailles—The Palace—Second Session of the Congress—Mr. Cobden—Henry Vincent—M. Girardin—Abbe Duguerry—Victor Hugo: his Speech.</h3>
<p class="quotdate"><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Versailles</span>, <i>August 24</i>.</p>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">After</span> the Convention had finished its sittings
yesterday, I accompanied Mrs. M. C—— and
sisters to Versailles, where they are residing
during the summer. It was really pleasing to see
among the hundreds of strange faces in the
Convention, those distinguished friends of the
slave from Boston.</p>
<p><!-- Page 39 --><SPAN name="Page_39" id="Page_39" title="39" class="pagenum"></SPAN>Mrs. C——'s residence is directly in front of
the great palace where so many kings have made
their homes, the prince of whom was Louis XIV.
The palace is now unoccupied. No ruler has
dared to take up his residence here since Louis
XVI. and Marie <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "Antionette" in the original text">Antoinette</ins> were driven from it by
the mob from Paris on the 8th of October, 1789.
The town looks like the wreck of what it once
was. At the commencement of the first revolution,
it contained one hundred thousand
inhabitants; now it has only about thirty
thousand. It seems to be going back to what it
was in the time of Louis XIII., when in 1624
he built a small brick chateau, and from it arose
the magnificent palace which now stands here,
and which attracts strangers to it from all parts
of the world.</p>
<p>I arose this morning before the sun, and took
a walk through the grounds of the Palace, and
remained three hours among the fountains and
statuary of this more than splendid place. But as
I intend spending some days here, and shall have
better opportunities of seeing and judging, I will
defer my remarks upon Versailles for the present.</p>
<p><!-- Page 40 --><SPAN name="Page_40" id="Page_40" title="40" class="pagenum"></SPAN>Yesterday was a great day in the Congress.
The session was opened by a speech from M.
Coquerel, the Protestant clergyman in Paris.
His speech was received with much applause, and
seemed to create great sensation in the Congress,
especially at the close of his remarks, when he
was seized by the hand by the Abbe Duguerry,
amid the most deafening and enthusiastic applause
of the entire multitude. The meeting was then
addressed in English by a short gentleman, of
florid complexion. His words seemed to come
without the least difficulty, and his jestures,
though somewhat violent, were evidently studied;
and the applause with which he was greeted by
the English delegation, showed that he was a
man of no little distinction among them. His
speech was one continuous flow of rapid, fervid
eloquence, that seemed to fire every heart; and
although I disliked his style, I was prepossessed
in his favour. This was Henry Vincent, and his
speech was in favour of disarmament.</p>
<p>Mr. Vincent was followed by M. Emile de
Girardin, the editor of <i>La Presse</i>, in one of the
most eloquent speeches that I ever heard; and his
<!-- Page 41 --><SPAN name="Page_41" id="Page_41" title="41" class="pagenum"></SPAN>exclamation of "Soldiers of Peace," drew thunders
of applause from his own countrymen. M.
Girardin is not only the leader of the French
press, but is a writer on politics of great distinction,
and a leader of no inconsiderable party
in the National Assembly; although still a young
man, apparently not more than thirty-eight or
forty years of age.</p>
<p>After a speech from Mr. Ewart, M.P., in French,
and another from Mr. Cobden in the same language,
the Convention was brought to a close for
the day. I spent the morning yesterday, in
visiting some of the lions of the French capital,
among which was the Louvre. The French
Government having kindly ordered, that the
members of the Peace Congress should be
admitted free, and without ticket, to all the public
works, I had nothing to do but present my card
of membership, and was immediately admitted.</p>
<p>The first room I entered, was nearly a quarter
of a mile in length; is known as the "Long Gallery,"
and contains some of the finest paintings
in the world. On entering this superb palace,
my first impression was, that all Christendom had
<!-- Page 42 --><SPAN name="Page_42" id="Page_42" title="42" class="pagenum"></SPAN>been robbed, that the Louvre might make a
splendid appearance. This is the Italian department,
and one would suppose by its appearance
that but few paintings had been left in Italy.
The entrance end of the Louvre was for a long
time in an unfinished state, but was afterwards
completed by that master workman, the Emperor
Napoleon. It was long thought that the building
would crumble into decay, but the genius of
the great Corsican rescued it from ruin.</p>
<p>During our walk through the Louvre, we saw
some twenty or thirty artists copying paintings;
some had their copies finished and were going out,
others half done, while many had just commenced.
I remained some minutes near a pretty French
girl, who was copying a painting of a dog rescuing
a child from a stream of water into which it had
fallen.</p>
<p>I walked down one side of the hall and up the
other, and was about leaving, when I was informed
that this was only one room, and that a half-dozen
more were at my service; but a clock on a
neighbouring church reminded me that I must
quit the Louvre for the Salle de St. Cecile.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p><!-- Page 43 --><SPAN name="Page_43" id="Page_43" title="43" class="pagenum"></SPAN>This morning the Hall was filled at an early
hour with rather a more fashionable looking audience
than on any former occasion, and all appeared
anxious for the Congress to commence its
session, as it was understood to be the last day.
After the reading of several letters from gentlemen,
apologising for their not being able to
attend, the speech of Elihu Burritt was read by a
son of M. Coquerel. I felt somewhat astonished
that my countryman, who was said to be master
of fifty languages, had to get some one to read
his speech in French.</p>
<p>The Abbe Duguerry now came forward amid
great cheering, and said that "the eminent journalist,
Girardin, and the great English logician,
Mr. Cobden, had made it unnecessary for any
further advocacy in that assembly of the Peace
cause—that if the principles laid down in the resolutions
were carried out, the work would be
done. He said that the question of general
pacification was built on truth—truth which emanated
from God—and it were as vain to undertake
to prevent air from expanding as to check
<!-- Page 44 --><SPAN name="Page_44" id="Page_44" title="44" class="pagenum"></SPAN>the progress of truth. It must and would prevail."</p>
<p>A pale, thin-faced gentleman next ascended
the platform (or tribune, as it was called) amid
shouts of applause from the English, and began
his speech in rather a low tone, when compared
with the sharp voice of Vincent, or the thunder
of the Abbe Duguerry. An audience is not apt
to be pleased or even contented with an inferior
speaker, when surrounded by eloquent men, and
I looked every moment for manifestations of disapprobation,
as I felt certain that the English
delegation had made a mistake in applauding this
gentleman who seemed to make such an unpromising
beginning. But the speaker soon began
to get warm on the subject, and even at times
appeared as if he had spoken before. In a very
short time, with the exception of his own voice,
the stillness of death prevailed throughout the
building<ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: typo, added full-stop">.</ins> The speaker, in the delivery of one of
the most logical speeches made in the Congress,
and despite of his thin, sallow look, interested me
much more than any whom I had before heard.
Towards the close of his remarks, he was several
<!-- Page 45 --><SPAN name="Page_45" id="Page_45" title="45" class="pagenum"></SPAN>times interrupted by manifestations of approbation;
and finally concluded amid great cheering.
I inquired the gentleman's name, and was informed
that it was Edward Miall, editor of the
<i>Nonconformist</i>.</p>
<p>After speeches from several others, the great
Peace Congress of 1849, which had brought men
together from nearly all the governments of
Europe, and many from America, was brought to
a final close by a speech from the President, returning
thanks for the honour that had been
conferred upon him. He said, "My address shall
be short, and yet I have to bid you adieu! How
resolve to do so? Here, during three days, have
questions of the deepest import been discussed,
examined, probed to the bottom; and during these
discussions, counsels have been given to governments
which they will do well to profit by. If
these days' sittings are attended with no other
result, they will be the means of sowing in the
minds of those present, gems of cordiality which
must ripen into good fruit. England, France,
Belgium, Europe, and America, would all be
drawn closer by these sittings. Yet the moment
<!-- Page 46 --><SPAN name="Page_46" id="Page_46" title="46" class="pagenum"></SPAN>to part has arrived, but I can feel that we are
strongly united in heart. But before parting I
may congratulate you and myself on the result of
our proceedings. We have been all joined together
without distinction of country; we have
all been united in one common feeling during
our three days' communion. The good work
cannot go back, it must advance, it must be
accomplished. The course of the future may be
judged of by the sound of the footsteps of the
past. In the course of that day's discussion, a
reminiscence had been handed up to one of the
speakers, that this was the anniversary of the
dreadful massacre of St. Bartholomew: the rev.
gentleman who was speaking turned away from
the thought of that sanguinary scene with pious
horror, natural to his sacred calling. But I, who
may boast of firmer nerve, I take up the remembrance.
Yes, it was on this day, two hundred
and seventy-seven years ago, that Paris was
roused from slumber by the sound of that bell
which bore the name of <i>cloche d'argent</i>.
Massacre was on foot, seeking with keen eye
for its victim—man was busy in slaying man.
<!-- Page 47 --><SPAN name="Page_47" id="Page_47" title="47" class="pagenum"></SPAN>That slaughter was called forth by mingled passions
of the worst description. Hatred of all kinds was
there urging on the slayer—hatred of a religious,
a political, a personal character. And yet on the
anniversary of that same day of horror, and in
that very city whose blood was flowing like water,
has God this day given a rendezvous to men of
peace, whose wild tumult is transformed into
order, and animosity into love. The stain of
blood is blotted out, and in its place beams
forth a ray of holy light. All distinctions are
removed, and Papist and Huguenot meet together
in friendly communion. (Loud cheers.)
Who that thinks of these amazing changes can
doubt of the progress that has been made? But
whoever denies the force of progress must deny
God, since progress is the boon of Providence,
and emanated from the great Being above. I
feel gratified for the change that has been effected,
and, pointing solemnly to the past, I say let
this day be ever held memorable—let the 24th of
August, 1572, be remembered only for the purpose
of being compared with the 24th of August,
1849; and when we think of the latter, and
<!-- Page 48 --><SPAN name="Page_48" id="Page_48" title="48" class="pagenum"></SPAN>ponder over the high purpose to which it has
been devoted—the advocacy of the principles of
peace—let us not be so wanting in reliance on
Providence as to doubt for one moment of the
eventful success of our holy cause."</p>
<p>The most enthusiastic cheers followed this
interesting speech. A vote of thanks to the
government, and three times three cheers, with
Mr. Cobden as "fugleman," ended the great
Peace Congress of 1849.</p>
<p>Time for separating had arrived, yet all seemed
unwilling to leave the place, where for three days
men of all creeds and of no creed had met upon
one common platform. In one sense the meeting
was a glorious one—in another, it was mere
child's play; for the Congress had been restricted
to the discussion of certain topics. They were
permitted to dwell on the blessings of peace, but
were not allowed to say anything about the very
subjects above all others that should have been
brought before the Congress. A French army
had invaded Rome and put down the friends of
political and religious freedom, yet not a word
was said in reference to it. The fact is, the Com<!-- Page 49 --><SPAN name="Page_49" id="Page_49" title="49" class="pagenum"></SPAN>mittee
permitted the Congress to be <i>gagged</i>, before
it had met. They put padlocks upon their
own mouths, and handed the keys to the government.
And this was sorely felt by many of the
speakers. Richard Cobden, who had thundered
his anathemas against the Corn Laws of his own
country, and against wars in every clime, had to
sit quiet in his fetters. Henry Vincent, who can
make a louder speech in favour of peace, than almost
any other man, and whose denunciations of
"all war," have gained him no little celebrity
with peace men, had to confine himself to the
blessings of peace. Oh! how I wished for a
Massachusetts atmosphere, a New England Convention
platform, with Wendell Phillips as the
speaker, before that assembled multitude from all
parts of the world.</p>
<p>But the Congress is over, and cannot now be
made different; yet it is to be hoped that neither
the London Peace Committee, nor any other men
having the charge of getting up such another
great meeting, will commit such an error again.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div><!-- Page 50 --><SPAN name="Page_50" id="Page_50" title="50" class="pagenum"></SPAN></div>
<h2><SPAN name="LETTER_V" id="LETTER_V"></SPAN>LETTER V.</h2>
<h3>M. de Tocqueville's Grand Soiree—Madame de Tocqueville—Visit of the Peace Delegates to Versailles—The Breakfast—Speechmaking—The Trianons—Waterworks—St. Cloud—The <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "Fète" in the original text">Fête</ins>. </h3>
<p class="quotdate"><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Versailles</span>, <i>August 24</i>.</p>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">The</span> day after the close of the Congress, the
delegates and their friends were invited to a
<ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "soirèe" in the original text">soirée</ins> by M. de Tocqueville, Minister for
Foreign Affairs, to take place on the next evening
(Saturday); and, as my coloured face and curly
hair did not prevent my getting an invitation, I
was present with the rest of my peace brethren.</p>
<p>Had I been in America, where colour is considered
a crime, I would not have been seen at
such a gathering, unless as a servant. In company
with several delegates, we left the Bedford
Hotel for the mansion of the Minister of Foreign
Affairs; and, on arriving, we found a file of
soldiers drawn up before the gate. This did not
<!-- Page 51 --><SPAN name="Page_51" id="Page_51" title="51" class="pagenum"></SPAN>seem much like peace: however, it was merely
done in honour of the company. We entered the
building through massive doors and resigned ourselves
into the hands of good-looking waiters in
white wigs; and, after our names were duly
announced, were passed from room to room till I
was presented to Madame de Tocqueville, who was
standing near the centre of the large drawing-room,
with a bouquet in her hand. I was about
passing on, when the gentleman who introduced
me intimated that I was an "American slave."
At the announcement of this fact the distinguished
lady extended her hand and gave me a cordial
welcome—at the same time saying, "I hope you
feel yourself free in Paris." Having accepted an
invitation to a seat by the lady's side, who seated
herself on a sofa, I was soon what I most dislike,
"the observed of all observers." I recognised
among many of my own countrymen, who were
gazing at me, the American Consul, Mr. Walsh.
My position did not improve his looks. The
company present on this occasion were variously
estimated at from one thousand to fifteen hundred.
Among these were the Ambassadors from the
<!-- Page 52 --><SPAN name="Page_52" id="Page_52" title="52" class="pagenum"></SPAN>different countries represented at the French
metropolis, and many of the <i>elite</i> of Paris. One
could not but be interested with the difference in
dress, looks, and manners of this assemblage of
strangers whose language was as different as their
general appearance. Delight seemed to beam in
every countenance as the living stream floated
from one room to another. The house and gardens
were illuminated in the most gorgeous manner.
Red, yellow, blue, green, and many other
coloured lamps, suspended from the branches of
the trees in the gardens, gave life and animation
to the whole scene out of doors. The <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "soirèe" in the original text">soirée</ins>
passed off satisfactorily to all parties; and by
twelve o'clock I was again at my Hotel.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>Through the politeness of the government the
members of the Congress have not only had the
pleasure of seeing all the public works free, and
without special ticket, but the palaces of Versailles
and St. Cloud, together with their splendid
grounds, have been thrown open, and the water-works
set to playing in both places. This mark
of respect for the Peace movement is commendable
<!-- Page 53 --><SPAN name="Page_53" id="Page_53" title="53" class="pagenum"></SPAN>in the French; and were I not such a strenuous
friend of free speech, this act would cause me to
overlook the padlocks that the government put
upon our lips in the Congress.</p>
<p>Two long trains left Paris at nine o'clock for
Versailles; and at each of the stations the company
were loudly cheered by the people who had
assembled to see them pass. At Versailles, we
found thousands at the station, who gave us a
most enthusiastic welcome. We were blessed
with a goodly number of the fair sex, who always
give life and vigour to such scenes. The train
had scarcely stopped, ere the great throng were
wending their ways in different directions, some
to the cafés to get what an early start prevented
their getting before leaving Paris, and others to
see the soldiers who were on review. But most
bent their steps towards the great palace.</p>
<p>At eleven o'clock we were summoned to the
<i>dejeuner</i>, which had been prepared by the English
delegates in honour of their American friends.
About six hundred sat down at the tables. Breakfast
being ended, Mr. Cobden was called to the
chair, and several speeches were made. Many
<!-- Page 54 --><SPAN name="Page_54" id="Page_54" title="54" class="pagenum"></SPAN>who had not an opportunity to speak at the Congress,
thought this a good chance; and the written
addresses which had been studied during the
passage from America, with the hope that they
would immortalize their authors before the great
Congress, were produced at the breakfast table.
But speech-making was not the order of the day.
Too many thundering addresses had been delivered
in the Salle de St. Cecile, to allow the
company to sit and hear dryly written and worse
delivered speeches in the Teniscourt.</p>
<p>There was no limited time given to the speakers,
yet no one had been on his feet five minutes,
before the cry was heard from all parts of the
house, "Time, time." One American was hissed
down, another took his seat with a red face, and
a third opened his bundle of paper, looked around
at the audience, made a bow, and took his seat
amid great applause. Yet some speeches were
made, and to good effect, the best of which was
by Elihu Burritt, who was followed by the Rev.
James Freeman Clark. I regretted very much
that the latter did not deliver his address before
the Congress, for he is a man of no inconsider<!-- Page 55 --><SPAN name="Page_55" id="Page_55" title="55" class="pagenum"></SPAN>able
talent, and an acknowledged friend of the
slave.</p>
<p>The cry of "The water-works are playing,"
"The water is on," broke up the meeting, without
even a vote of thanks to the Chairman; and
the whole party were soon revelling among the
fountains and statues of Louis XIV. Description
would fail to give a just idea of the grandeur and
beauty of this splendid place. I do not think
that any thing can surpass the fountain of Neptune,
which stands near the Grand Trianon.
One may easily get lost in wandering through
the grounds of Versailles, but he will always be
in sight of some life-like statue. These monuments,
erected to gratify the fancy of a licentious
king, make their appearance at every turn.
Two lions, the one overturning a wild boar, the
other a wolf, both the production of Fillen, pointed
out to us the fountain of Diana. But I will
not attempt to describe to you any of the very
beautiful sculptured gods and goddesses here.</p>
<p>With a single friend I paid a visit to the two
Trianons. The larger was, we were told, just as
king Louis Philippe left it. One room was
<!-- Page 56 --><SPAN name="Page_56" id="Page_56" title="56" class="pagenum"></SPAN>splendidly fitted up for the reception of Her
Majesty Queen Victoria; who, it appeared, had
promised a visit to the French Court; but the
French Monarch ran away from his throne before
the time arrived. The Grand Trianon is not larger
than many noblemen's seats that may be seen in a
day's ride through any part of the British empire.
The building has only a ground floor, but its proportions
are very elegant.</p>
<p>We next paid our respects to the Little Trianon.
This appears to be the most Republican of any of
the French palaces. I inspected this little palace
with much interest, not more for its beauty than
because of its having been the favourite residence
of that purest of Princesses, best of Queens, and
most affectionate of mothers, Marie Antoinette.
The grounds and building may be said to be only
a palace in miniature, and this makes it still a more
lovely spot. The building consists of a square
pavilion two stories high, and separated entirely
from the accessory buildings, which are on the left,
and among them a pretty chapel. But a wish
to be with the multitude, who were roving among
the fountains, cut short my visit to the trianons.</p>
<p><!-- Page 57 --><SPAN name="Page_57" id="Page_57" title="57" class="pagenum"></SPAN>The day was very fine, and the whole party
seemed to enjoy it. It was said that there were
more than one hundred thousand persons at
Versailles during the day. The company appeared
to lose themselves with the pleasure of walking
among the trees, flower beds, fountains, and
statues. I met more than one wife seeking a lost
husband, and <i>vice versa</i>. Many persons were
separated from their friends and did not meet
them again till at the hotels in Paris. In the
train returning to Paris, an old gentleman who
was seated near me said, "I would rest contented
if I thought I should ever see my wife again!"</p>
<p>At four o'clock we were <i>en route</i> to St. Cloud,
the much loved and favourite residence of the
Emperor Napoleon. It seemed that all Paris
had come out to St. Cloud to see how the English
and Americans would enjoy the playing of the
water-works. Many kings and rulers of the
French have made St. Cloud their residence, but
none have impressed their images so indelibly
upon it as Napoleon. It was here he was first
elevated to power, and here Josephine spent her
most happy hours.</p>
<p><!-- Page 58 --><SPAN name="Page_58" id="Page_58" title="58" class="pagenum"></SPAN>The apartments where Napoleon was married
to Marie Louise; the private rooms of Josephine
and Marie Antoinette, were all in turn shown to
us. While standing on the balcony looking at
Paris one cannot wonder that the Emperor should
have selected this place as his residence, for a
more lovely spot cannot be found than St. Cloud.</p>
<p>The palace is on the side of a hill, two leagues
from Paris, and so situated that it looks down
upon the French capital. Standing, as we did,
viewing Paris from St. Cloud, and the setting sun
reflecting upon the domes, spires, and towers of
the city of fashion, made us feel that this was the
place from which the monarch should watch his
subjects. From the hour of arrival at St. Cloud
till near eight o'clock, we were either inspecting
the splendid palace or roaming the grounds and
gardens, whose beautiful walks and sweet flowers
made it appear a very Paradise on earth.</p>
<p>At eight o'clock the water-works were put in
motion, and the variagated lamps with their many
devices, displaying flowers, stars, and wheels, all
with a brilliancy that can scarcely be described,
seemed to throw everything in the shade we had
<!-- Page 59 --><SPAN name="Page_59" id="Page_59" title="59" class="pagenum"></SPAN>seen at Versailles. At nine o'clock the train was
announced, and after a good deal of <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "jambing" in the original text">jamming</ins> and
pushing about, we were again on the way to
Paris.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="LETTER_VI" id="LETTER_VI"></SPAN>LETTER VI.</h2>
<h3>The Tuileries—Place de la Concorde—The Egyptian Obelisk—Palais Royal—Residence of Robespierre—A Visit to the Room in which Charlotte Corday killed Marat—Church de Notre Dame—Palais de Justice—Hotel des Invalids—National Assembly—The Elysee.</h3>
<p class="quotdate"><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Paris</span>, <i>August 28</i>.</p>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Yesterday</span> morning I started at an early hour
for the Palace of the Tuileries. A show of my
card of membership of the Congress (which had
carried me through so many of the public buildings)
was enough to gain me immediate admission.
The attack of the mob on the palace, on
the 20th of June, 1792, the massacre of the Swiss
guard on the 10th of August of the same year,
<!-- Page 60 --><SPAN name="Page_60" id="Page_60" title="60" class="pagenum"></SPAN>the attack by the people in July 1830, together
with the recent flight of king Louis Philippe and
family, made me anxious to visit the old pile.</p>
<p>We were taken from room to room, until the
entire building had been inspected. In front of
the Tuileries, are a most magnificent garden and
grounds. These were all laid out by Louis XIV.,
and are left nearly as they were during that
monarch's reign. Above fifty acres surrounded
by an iron rail fence, fronts the Place de la
Concorde, and affords a place of promenade for
the Parisians. I walked the pleasing grounds,
and saw hundreds of well dressed persons walking
under the shade of the great chestnuts, or sitting
on chairs which were kept to let at two sous
a piece. Near by is the Place de Carrousel, noted
for its historical remembrances. Many incidents
connected with the several revolutions occurred
here, and it is pointed out as the place where
Napoleon reviewed that formidable army of his
before its departure for Russia.</p>
<p>From the Tuileries, I took a stroll through the
Place de la Concorde, which has connected with it
so many acts of cruelty, that it made me shudder
<!-- Page 61 --><SPAN name="Page_61" id="Page_61" title="61" class="pagenum"></SPAN>as I passed over its grounds. As if to take from
one's mind the old associations of this place, the
French have erected on it, or rather given a place
to, the celebrated obelisk of Luxor, which now is
the chief attraction on the grounds. The obelisk
was brought from Egypt at an enormous expense;
for which purpose a ship was built, and several
hundred men employed above three years in its
removal. It is formed of the finest red syenite,
and covered on each side with three lines of
hieroglyphic inscriptions, commemorative of
Sesostris—the middle lines being the most
deeply cut and most carefully finished; and the
characters altogether number more than 1600.
The obelisk is of a single stone, is 72 feet in height,
weighs 500,000 lbs., and stands on a block of
granite that weighs 250,000 lbs. He who can
read Latin will see that the monument tells its
own story, but to me its characters were all
blank.</p>
<p>It would be tedious to follow the history of this
old and venerated stone, which was taken from
the quarry 1550 years before the birth of Christ;
placed in Thebes; its removal; the journey to
<!-- Page 62 --><SPAN name="Page_62" id="Page_62" title="62" class="pagenum"></SPAN>the Nile, and down the Nile; thence to Cherbourg,
and lastly its arrival in Paris on the 23d of
December, 1833—just one year before I escaped
from slavery. The obelisk was raised on the spot
where it now stands, on the 25th of October,
1836, in the presence of Louis Philippe and amid
the greetings of 160,000 persons.</p>
<p>Having missed my dinner, I crossed over to the
Palais Royal, to a dining saloon, and can assure
you that a better dinner may be had there for
five francs, than can be got in New York for twice
that sum, and especially if the person who wants
the dinner is a coloured man. I found no
prejudice against my complexion in the Palais
Royal.</p>
<p>Many of the rooms in this once abode of
Royalty, are most splendidly furnished, and
decorated with valuable pictures. The likenesses
of Madame de Stael, J.J. Rousseau, Cromwell,
and Francis I., are among them.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>After several unsuccessful attempts to-day, in
company with R.D. Webb, Esq., to seek out
the house where once resided the notorious
<!-- Page 63 --><SPAN name="Page_63" id="Page_63" title="63" class="pagenum"></SPAN>Robespierre, I was fortunate enough to find it, but
not until I had lost the company of my friend.
The house is No. 396, Rue St. Honore, opposite
the Church of the Assumption. It stands back,
and is reached by entering a court. During the
first revolution it was occupied by M. Duplay,
with whom Robespierre lodged. The room used
by the great man of the revolution, was pointed
out to me. It is small, and the ceiling low, with
two windows looking out upon the court. The
pin upon which the blue coat once hung, is still
in the wall. While standing there, I could almost
imagine that I saw the great "Incorruptible,"
sitting at the small table composing those speeches
which gave him so much power and influence in
the Convention and the Clubs.</p>
<p>Here, the disciple of Rousseau sat and planned
how he should outdo his enemies and hold on to
his friends. From this room he went forth,
followed by his dog Brunt, to take his solitary
walk in a favourite and neighbouring field, or to
the fiery discussions of the National Convention.
In the same street, is the house in which Madame
Roland—one of Robespierre's victims—resided.</p>
<p><!-- Page 64 --><SPAN name="Page_64" id="Page_64" title="64" class="pagenum"></SPAN>A view of the residence of one of the master
spirits of the French revolution inclined me to
search out more, and therefore I proceeded to
the old town, and after winding through several
small streets—some of them so narrow as not to
admit more than one cab at a time—I found
myself in the Rue de L'Ecole de Medecine, and
standing in front of house No. 20. This was the
residence, during the early days of the revolution,
of that bloodthirsty demon in human form,
Marat.</p>
<p>I said to a butcher, whose shop was underneath,
that I wanted to see La Chambre de
Marat. He called out to the woman of the
house to know if I could be admitted, and the
reply was, that the room was used as a sleeping
apartment, and could not be seen.</p>
<p>As this was private property, my blue card of
membership to the Congress was not available.
But after slipping a franc into the old lady's hand,
I was informed that the room was now ready.
We entered a court and ascended a flight of
stairs, the entrance to which is on the right; then
crossing to the left, we were shown into a mo<!-- Page 65 --><SPAN name="Page_65" id="Page_65" title="65" class="pagenum"></SPAN>derate-sized
room on the first floor, with two windows
looking out upon a yard. Here it was where
the "Friend of the People" (as he styled himself,)
sat and wrote those articles that appeared daily in
his journal, urging the people to "hang the rich
upon lamp posts." The place where the bath
stood, in which he was bathing at the time he
was killed by Charlotte Corday, was pointed out
to us; and even something representing an old
stain of blood was shown as the place where he
was laid when taken out of the bath. The window,
behind whose curtains the heroine hid,
after she had plunged the dagger into the heart
of the man whom she thought was the cause of
the shedding of so much blood by the guillotine,
was pointed out with a seeming degree of pride
by the old woman.</p>
<p>With my Guide Book in hand, I again went
forth to "hunt after new fancies."</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>After walking over the ground where the guillotine
once stood, cutting off its hundred and fifty
heads per day, and then visiting the place where
some of the chief movers in that sanguinary revo<!-- Page 66 --><SPAN name="Page_66" id="Page_66" title="66" class="pagenum"></SPAN>lution
once lived, I felt little disposed to sleep,
when the time for it had arrived. However, I was
out this morning at an early hour, and on the
Champs Elysees; and again took a walk over the
place where the guillotine stood, when its fatal
blade was sending so many unprepared spirits
into eternity. When standing here, you have
the Palace of the Tuileries on one side, the arch
on the other; on a third, the classic Madeleine;
and on the fourth, the National Assembly. It
caused my blood to chill, the idea of being on the
identical spot where the heads of Louis XVI. and
his Queen, after being cut off, were held up to
satisfy the blood-thirsty curiosity of the two hundred
thousand persons that were assembled on
the Place de la Revolution. Here Royal blood
flowed as it never did before or since. The heads
of patricians and plebians, were thrown into the
same basket, without any regard to birth or station<ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: typo, full-stop added">.</ins>
Here Robespierre and Danton had stood
again and again, and looked their victims in the
face as they ascended the scaffold; and here, these
same men had to mount the very scaffold that they
had erected for others. I wandered up the Seine,
<!-- Page 67 --><SPAN name="Page_67" id="Page_67" title="67" class="pagenum"></SPAN>till I found myself looking at the statue of
Henry the IV. over the principal entrance of the
Hotel de Ville. When we take into account the
connection of the Hotel de Ville with the different
revolutions, we must come to the conclusion,
that it is one of the most remarkable buildings in
Paris. The room was pointed out where Robespierre
held his counsels, and from the windows of
which he could look out upon the Place de Greve,
where the guillotine stood before its removal to
the Place de la Concorde. The room is large,
with gilded hangings, splendid old-fashioned
chandeliers, and a chimney-piece with fine antiquated
carvings, that give it a venerable appearance.
Here Robespierre not only presided at the
counsels that sent hundreds to the guillotine; but
from this same spot, he, with his brother St. Just
and others, were dragged before the Committee of
Public Safety, and thence to the guillotine, and
justice and revenge satisfied.</p>
<p>The window from which Lafayette addressed
the people in 1830, and presented to them Louis
Philippe, as the king, was shown to us. Here the
poet, statesman, philosopher and orator, Lamar<!-- Page 68 --><SPAN name="Page_68" id="Page_68" title="68" class="pagenum"></SPAN>tine,
stood in February 1848, and, by the power
of his eloquence, succeeded in keeping the people
quiet. Here he forced the mob, braved the
bayonets presented to his breast, and, by his good
reasoning, induced them to retain the tri-coloured
flag, instead of adopting the red flag, which he
considered the emblem of blood.</p>
<p>Lamartine is a great heroic genius, dear to
liberty and to France; and successive generations,
as they look back upon the revolution of 1848,
will recall to memory the many dangers which
nothing but his dauntless courage warded off. The
difficulties which his wisdom surmounted, and the
good service that he rendered to France, can never
be adequately estimated or too highly appreciated.
It was at the Hotel de Ville that the Republic of
1848 was proclaimed to the people.</p>
<p>I next paid my respects to the Column of July
that stands on the spot formerly occupied by the
Bastile. It is 163 feet in height, and on the top
is the Genius of Liberty, with a torch in his right
hand, and in the left a broken chain. After a
fatiguing walk up a winding stair, I obtained a
splendid view of Paris from the top of the column.</p>
<p><!-- Page 69 --><SPAN name="Page_69" id="Page_69" title="69" class="pagenum"></SPAN>I thought I should not lose the opportunity of
seeing the Church de Notre Dame while so near
to it, and, therefore, made it my next rallying
point. No edifice connected with religion has
had more interesting incidents <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "occuring" in the original text">occurring</ins> in it than
this old church. Here Pope Pius VII. placed
the Imperial Crown on the head of the Corsican—or
rather Napoleon took the Crown from his
hands and placed it on his own head. Satan
dragging the wicked to ——; the rider on the
red horse at the opening of the second seal; the
blessedness of the saints; and several other
striking sculptured figures were among the many
curiosities in this splendid place. A hasty view
from the gallery concluded my visit to the Notre
Dame.</p>
<p>Leaving the old church I strayed off in a
direction towards the Seine, and passed by an
old looking building of stately appearance, and
recognised, among a throng passing in and out,
a number of the members of the Peace Congress.
I joined a party entering, and was soon in
the presence of men with gowns on, and men
with long staffs in their hands—and on inquiry
<!-- Page 70 --><SPAN name="Page_70" id="Page_70" title="70" class="pagenum"></SPAN>found that I was in the Palais de Justice; beneath
which is the Conciergerie, a noted prison. Louis
XVI. and Marie Antoinette were tried and condemned
to death here.</p>
<p>A bas-relief, by Cortat, representing Louis in
conference with his Counsel, is here seen. But I
had visited too many places of interest during the
day to remain long in a building surrounded by
officers of justice, and took a stroll upon the
Boulevards.</p>
<p>The Boulevards may be termed the Regent
Street of Paris, or a New Yorker would call them
Broadway. While passing a café, my German
friend Faigo, whose company I had enjoyed
during the passage from America, recognised me,
and I sat down and took a cup of delicious coffee
for the first time on the side walk, in sight of
hundreds who were passing up and down the
street every hour. From three till eleven o'clock,
<span style="font-variant: small-caps;">P.M.</span>, the Boulevards are lined with men and
women sitting before the doors of the saloons
drinking their coffee or wines, or both at the
same time, as fancy may dictate. All Paris
appeared to be on the Boulevards, and looking
<!-- Page 71 --><SPAN name="Page_71" id="Page_71" title="71" class="pagenum"></SPAN>as if the great end of this life was enjoyment.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>Anxious to see as much as possible of Paris in
the limited time I had to stay in it, I hired a cab
yesterday morning and commenced with the
Hotel des Invalids, a magnificent building, within
a few minutes' walk of the National Assembly.
On each side of the entrance gate are figures
representing nations conquered by Louis XIV.,
with colossal statues of Mars and Minerva. The
dome on the edifice is the loftiest in Paris—the
height from the ground being 323 feet.</p>
<p>Immediately below the dome is the tomb of
the man at whose word the world turned pale.
A statue of the Emperor Napoleon stands in the
second piazza, and is of the finest bronze.</p>
<p>This building is the home of the pensioned
soldiers of France. It was enough to make one
sick at the idea of war, to look upon the mangled
bodies of these old soldiers. Men with arms and
no legs; others had legs but no arms; some with
canes and crutches, and some wheeling themselves
about in little hand carts. About three thousand
of the decayed soldiers were lodged in the Hotel
<!-- Page 72 --><SPAN name="Page_72" id="Page_72" title="72" class="pagenum"></SPAN>des Invalids, at the time of my visit. Passing the
National Assembly on my return, I spent a
moment or two in it. The interior of this building
resembles an amphitheatre. It is constructed
to accommodate 900 members, each having a
separate desk. The seat upon which the Duchesse
of Orleans, and her son, the Comte de Paris, sat,
when they visited the National Assembly after
the flight of Louis Philippe, was shown with considerable
alacrity. As I left the building, I heard
that the President of the Republic was on the
point of leaving the Elysee for St. Cloud, and
with the hope of seeing the "Prisoner of Ham,"
I directed my cabman to drive me to the Elysee.</p>
<p>In a few moments we were between two files
of soldiers, and entering the gates of the palace. I
called out to the driver and told him to stop; but
I was too late, for we were now in front of the
massive doors of the palace, and a liveried servant
opened the cab door, bowed, and asked if I had
an engagement with the President. You may
easily "guess" his surprise when I told him no.
In my best French, I asked the cabman why he
had come to the palace, and was answered, "You
<!-- Page 73 --><SPAN name="Page_73" id="Page_73" title="73" class="pagenum"></SPAN>told me to." By this time a number had
gathered round, all making inquiries as to what I
wanted. I told the driver to retrace his steps,
and, amid the shrugs of their shoulders, the nods of
their heads, and the laughter of the soldiers, I left
the Elysee without even a sight of the President's
mustaches for my trouble. This was only one of
the many mistakes I made while in Paris.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="LETTER_VII" id="LETTER_VII"></SPAN>LETTER VII.</h2>
<h3>The Chateau at Versailles—Private apartments of Marie Antoinette—The Secret Door—Paintings of Raphael and David—Arc de Triomphe<ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: typo, final em-dash added">—</ins>Beranger the Poet.</h3>
<p class="quotdate"><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Versailles</span>, <i>August 31</i>.</p>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Here</span> I am, within ten leagues of Paris, spending
the time pleasantly in viewing the palace and
grounds of the great Chateau of Louis XIV.
Fifty-seven years ago, a mob, composed of men,
women, and boys, from Paris, stood in front of
<!-- Page 74 --><SPAN name="Page_74" id="Page_74" title="74" class="pagenum"></SPAN>this palace and demanded that the king should go
with them to the capital. I have walked over the
same ground where the one hundred thousand
stood on that interesting occasion. I have been
upon the same balcony, and stood by the window
from which Maria Antoinette looked out upon the
mob that were seeking her life.</p>
<p>Anxious to see as much of the palace as I could,
and having an offer of the company of my young
friend, Henry G. Chapman, to go through the
palace with me, I set out early yesterday morning,
and was soon in the halls that had often
been trod by Royal feet. We passed through
the private, as well as the public, apartments,
through the secret door by which Marie Antoinette
had escaped from the mob of 1792, and
viewed the room in which her faithful guards
were killed, while attempting to save their Royal
mistress. I took my seat in one of the little
parlour carriages that had been used in days of
yore for the Royal children; while my friend, H.G.
Chapman, drew me across the room. The
superb apartments are not now in use. Silence
is written upon these walls, although upon them
<!-- Page 75 --><SPAN name="Page_75" id="Page_75" title="75" class="pagenum"></SPAN>are suspended the portraits of men of whom the
world has heard.</p>
<p>Paintings, representing Napoleon in nearly all
his battles, are here seen; and wherever you see
the Emperor, there you will also find Murat, with
his white plume waving above. Callot's painting
of the battle of Marengo, Hue's of the retaking of
Genoa, and Bouchat's of the 18th Brumaire,
are of the highest order; while David has transmitted
his fame to posterity, by his splendid
painting of the Coronation of Napoleon and Josephine
in Notre Dame. When I looked upon the
many beautiful paintings of the last named artist,
that adorn the halls of Versailles, I did not wonder
that his fame should have saved his life, when
once condemned and sentenced to death during
the reign of terror. The guillotine was robbed of
its intended victim, but the world gained a great
painter. As Boswell transmitted his own name
to posterity with his life of Johnson, so has David
left his, with the magnificent paintings that are
now suspended upon the walls of the palaces of
the Louvre, the Tuileries, St. Cloud, Versailles,
and even the little Elysee.</p>
<p><!-- Page 76 --><SPAN name="Page_76" id="Page_76" title="76" class="pagenum"></SPAN>After strolling from room to room, we found
ourselves in the Salle du Sacre, Diane, Salon de
Mars, de Mercure, and d'Apollon. I gazed with
my eyes turned to the ceiling till I was dizzy.
The Salon de la Guerre is covered with the most
beautiful representations that the mind of man
could conceive, or the hand accomplish. Louis
XIV. is here in all his glory. No Marie Antoinette
will ever do the honours in these halls again.</p>
<p>After spending a whole day in the Palace and
several mornings in the Gardens, I finally bid
adieu to the bronze statue of Louis XIV. that
stands in front of the Palace, and left Versailles,
probably for ever.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p class="quotdate"><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Paris</span>, <i>September 2</i>.</p>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">I am</span> now on the point of quitting the French
Metropolis. I have occupied the last two days
in visiting places of note in the city. I could not
resist the inclination to pay a second visit to the
Louvre. Another hour was spent in strolling
through the Italian Hall and viewing the master-workmanship
of Raphael, the prince of painters.
<!-- Page 77 --><SPAN name="Page_77" id="Page_77" title="77" class="pagenum"></SPAN>Time flies, even in such a place as the Louvre
with all its attractions; and before I had seen
half that I wished, a ponderous clock near by
reminded me of an engagement, and I reluctantly
tore myself from the splendours of the place.</p>
<p>During the rest of the day I visited the
Jardin des Plantes, and spent an hour and <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "a-half" in the original text">a half</ins>
pleasantly in walking among plants, flowers, and
in fact everything that could be found in any
garden in France. From this place we passed by
the column of the Bastile, and paid our respects
to the Bourse, or Exchange, one of the most
superb buildings in the city. The ground floor
and sides of the Bourse, are of fine marble, and the
names of the chief cities in the world are inscribed
on the medallions, which are under the upper
cornice. The interior of the edifice has a most
splendid appearance as you enter it.</p>
<p>The Cemetery of Père la Chaise was too much
talked of by many of our party at the Hotel for
me to pass it by, so I took it after the Bourse.
Here lie many of the great marshals of France—the
resting place of each marked by the monument
that stands over it, except one, which is
<!-- Page 78 --><SPAN name="Page_78" id="Page_78" title="78" class="pagenum"></SPAN>marked only by a weeping willow and a plain
stone at its head. This is the grave of Marshal
Ney. I should not have known that it was his,
but some unknown hand had written with black
paint, "Bravest of the Brave," on the unlettered
stone that stands at the head of the man who
followed Napoleon through nearly all his battles,
and who was shot after the occupation of Paris by
the allied army. Peace to his ashes. During my
ramble through this noted place, I saw several
who were hanging fresh wreaths of everlasting
flowers on the tombs of the departed.</p>
<p>A ride in an omnibus down the Boulevards,
and away up the Champs Elysees, brought me to
the Arc de Triomphe; and after ascending a
flight of one hundred and sixty-one steps, I was
overlooking the city of statuary. This stupendous
monument was commenced by Napoleon in
1806; and in 1811 it had only reached the
cornice of the base, where it stopped, and it was
left for Louis Philippe to finish. The first stone
of this monument was laid on the 15th of
August, 1806, the birth-day of the man whose
battles it was intended to commemorate. A
<!-- Page 79 --><SPAN name="Page_79" id="Page_79" title="79" class="pagenum"></SPAN>model of the arch was erected for Napoleon to
pass through as he was entering the city with
Maria Louisa, after their marriage. The inscriptions
on the monument are many, and the
different scenes here represented are all of the
most exquisite workmanship. The genius of War
is summoning the obedient nations to battle.
Victory is here crowning Napoleon after his great
success in 1810. Fame stands here recording the
exploits of the warrior, while conquered cities lie
beneath the whole. But it would take more time
than I have at command to give anything like a
description of this magnificent piece of architecture.</p>
<p>That which seems to take most with Peace
Friends, is the portion representing an old man
taming a bull for agricultural labour; while a young
warrior is sheathing his sword, a mother and children
sitting at his feet, and Minerva crowned with
laurels, stands shedding her protecting influence
over them. The erection of this regal monument
is wonderful, to hand down to posterity the triumphs
of the man whom we first hear of as a
student in the military school at Brienne, whom
<!-- Page 80 --><SPAN name="Page_80" id="Page_80" title="80" class="pagenum"></SPAN>in 1784 we see in the Ecole Militaire, founded by
Louis XV. in 1751; whom again we find at No.
5, Quai de Court, near Rue de Mail; and in 1794
as a lodger at No. 19, Rue de la Michandère.
From this he goes to the Hotel Mirabeau, Rue du
Dauphin, where he resided when he defeated his
enemies on the 13th Vendimaire. The Hotel de
la Colonade, Rue Neuve des Capuchins is his next
residence, and where he was married to Josephine.
From this hotel he removed to his wife's dwelling
in the Rue Chanteriene, No. 52. In 1796
the young general started for Italy, where his
conquests paved the way for the ever memorable
18th Brumaire, that made him dictator of
France. Napoleon was too great now to be
satisfied with private dwellings, and we next trace
him to the Elysee, St. Cloud, Versailles, the
Tuileries, Fontainbleau, and finally, came his
decline, which I need not relate to you.</p>
<p>After visiting the Gobelins, passing through its
many rooms, seeing here and there a half-finished
piece of tapestry; and meeting a number of the
members of the late Peace Congress, who, like
myself had remained behind to see more of the
<!-- Page 81 --><SPAN name="Page_81" id="Page_81" title="81" class="pagenum"></SPAN>beauties of the French capital than could be
overtaken during the Convention week. I accepted
an invitation to dine with a German gentleman
at the Palais Royal, and was soon revelling
amid the luxuries of the table. I was
glad that I had gone to the Palais Royal, for
here I had the honour of an introduction to M.
Beranger, the poet; and although I had to converse
with him through an interpreter, I enjoyed
his company very much. "The people's poet,"
as he is called, is apparently about seventy years
of age, bald on the top of the head, and rather
corpulent, but of active look, and in the enjoyment
of good health. Few writers in France
have done better service to the cause of political
and religious freedom, than Pierre Jean de
Beranger. He is the dauntless friend and advocate
of the down-trodden poor and oppressed,
and has often incurred the displeasure of the
Government by the arrows that he has thrown
into their camp. He felt what he wrote; it
came straight from his heart, and went directly
to the hearts of the people. He expressed himself
strongly opposed to slavery, and said, "I
<!-- Page 82 --><SPAN name="Page_82" id="Page_82" title="82" class="pagenum"></SPAN>don't see how the Americans can reconcile
slavery with their professed love of freedom."
Dinner out of the way, a walk through the
different apartments, and a stroll over the court,
and I bade adieu to the Palais Royal, satisfied
that I should partake of many worse dinners
than I had helped to devour that day.</p>
<p>Few nations are more courteous than the
French. Here the stranger, let him come from
what country he may, and be ever so unacquainted
with the people and language, he is sure of a
civil reply to any question that he may ask.
With the exception of the egregious blunder I
have mentioned of the cabman driving me to the
Elysee, I was not laughed at once while in
France.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div><!-- Page 83 --><SPAN name="Page_83" id="Page_83" title="83" class="pagenum"></SPAN></div>
<h2><SPAN name="LETTER_VIII" id="LETTER_VIII"></SPAN>LETTER VIII.</h2>
<h3>Departure from Paris—Boulogne—Folkstone—London—Geo. Thompson, Esq., M.P.—Hartwell House—Dr. Lee—Cottage of the Peasant—Windsor Castle—Residence of Wm. Penn—England's First Welcome—Heath Lodge—The Bank of England</h3>
<p class="quotdate"><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">London</span>, <i>Sept. 8th</i>.</p>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">The</span> sun had just appeared from behind a cloud
and was setting, and its reflection upon the
domes and spires of the great buildings in Paris
made everything appear lovely and sublime, as
the train, with almost lightning speed, was
bringing me from the French metropolis. I
gazed with eager eyes to catch a farewell glance
of the tops of the regal palaces through which I
had passed, during a stay of fifteen days in the
French capital.</p>
<p>A pleasant ride of four hours brought us to
Boulogne, where we rested for the night. The
next morning I was up at an early hour, and out
<!-- Page 84 --><SPAN name="Page_84" id="Page_84" title="84" class="pagenum"></SPAN>viewing the town. Boulogne could present but
little attraction, after a fortnight spent in seeing
the lions of Paris. A return to the hotel, and
breakfast over, we stepped on board the steamer,
and were soon crossing the channel. Two hours
more, and I was safely seated in a railway
carriage, <i>en route</i> to the English metropolis.
We reached London at mid-day, where I was
soon comfortably lodged at 22, Cecil Street,
Strand. As the London lodging-houses seldom
furnish dinners, I lost no time in seeking out a
dining-saloon, which I had no difficulty in finding
in the Strand. It being the first house of the
kind I had entered in London, I was not a little
annoyed at the politeness of the waiter. The
first salutation I had, after seating myself in one
of the stalls, was, "Ox tail, Sir; gravy soup;
carrot soup, Sir; roast beef; roast pork; boiled
beef; roast lamb; boiled leg of mutton, Sir,
with caper sauce; jugged hare, Sir; boiled
knuckle of veal and bacon; roast turkey and
oyster sauce; sucking pig, Sir; curried chicken;
harrico mutton, Sir." These, and many other
dishes which I have forgotten, were called over
<!-- Page 85 --><SPAN name="Page_85" id="Page_85" title="85" class="pagenum"></SPAN>with a rapidity that would have done credit to
one of our Yankee pedlars, in crying his wares in
a New England village. I was so completely
taken by surprise, that I asked for a "bill of
fare," and told him to leave me. No city in
the world furnishes a cheaper, better, and quicker
meal for the weary traveller, than a London
eating-house.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>After spending a day in looking about through
this great thoroughfare, the Strand, I sallied
forth with letters of introduction, with which I
had been provided by my friends before leaving
America; and following the direction of one, I
was soon at No. 6, A, Waterloo Place. A
moment more, and I was in the presence of one
of whom I had heard much, and whose name is
as familiar to the friends of the slave in the
United States, as household words. Although I
had never seen him before, yet I felt a feeling
akin to love for the man who had proclaimed to
the oppressors of my race in America, the doctrine
of <i>immediate emancipation</i> for the slaves of
the great Republic. On reaching the door, I
<!-- Page 86 --><SPAN name="Page_86" id="Page_86" title="86" class="pagenum"></SPAN>sent in my letter; and it being fresh from the
hands of William Lloyd Garrison, the champion
of freedom in the New World, was calculated to
insure me a warm reception at the hands of the
distinguished M.P. for the Tower Hamlets. Mr.
Thompson did not wait for the servant to show
me in; but met me at the door himself, and gave
me a hearty shake of the hand, at the same time
saying, "Welcome to England. How did you
leave Garrison." I need not add, that Mr. T. gave
me the best advice, as to my course in Great Britain;
and how I could best serve the cause of my
enslaved countrymen. I never enjoyed three
hours more agreeably than those I spent with Mr.
T. on the occasion of my first visit. George
Thompson's love of freedom, his labours in behalf
of the American slave, the negroes of the West
Indies, and the wronged millions of India, are too
well known to the people of both hemispheres, to
need a word of comment from me. With the
single exception of the illustrious Garrison, no
individual is more loved and honoured by the
coloured people of America, and their friends than
Mr. Thompson.</p>
<p><!-- Page 87 --><SPAN name="Page_87" id="Page_87" title="87" class="pagenum"></SPAN>A few days after my arrival in London, I received
an invitation from John Lee, Esq., LL.D.,
whom I had met at the Peace Congress in Paris,
to pay him a visit at his seat, near Aylesbury;
and as the time was "fixed" by the Dr., I took
the train on the appointed day, on my way to
Hartwell House.</p>
<p>I had heard much of the aristocracy of England,
and must confess that I was not a little prejudiced
against them. On a bright sunshine day,
between the hours of twelve and two, I found myself
seated in a carriage, my back turned upon
Aylesbury, the vehicle whirling rapidly over the
smooth macadamised road, and I on my first visit
to an English gentleman. Twenty minutes' ride,
and a turn to the right, and we were amid the
fine old trees of Hartwell Park; one having suspended
from its branches, the national banners of
several different countries; among them, the
"Stars and Stripes. I felt glad that my own
country's flag had a place there, although Campbell's
lines"—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div><span style="margin-left: -.5em;">"United States, your banner wears,</span></div>
<div>Two emblems,—one of fame;</div>
<div><!-- Page 88 --><SPAN name="Page_88" id="Page_88" title="88" class="pagenum"></SPAN>Alas, the other that it bears,</div>
<div>Reminds us of your shame.</div>
<div>The white man's liberty in types,</div>
<div>Stands blazoned by your stars;</div>
<div>But what's the meaning of your stripes,</div>
<div>They mean your Negro-scars"—</div>
</div></div>
<p><ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "Were" in the original text">were</ins> at the time continually running through my
mind. Arrived at the door, and we received
what every one does who visits Dr. Lee—a hearty
welcome. I was immediately shown into a room
with a lofty ceiling, hung round with fine specimens
of the Italian masters, and told that this
was my apartment. Hartwell House stands in
an extensive park, shaded with trees, that made
me think of the oaks and elms in an American
forest, and many of whose limbs had been trimmed
and nursed with the best of care. This was for
seven years the residence of John Hampden the
patriot, and more recently that of Louis XVIII.,
during his exile in this country. The house is
built on a very extensive scale, and is ornamented
in the interior with carvings in wood of many of
the kings and princes of bygone centuries. A
room some 60 feet by 25 contains a variety of
<!-- Page 89 --><SPAN name="Page_89" id="Page_89" title="89" class="pagenum"></SPAN>articles that the Dr. has collected together—the
whole forming a museum that would be considered
a sight in the Western States of America.</p>
<p>The morning after my arrival at Hartwell I
was up at an early hour—in fact, before any of the
servants—wandering about through the vast halls,
and trying to find my way out, in which I eventually
succeeded, but not, however, without
aid. It had rained the previous night, and the
sun was peeping through a misty cloud as I
strolled through the park, listening to the sweet
voices of the birds that were fluttering in the tops
of the trees, and trimming their wings for a
morning flight. The silence of the night had not
yet been broken by the voice of man; and I
wandered about the vast park unannoyed, except
by the dew from the grass that wet my slippers.
Not far from the house I came abruptly upon a
beautiful little pond of water, where the gold fish
were flouncing about, and the gentle ripples
glittering in the sunshine looked like so many
silver minnows playing on the surface.</p>
<p>While strolling about with pleasure, and only
regretting that my dear daughters were not with
<!-- Page 90 --><SPAN name="Page_90" id="Page_90" title="90" class="pagenum"></SPAN>me to enjoy the morning's walk, I saw the
gardener on his way to the garden. I followed
him, and was soon feasting my eyes upon the
richest specimens of garden scenery. There were
the peaches hanging upon the trees that were
fastened to the wall; vegetables, fruit, and
flowers were there in all their bloom and beauty;
and even the variegated geranium of a warmer
clime, was there in its hothouse home, and
seemed to have forgotten that it was in a different
country from its own. Dr. Lee shows great taste
in the management of his garden. I have
seldom seen a more splendid variety of fruits and
flowers in the southern States of America, than I
saw at Hartwell House.</p>
<p>I should, however, state that I was not the
only guest at Hartwell during my stay. Dr.
Lee had invited several others of the American
delegation to the Peace Congress, and two or
three of the French delegates who were on a visit
to England, were enjoying the Doctor's hospitality.
Dr. Lee is a staunch friend of Temperance,
as well as of the cause of universal freedom.
Every year he treats his tenantry to a dinner,
<!-- Page 91 --><SPAN name="Page_91" id="Page_91" title="91" class="pagenum"></SPAN>and I need not add that these are always conducted
on the principle of total abstinence.</p>
<p>During the second day we visited several of the
cottages of the work people, and in these I took
no little interest. The people of the United
States know nothing of the real condition of the
labouring classes of England. The peasants of
Great Britain are always spoken of as belonging
to the soil. I was taught in America that the
English labourer was no better off than the slave
upon a Carolina rice-field. I had seen the slaves
in Missouri huddled together, three, four, and
even five families in a single room not more than
15 by 25 feet square, and I expected to see the
same in England. But in this I was disappointed.
After visiting a new house that the Doctor was
building, he took us into one of the cottages that
stood near the road, and gave us an opportunity,
of seeing, for the first time, an English peasant's
cot. We entered a low whitewashed room, with
a stone floor that showed an admirable degree of
cleanness. Before us was a row of shelves filled
with earthen dishes and pewter spoons, glittering
as if they had just come from under the hand of
<!-- Page 92 --><SPAN name="Page_92" id="Page_92" title="92" class="pagenum"></SPAN>a woman of taste. A Cobden loaf of bread, that
had just been left by the baker's boy, lay upon an
oaken table which had been much worn away with
the scrubbing brush; while just above lay the old
family bible that had been handed down from
father to son, until its possession was considered
of almost as great value as its contents. A half-open
door, leading into another room, showed us
a clean bed; the whole presenting as fine a
picture of neatness, order, and comfort, as the
most fastidious taste could wish to see. No
occupant was present, and therefore I inspected
everything with a greater degree of freedom. In
front of the cottage was a small grass plot, with
here and there a bed of flowers, cheated out of its
share of sunshine by the tall holly that had been
planted near it. As I looked upon the home
of the labourer, my thoughts were with my
enslaved countrymen. What a difference, thought
I, there is between the tillers of the soil in
England and America. There could not be a
more complete refutation of the assertion that the
English labourer is no better off than the
American slave, than the scenes that were then
<!-- Page 93 --><SPAN name="Page_93" id="Page_93" title="93" class="pagenum"></SPAN>before me. I called the attention of one of my
American friends to a beautiful rose near the
door of the cot, and said to him, "The law that
will protect that flower will also guard and
protect the hand that planted it." He knew that
I had drank deep of the cup of slavery, was aware
of what I meant, and merely nodded his head
in reply. I never experienced hospitality more
genuine, and yet more unpretending, than was
<ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "meeted" in the original text">meted</ins> out to me while at Hartwell. And the
favourable impression made on my own mind, of
the distinguished proprietor of Hartwell Park,
was nearly as indelible as my humble name
that the Doctor had engraven in a brick, in
the vault beneath the Observatory in Hartwell
House.</p>
<p>On my return to London I accepted an invitation
to join a party on a visit to Windsor Castle;
and taking the train at the Waterloo Bridge
Station, we were soon passing through a pleasant
part of the country. Arrived at the castle, we committed
ourselves into the hands of the servants,
and were introduced into Her Majesty's State
apartments, Audience Chamber, Vandyck Room,
<!-- Page 94 --><SPAN name="Page_94" id="Page_94" title="94" class="pagenum"></SPAN>Waterloo Chambers, St. George's Hall, Gold
Pantry, and many others whose names I have forgotten.
In wandering about the different apartments
I lost my company, and in trying to find
them, passed through a room in which hung a
magnificent portrait of Charles I., by Vandyck.
The hum and noise of my companions had ceased,
and I had the scene and silence to myself. I
looked in vain for the king's evil genius (Cromwell),
but he was not in the same room. The
pencil of Sir Peter Lely has left a splendid full-length
likeness of James II. George IV. is suspended
from a peg in the wall, looking as if it
was fresh from the hands of Sir Thomas Lawrence,
its admirable painter. I was now in St.
George's Hall, and I gazed upward to view the
beautiful figures on the ceiling, until my neck
was nearly out of joint. Leaving this room, I inspected
with interest the ancient <i>keep</i> of the
castle. In past centuries this part of the palace
was used as a prison. Here James the First of
Scotland was detained a prisoner for eighteen
years. I viewed the window through which the
young prince had often looked to catch a glimpse
<!-- Page 95 --><SPAN name="Page_95" id="Page_95" title="95" class="pagenum"></SPAN>of the young and beautiful Lady Jane, daughter
of the Earl of Somerset, with whom he was
enamoured.</p>
<p>From the top of the Round Tower I had a fine
view of the surrounding country. Stoke Park,
once the residence of that great friend of humanity
and civilization, William Penn, was among the
scenes that I viewed with pleasure from Windsor
Castle. Four years ago, when in the city of
Philadelphia, and hunting up the places associated
with the name of this distinguished man, and
more recently when walking over the farm once
occupied by him on the banks of the Delaware,
examining the old malt house which is now left
standing, because of the veneration with which
the name of the man who built it is held, I had
no idea that I should ever see the dwelling which
he had occupied in the Old World. Stoke Park is
about four miles from Windsor, and is now owned
by the Right Hon. Henry Labouchere.</p>
<p>The castle, standing as it does on an eminence,
and surrounded by a beautiful valley covered with
splendid villas, has the appearance of Gulliver
looking down upon the Lilliputians. It rears its
<!-- Page 96 --><SPAN name="Page_96" id="Page_96" title="96" class="pagenum"></SPAN>massive towers and irregular walls over and above
every other object; it stands like a mountain in
the desert. How full this old palace is of material
for thought! How one could ramble here alone,
or with one or two congenial companions, and
enjoy a recapitulation of its history! But an
engagement to be at Croydon in the evening cut
short my stay at Windsor, and compelled me to
return to town in advance of my party.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>Having met with John Morland, Esq., of Heath
Lodge, at Paris, he gave me an invitation to visit
Croydon, and deliver a lecture on American
Slavery; and last evening, at eight o'clock, I found
myself in a fine old building in the town, and
facing the first English audience that I had seen
in the sea-girt isle. It was my first welcome in
England. The assembly was an enthusiastic one,
and made still more so by the appearance of
George Thompson, Esq., M.P., upon the platform.
It is not my intention to give accounts of my
lectures or meetings in these pages. I therefore
merely say, that I left Croydon with a good
impression of the English, and Heath Lodge with
<!-- Page 97 --><SPAN name="Page_97" id="Page_97" title="97" class="pagenum"></SPAN>a feeling that its occupant was one of the most
benevolent of men.</p>
<p>The same party with whom I visited Windsor
being supplied with a card of admission to the
Bank of England, I accepted an invitation to be
one of the company. We entered the vast building
at a little past twelve o'clock to-day. The
sun threw into the large halls a brilliancy that
seemed to light up the countenances of the almost
countless number of clerks, who were at their
desks, or serving persons at the counters. As
nearly all my countrymen who visit London pay
their respects to this noted institution, I shall sum
up my visit to it, by saying that it surpassed my
highest idea of a bank. But a stroll through this
monster building of gold and silver brought to
my mind an incident that occurred to me a year
after my escape from slavery.</p>
<p>In the autumn of 1835, having been cheated
out of the previous summer's earnings, by the
captain of the steamer in which I had been
employed running away with the money, I was,
like the rest of the men, left without any means
of support during the winter, and therefore had to
<!-- Page 98 --><SPAN name="Page_98" id="Page_98" title="98" class="pagenum"></SPAN>seek employment in the neighbouring towns. I
went to the town of Monroe, in the state of
Michigan, and while going through the principal
streets looking for work, I passed the door of the
only barber in the town, whose shop appeared to
be filled with persons waiting to be shaved. As
there was but one man at work, and as I had,
while employed in the steamer, occasionally shaved
a gentleman who could not perform that office
himself, it occurred to me that I might get
employment here as a journeyman barber. I
therefore made immediate application for work,
but the barber told me he did not need a hand.
But I was not to be put off so easily, and after
making several offers to work cheap, I frankly told
him, that if he would not employ me I would get
a room near to him, and set up an opposition
establishment. This threat, however, made no
impression on the barber; and as I was leaving,
one of the men who were waiting to be shaved
said, "If you want a room in which to commence
business, I have one on the opposite side of the
street." This man followed me out; we went
over, and I looked at the room. He strongly
<!-- Page 99 --><SPAN name="Page_99" id="Page_99" title="99" class="pagenum"></SPAN>urged me to set up, at the same time promising to
give me his influence. I took the room, purchased
an old table, two chairs, got a pole with a
red stripe painted around it, and the next day
opened, with a sign over the door, "Fashionable
Hair-dresser from New York, Emperor of the
West." I need not add that my enterprise was
very annoying to the "shop over the way"—especially
my sign, which happened to be the
most expensive part of the concern. Of course, I
had to tell all who came in that my neighbour on
the opposite side did not keep clean towels, that
his razors were dull, and, above all, he had never
been to New York to see the fashions. Neither
had I. In a few weeks I had the entire business
of the town, to the great discomfiture of the other
barber.</p>
<p>At this time, money matters in the Western
States were in a sad condition. Any person who
could raise a small amount of money was permitted
to establish a bank, and allowed to issue
notes for four times the sum raised. This being
the case, many persons borrowed money merely
long enough to exhibit to the bank inspectors,
<!-- Page 100 --><SPAN name="Page_100" id="Page_100" title="100" class="pagenum"></SPAN>and the borrowed money was returned, and the
bank left without a dollar in its vaults, if, indeed,
it had a vault about its premises. The result was,
that banks were started all over the Western
States, and the country flooded with worthless
paper. These were known as the "Wild Cat
Banks." Silver coin being very scarce, and the
banks not being allowed to issue notes for a
smaller amount than one dollar, several persons
put out notes from 6 to 75 cents in value; these
were called "Shinplasters." The Shinplaster
was in the shape of a promissory note, made payable
on demand. I have often seen persons with
large rolls of these bills, the whole not amounting
to more than five dollars. Some weeks after I
had commenced business on my "own hook," I
was one evening very much crowded with customers;
and while they were talking over the
events of the day, one of them said to me,
"Emperor, you seem to be doing a thriving
business. You should do as other business men,
issue your Shinplasters." This, of course, as it
was intended, created a laugh; but with me it was
no laughing matter, for from that moment I
<!-- Page 101 --><SPAN name="Page_101" id="Page_101" title="101" class="pagenum"></SPAN>began to think seriously of becoming a banker.
I accordingly went a few days after to a printer,
and he, wishing to get the job of printing, urged
me to put out my notes, and showed me some
specimens of engravings that he had just received
from Detroit. My head being already filled with
the idea of a bank, I needed but little persuasion
to set the thing finally afloat. Before I left the
printer the notes were partly in type, and I studying
how I should keep the public from counterfeiting
them. The next day my Shinplasters
were handed to me, the whole amount being
twenty dollars, and after being duly signed were
ready for circulation. At first my notes did not
take well; they were too new, and viewed with a
suspicious eye. But through the assistance of my
customers, and a good deal of exertion on my own
part, my bills were soon in circulation; and
nearly all the money received in return for my
notes was spent in fitting up and decorating my
shop.</p>
<p>Few bankers get through this world without
their difficulties, and I was not to be an exception.
A short time after my money had been out, a
<!-- Page 102 --><SPAN name="Page_102" id="Page_102" title="102" class="pagenum"></SPAN>party of young men, either wishing to pull down
my vanity, or to try the soundness of my bank,
determined to give it "a run." After collecting
together a number of my bills, they came one at a
time to demand other money for them, and I, not
being aware of what was going on, was taken by
surprise. One day as I was sitting at my table,
strapping some new razors I had just got with the
avails of my "Shinplasters," one of the men
entered and said, "Emperor, you will oblige me
if you will give me some other money for these
notes of yours." I immediately cashed the notes
with the most worthless of the Wild Cat money
that I had on hand, but which was a lawful
tender. The young man had scarcely left when a
second appeared with a similar amount, and demanded
payment. These were cashed, and soon
a third came with his roll of notes. I paid these
with an air of triumph, although I had but half a
dollar left. I began now to think seriously what
I should do, or how to act, provided another demand
should be made. While I was thus engaged
in thought, I saw the fourth man crossing
the street, with a handful of notes, evidently my
"<!-- Page 103 --><SPAN name="Page_103" id="Page_103" title="103" class="pagenum"></SPAN>Shinplasters." I instantaneously shut the door,
and looking out of the window, said, "I have
closed business for the day: come to-morrow and
I will see you.<ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: typo, missing quote inserted">"</ins> In looking across the street, I
saw my rival standing in his shop-door, grinning
and clapping his hands at my apparent downfall.
I was completely "done <i>Brown</i>" for the day.
However, I was not to be "used up" in this
way; so I escaped by the back door, and went in
search of my friend who had first suggested to
me the idea of issuing notes. I found him, told
him of the difficulty I was in, and wished him to
point out a way by which I might extricate myself.
He laughed heartily, and then said, "You
must act as all bankers do in this part of the
country." I inquired how they did, and he said,
"When your notes are brought to you, you must
redeem them, and then send them out and get
other money for them; and, with the latter, you
can keep cashing your own Shinplasters." This
was indeed a new job to me. I immediately
commenced putting in circulation the notes which
I had just redeemed, and my efforts were crowned
with so much success, that before I slept that
<!-- Page 104 --><SPAN name="Page_104" id="Page_104" title="104" class="pagenum"></SPAN>night my "Shinplasters" were again in circulation,
and my bank once more on a sound basis.</p>
<p>As I saw the clerks shovelling out the yellow
coin upon the counters of the Bank of England,
and men coming in and going out with weighty
bags of the precious metal in their hands, or on
their shoulders, I could not but think of the
great contrast <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "beetween" in the original text">between</ins> the monster Institution,
within whose walls I was then standing, and the
Wild Cat Banks of America!</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="LETTER_IX" id="LETTER_IX"></SPAN>LETTER IX.</h2>
<h3>The British Museum—A Portrait—Night Reading—A Dark Day—A Fugitive Slave on the Streets of London,—A Friend in the time of need.</h3>
<p class="quotdate"><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">London</span>, <i>Sept. 24</i>.</p>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">I have</span> devoted the past ten days to sight-seeing
in the Metropolis—the first two of which were
spent in the British Museum. After procuring a
<!-- Page 105 --><SPAN name="Page_105" id="Page_105" title="105" class="pagenum"></SPAN>guide-book at the door as I entered, I seated myself
on the first seat that caught my eye,
arranged as well as I could in my mind the different
rooms, and then commenced in good
earnest. The first part I visited was the Gallery
of Antiquities, through to the north gallery, <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "and and" in the original text">and</ins>
thence to the Lycian Room. This place is
filled with tombs, bas-reliefs, statues, and other
productions of the same art. Venus, seated, and
smelling a lotus flower which she held in her
hand, and attended by three graces, put a stop to
the rapid strides that I was making through this
part of the hall. This is really one of the most
precious productions of the art that I have ever
seen. Many of the figures in this room are very
much mutilated, yet one can linger here for hours
with interest. A good number of the statues are
of uncertain date; they are of great value as works
of art, and more so as a means of enlightening
much that has been obscure with respect to
Lycia, an ancient and celebrated country of Asia
Minor.</p>
<p>In passing through the eastern Zoological Gallery,
I was surrounded on every side by an army
<!-- Page 106 --><SPAN name="Page_106" id="Page_106" title="106" class="pagenum"></SPAN>of portraits suspended upon the walls; and among
these was the Protector. The people of one
century kicks his bones through the streets of
London, another puts his portrait in the British
Museum, and a future generation may possibly
give him a place in Westminster Abbey. Such is
the uncertainty of the human character. Yesterday,
a common soldier—to-day, the ruler of an
empire—to-morrow, suspended upon the gallows.
In an adjoining room I saw a portrait of Baxter,
which gives one a pretty good idea of the great
Nonconformist. In the same room hung a splendid
modern portrait, without any intimation in
the guide-book of who it represented, or when it
was painted. It was so much like one whom I
had seen, and on whom my affections were placed
in my younger days, that I obtained a seat from
an adjoining room and rested myself before it.
After sitting half an hour or more, I wandered to
another part of the building, but only to return
again to my "first love," where I remained till the
throng had disappeared one after another, and
the officer reminding me that it was time to
close.</p>
<p><!-- Page 107 --><SPAN name="Page_107" id="Page_107" title="107" class="pagenum"></SPAN>It was eight o'clock before I reached my lodgings.
Although fatigued by the day's exertions,
I again resumed the reading of Roscoe's "Leo
X.," and had nearly finished seventy-three pages,
when the clock on St. Martin's Church apprised
me that it was two. He who escapes from slavery
at the age of twenty years, without any education,
as did the writer of this letter, must read
when others are asleep, if he would catch up with
the rest of the world. "To be wise," says Pope,
"is but to know how little can be known." The
true searcher after truth and knowledge is always
like a child; although gaining strength from year
to year, he still "learns to labour and to wait."
The field of labour is ever expanding before him,
reminding him that he has yet more to learn;
teaching him that he is nothing more than a
child in knowledge, and inviting him onward
with a thousand varied charms. The son may
take possession of the father's goods at his death,
but he cannot inherit with the property the
father's cultivated mind. He may put on the
father's old coat, but that is all: the immortal
mind of the first wearer has gone to the tomb.</p>
<p><!-- Page 108 --><SPAN name="Page_108" id="Page_108" title="108" class="pagenum"></SPAN>Property may be bequeathed, but knowledge
cannot. Then let him who would be useful in
his day and generation be up and doing. Like
the Chinese student who learned perseverance
from the woman whom he saw trying to rub a
crow-bar into a needle, so should we take the
experience of the past to lighten our feet through
the paths of the future.</p>
<p>The next morning at ten, I was again at the
door of the great building; was soon within its
walls seeing what time would not allow of the
previous day. I spent some hours in looking
through glass cases, viewing specimens of minerals,
such as can scarcely be found in any place
out of the British Museum. During this day I
did not fail to visit the great Library. It is a
spacious room, surrounded with large glass cases
filled with volumes, whose very look tells you that
they are of age. Around, under the cornice,
were arranged a number of old black-looking
portraits, in all probability the authors of some of
the works in the glass cases beneath. About the
room were placed long tables, with stands for
reading and writing, and around these were a
<!-- Page 109 --><SPAN name="Page_109" id="Page_109" title="109" class="pagenum"></SPAN>number of men busily engaged in looking over
some chosen author. Old men with grey hairs,
young men with mustaches—some in cloth,
others in fustian, indicating that men of different
rank can meet here. Not a single word was
spoken during my stay, all appearing to enjoy
the silence that reigned throughout the great
room. This is indeed a retreat from the world.
No one inquires who the man is who is at his
side, and each pursues in silence his own researches.
The racing of pens over the sheets of
paper was all that disturbed the stillness of the
occasion.</p>
<p>From the Library I strolled to other rooms,
and feasted my eyes on what I had never before
seen. He who goes over this immense building,
cannot do so without a feeling of admiration for
the men whose energy has brought together this
vast and wonderful collection of things, the like of
which cannot be found in any other museum in
the world. The reflection of the setting sun
against a mirror in one of the rooms, told me
that night was approaching, and I had but a
moment in which to take another look at the
<!-- Page 110 --><SPAN name="Page_110" id="Page_110" title="110" class="pagenum"></SPAN>portrait that I had seen the previous day, and
then bade adieu to the Museum.</p>
<p>Having published the narrative of my life and
escape from slavery, and put it into the booksellers'
hands—and seeing a prospect of a fair sale, I
ventured to take from my purse the last sovereign
to make up a small sum to remit to the United
States, for the support of my daughter, who is at
school there. Before doing this, however, I had
made arrangements to attend a public meeting in
the city of Worcester, at which the mayor was
to preside. Being informed by the friends of
the slave there, that I would, in all probability,
sell a number of copies of my book, and being
told that Worcester was only ten miles from
London, I felt safe in parting with all but
a few shillings, feeling sure that my purse would
soon be again replenished. But you may guess
my surprise when I learned that Worcester was
above a hundred miles from London, and that I
had not retained money enough to defray my
expenses to the place. In my haste and wish to
make up the ten pounds to send to my children,
I had forgotten that the payment for my lodgings
<!-- Page 111 --><SPAN name="Page_111" id="Page_111" title="111" class="pagenum"></SPAN>would be demanded before I should leave town.
Saturday morning came; I paid my lodging bill,
and had three shillings and fourpence left; and
out of this sum I was to get three dinners, as I
was only served with breakfast and tea at my
lodgings. Nowhere in the British empire do the
people witness as dark days as in London. It was
on Monday morning, in the fore part of October,
as the clock on St. Martin's Church was striking
ten, that I left my lodgings, and turned into the
Strand. The street lamps were yet burning, and
the shops were all lighted as if day had not made
its appearance. This great thoroughfare, as usual
at this time of the day, was thronged with business
men going their way, and women sauntering about
for pleasure or for the want of something better
to do. I passed down the Strand to Charing
Cross, and looked in vain to see the majestic
statue of Nelson upon the top of the great shaft.
The clock on St. Martin's Church struck eleven,
but my sight could not penetrate through the
dark veil that hung between its face and me. In
fact, day had been completely turned into night;
and the brilliant lights from the shop windows
<!-- Page 112 --><SPAN name="Page_112" id="Page_112" title="112" class="pagenum"></SPAN>almost persuaded me that another day had not
appeared. Turning, I retraced my steps, and was
soon passing through the massive gates of Temple
Bar, wending my way to the city, when a beggar
boy at my heels accosted me for a half-penny to
buy bread. I had scarcely served the boy, when
I observed near by, and standing close to a lamp
post, a coloured man, and from his general
appearance I was satisfied that he was an
American. He eyed me attentively as I passed
him, and seemed anxious to speak. When I had
got some distance from him I looked back, and
his eyes were still upon me. No longer able to
resist the temptation to speak with him, I returned,
and commencing conversation with him,
learned a little of his history, which was as follows.
He had, he said, escaped from slavery in Maryland,
and reached New York; but not feeling
himself secure there, he had, through the kindness
of the captain of an English ship, made his way
to Liverpool; and not being able to get employment
there, he had come up to London.
Here he had met with no better success; and
having been employed in the growing of
<!-- Page 113 --><SPAN name="Page_113" id="Page_113" title="113" class="pagenum"></SPAN>tobacco, and being unaccustomed to any other
work, he could not get to labour in England.
I told him he had better try to get to the West
Indies; but he informed me that he had not a
single penny, and that he had nothing to eat that
day. By this man's story, I was moved to tears;
and going to a neighbouring shop, I took from
my purse my last shilling, changed it, and gave
this poor brother fugitive one-half. The poor
man burst into tears as I placed the sixpence in
his hand, and said—"You are the first friend I
have met in London." I bade him farewell, and
left him with a feeling of regret that I could
not place him beyond the reach of want. I went
on my way to the city, and while going through
Cheapside, a streak of light appeared in the east
that reminded me that it was not night. In vain
I wandered from street to street, with the hope
that I might meet some one who would lend me
money enough to get to Worcester. Hungry and
fatigued I was returning to my lodgings, when
the great clock of St Paul's Church, under whose
shadow I was then passing, struck four. A stroll
through Fleet Street and the Strand, and I was
<!-- Page 114 --><SPAN name="Page_114" id="Page_114" title="114" class="pagenum"></SPAN>again pacing my room. On my return, I found a
letter from Worcester had arrived in my absence,
informing me that a party of gentlemen would
meet me the next day on my reaching that place;
and saying, "Bring plenty of books, as you will
doubtless sell a large number." The last sixpence
had been spent for postage stamps, in
order to send off some letters to other places,
and I could not even stamp a letter in answer to
the one last from Worcester. The only vestige
of money about me was a smooth farthing that a
little girl had given to me at the meeting at
Croydon, saying, "This is for the slaves." I
was three thousand miles from home, with but a
single farthing in my pocket! Where on earth is
a man without money more destitute? The cold
hills of the Arctic regions have not a more inhospitable
appearance than London to the stranger
with an empty pocket. But whilst I felt depressed
at being in such a sad condition, I was conscious
that I had done right in remitting the last ten
pounds to America. It was for the support of
those whom God had committed to my care, and
whom I love as I can no others. I had no
<!-- Page 115 --><SPAN name="Page_115" id="Page_115" title="115" class="pagenum"></SPAN>friend in London to whom I could apply for temporary
aid. My friend, Mr. Thompson, was out
of town, and I did not know his address. The dark
day was rapidly passing away—the clock in
the hall had struck six. I had given up all
hopes of reaching Worcester the next day, and
had just rung the bell for the servant to bring me
some tea, when a gentle tap at the door was
heard—the servant entered, and informed me
that a gentleman below was wishing to see me.
I bade her fetch a light and ask him up. The
stranger was my young friend Frederick Stevenson,
son of the excellent minister of the Borough
Road Chapel. I had lectured in this chapel a
few days previous; and this young gentleman,
with more than ordinary zeal and enthusiasm for
the cause of bleeding humanity, and respect for
me, had gone amongst his father's congregation
and sold a number of copies of my book, and had
come to bring me the money. I wiped the silent
tear from my eyes as the young man placed the
thirteen half-crowns in my hand. I did not
let him know under what obligation I was to him
for this disinterested act of kindness. He does
<!-- Page 116 --><SPAN name="Page_116" id="Page_116" title="116" class="pagenum"></SPAN>not know to this day what aid he has rendered
to a stranger in a strange land, and I feel that I
am but discharging in a trifling degree, my debt
of gratitude to this young gentleman, in acknowledging
my obligation to him. As the man who
called for bread and cheese, when feeling in
his pocket for the last threepence to pay for it,
found a sovereign that he was not aware he possessed,
countermanded the order for the lunch,
and bade them bring him the best dinner they
could get; so I told the servant when she brought
the tea, that I had changed my mind, and should
go out to dine. With the means in my pocket
of reaching Worcester the next day, I sat down
to dinner at the Adelphi with a good cut of roast
beef before me, and felt myself once more at
home. Thus ended a dark day in London.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div><SPAN name="Page_117" id="Page_117" title="117" class="pagenum"></SPAN></div>
<h2><SPAN name="LETTER_X" id="LETTER_X"></SPAN><!-- Page 117 -->LETTER X.</h2>
<h3>The Whittington Club—Louis Blanc—Street Amusements—Tower of London—Westminster Abbey—National Gallery—Dante—Sir Joshua Reynolds.</h3>
<p class="quotdate"><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">London</span>, <i>October 10</i>.</p>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">For</span> some days past, Sol has not shown his face,
clouds have obscured the sky, and the rain has
fallen in torrents, which has contributed much to
the general gloom. However, I have spent the
time in as agreeable a manner as I well could.
Yesterday I fulfilled an engagement to dine with
a gentleman at the Whittington Club. One who
is unacquainted with the Club system as carried
on in London, can scarcely imagine the conveniences
they present. Every member appears
to be at home, and all seem to own a share in the
Club. There is a free-and-easy way with those
who frequent Clubs, and a licence given there that
is unknown in the drawing-room of the private
mansion. I met the gentleman at the Club, at
<!-- Page 118 --><SPAN name="Page_118" id="Page_118" title="118" class="pagenum"></SPAN>the appointed hour, and after his writing my
name in the visitors' book, we proceeded to the
dining-room, where we partook of a good dinner.</p>
<p>We had been in the room but a short time,
when a small man, dressed in black, with his coat
buttoned up to the chin, entered the saloon, and
took a seat at the table hard by. My friend in a
low whisper informed me that this person was one
of the French refugees. He was apparently not
more than thirty years of age, and exceedingly
good looking—his person being slight, his feet
and hands very small and well shaped, especially
his hands, which were covered with kid gloves, so
tightly drawn on, that the points of the finger
nails were visible through them. His face was
mild and almost womanly in its beauty, his eyes
soft and full, his brow open and ample, his features
well defined, and approaching to the ideal
Greek in contour; the lines about his mouth were
exquisitely sweet, and yet resolute in expression;
his hair was short—his having no mustaches gave
him nothing of the look of a Frenchman; and I
was not a little surprised when informed that the
person before me was Louis Blanc. I could
<!-- Page 119 --><SPAN name="Page_119" id="Page_119" title="119" class="pagenum"></SPAN>scarcely be persuaded to believe that one so small,
so child-like in stature, had taken a prominent
part in the Revolution of 1848. He held in his
hand a copy of <i>La Presse</i>, and as soon as he
was seated, opened it and began to devour its
contents. The gentleman with whom I was
dining was not acquainted with him, but at the
close of our dinner he procured me an introduction
through another gentleman.</p>
<p>As we were returning to our lodgings, we saw
in Exeter Street, Strand, one of those exhibitions
that can be seen in almost any of the streets in
the suburbs of the Metropolis, but which is something
of a novelty to those from the other side of
the Atlantic. This was an exhibition of "Punch
and Judy." Everything was in full operation when
we reached the spot. A puppet appeared eight or
ten inches from the waist upwards, with an enormous
face, huge nose, mouth widely grinning, projecting
chin, cheeks covered with grog blossoms, a
large protuberance on his back, another on his
chest; yet with these deformities he appeared
uncommonly happy. This was Mr. Punch. He
held in his right hand a tremendous bludgeon,
<!-- Page 120 --><SPAN name="Page_120" id="Page_120" title="120" class="pagenum"></SPAN>with which he amused himself by rapping on the
head every one who came within his reach. This
exhibition seems very absurd, yet not less than
one hundred were present—children, boys, old
men, and even gentlemen and ladies, were standing
by, and occasionally greeting the performer
with the smile of approbation. Mr. Punch,
however, was not to have it all his own way, for
another and better sort of Punch-like exhibition
appeared a few yards off, that took away Mr.
Punch's audience, to the great dissatisfaction
of that gentleman. This was an exhibition
called the Fantoccini, and far superior to any
of the street performances which I have yet
seen. The curtain rose and displayed a beautiful
theatre in miniature, and most gorgeously
painted. The organ which accompanied it
struck up a hornpipe, and a sailor, dressed in his
blue jacket, made his appearance and commenced
keeping time with the utmost correctness. This
figure was not so long as Mr. Punch, but much
better looking. At the close of the hornpipe the
little sailor made a bow, and tripped off, apparently
conscious of having deserved the undivided ap<!-- Page 121 --><SPAN name="Page_121" id="Page_121" title="121" class="pagenum"></SPAN>plause
of the bystanders. The curtain dropped;
but in two or three minutes it was again up, and a
rope was discovered, extended on two cross pieces,
for dancing upon. The tune was changed to an
air, in which the time was marked, a graceful figure
appeared, jumped upon the rope with its balance
pole, and displayed all the manoeuvres of an expert
performer on the tight rope. Many who
would turn away in disgust from Mr. Punch, will
stand for hours and look at the performances of
the Fantoccini. If people, like the Vicar of
Wakefield, will sometimes "allow themselves to
be happy," they can hardly fail to have a hearty
laugh at the drolleries of the Fantoccini. There
may be degrees of absurdity in the manner of
wasting our time, but there is an evident affectation
in decrying these humble and innocent
exhibitions, by those who will sit till two or three
in the morning to witness a pantomime at a
theatre-royal.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>An autumn sun shone brightly through a
remarkably transparent atmosphere this morning,
which was a most striking contrast to the weather
<!-- Page 122 --><SPAN name="Page_122" id="Page_122" title="122" class="pagenum"></SPAN>we have had during the past three days; and I
again set out to see some of the lions of the city,
commencing with the Tower of London. Every
American, on returning home from a visit to the
old world, speaks with pride of the places he saw
while in Europe; and of the many resorts of
interest he has read of, few have made a more
lasting impression upon his memory than the
Tower of London. The stories of the imprisoning
of kings, and queens, the murdering of princes,
the torturing of men and women, without regard
to birth, education, or station, and of the burning
and rebuilding of the old pile, have all sunk deep
into his heart. A walk of twenty minutes, after
being set down at the Bank by an omnibus,
brought me to the gate of the Tower. A party of
friends who were to meet me there had not
arrived, so I had an opportunity of inspecting the
grounds and taking a good view of the external
appearance of the old and celebrated building.
The Tower is <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "surounded" in the original text">surrounded</ins> by a high wall, and
around this a deep ditch partly filled with stagnated
water. The wall incloses twelve acres of
ground on which stand the several towers, occupy<!-- Page 123 --><SPAN name="Page_123" id="Page_123" title="123" class="pagenum"></SPAN>ing,
with their walks and avenues, the whole space.
The most ancient part of the building is called the
"White Tower," so as to distinguish it from the
parts more recently built. Its walls are seventeen
feet in thickness, and ninety-two in height, exclusive
of the turrets, of which there are four.
My company arrived, and we entered the tower
through four massive gates, the innermost one
being pointed out as the "Water, or Traitors'
Gate"—so called from the fact that it opened to the
river, and through it the criminals were usually
brought to the prison within. But this passage
is now closed up. We visited the various apartments
in the old building. The room in the
Bloody Tower, where the infant princes were
put to death by the command of their uncle,
Richard III.; also, the recess behind the gate
where the bones of the young princes were concealed,
were shown to us. The warden of the
prison who showed us through, seemed to have
little or no veneration for Henry VIII.; for he often
cracked a joke, or told a story at the expense of the
murderer of Anne Boleyn. The old man wiped
the tear from his eye, as he pointed out the grave
<!-- Page 124 --><SPAN name="Page_124" id="Page_124" title="124" class="pagenum"></SPAN>of Lady Jane Grey. This was doubtless one of
the best as well as most innocent of those who lost
their lives in the Tower; young, virtuous, and
handsome, she became a victim to the ambition
of her own and her husband's relations. I tried
to count the names on the wall in "Beauchamp's
Tower," but they were too numerous. Anne
Boleyn was imprisoned here. The room in the
"Brick Tower," where Lady Jane Grey was
imprisoned, was pointed out as a place
of interest. We were next shown into the
"White Tower." We passed through a long
room filled with many things having a warlike
appearance; and among them a number of
equestrian figures, as large as life, and clothed
in armour and trappings of the various reigns
from Edward I. to James II., or from 1272
to 1685. Elizabeth, or the "Maiden Queen,"
as the warden called her, was the most imposing
of the group; she was on a cream coloured
charger. We left the Maiden Queen to examine
the cloak upon which General Wolf died,
at the storming of Quebec. In this room Sir
Walter Raleigh was imprisoned, and here was
<!-- Page 125 --><SPAN name="Page_125" id="Page_125" title="125" class="pagenum"></SPAN>written his "History of the World." In his
own hand, upon the wall, is written, "Be
thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a
crown of life." His Bible is still shown, with
these memorable lines written in it by himself a
short time before his death:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div><span style="margin-left: -.5em;">"Even such is Time that takes on trust,</span></div>
<div>Our youth, our joy, our all we have,</div>
<div>And pays us but with age and dust;</div>
<div>Who in the dark and silent grave,</div>
<div>When we have wandered all our ways,</div>
<div>Shuts up the story of our days."</div>
</div></div>
<p>Spears, battle-axes, pikes, helmets, targets,
bows and arrows, and many instruments of torture,
whose names I did not learn, grace the
walls of this room. The block on which the
Earl of Essex and Anne Boleyn were beheaded,
was shown among other objects of interest. A
view of the "Queen's Jewels" closed our visit to
the Tower. The Gold Staff of St. Edward, and the
Baptismal Font used at the Royal christenings,
made of solid silver, and more than four feet high,
were among the jewels here exhibited. The
Sword of Justice was there, as if to watch the rest
<!-- Page 126 --><SPAN name="Page_126" id="Page_126" title="126" class="pagenum"></SPAN>of the valuables. However, this was not the
sword that Peter used. Our acquaintance with
De Foe, Sir Walter Raleigh, Chaucer, and James
Montgomery, through their writings, and the
knowledge that they had been incarcerated within
the walls of the bastile that we were just leaving,
caused us to look back again and again upon its
dark grey turrets.</p>
<p>I closed the day with a look at the interior of
St. Paul's Cathedral. A service was just over, and
we met a crowd coming out as we entered the
great building. "Service is over, and two pence
for all that wants to stay," was the first sound that
caught our ears. In the Burlesque of "Esmeralda,"
a man is met in the belfry of the Notre
Dame at Paris, and being asked for money by one
of the vergers says:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div><span style="margin-left: -.5em;">"I paid three pence at the door,</span></div>
<div>And since I came in a great deal more:</div>
<div>Upon my honour you have emptied my purse,</div>
<div>St. Paul's Cathedral could not do worse."</div>
</div></div>
<p>I felt inclined to join in this sentiment before I
left the church. A fine statue of "Surly Sam"
Johnson was one of the first things that caught
<!-- Page 127 --><SPAN name="Page_127" id="Page_127" title="127" class="pagenum"></SPAN>our eyes on looking around. A statue of Sir
Edward Packenham, who fell at the Battle of New
Orleans, was on the opposite side of the great
hall. As we had walked over the ground where
this General fell, we viewed his statue with more
than ordinary interest. We were taken from
one scene of interest to another, until we found
ourselves in the "Whispering Gallery." From
the dome we had a splendid view of the Metropolis
of the world. A scaffold was erected up here
to enable an artist to take sketches from which a
panorama of London was painted. The artist
was three years at work. The painting is now
exhibited at the Colosseum; but the brain of the
artist was turned, and he died insane! Indeed,
one can scarcely conceive how it could be otherwise.
You in America have no idea of the immensity
of this building. Pile together half-a-dozen
of the largest churches in New York or Boston,
and you will have but a faint representation of
St. Paul's Cathedral.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>I have just returned from a stroll of two hours
through Westminster Abbey. We entered the
<!-- Page 128 --><SPAN name="Page_128" id="Page_128" title="128" class="pagenum"></SPAN>building at a door near Poets' Corner, and, naturally
enough, looked around for the monuments
of the men whose imaginative powers have contributed
so much to instruct and amuse mankind.
I was not a little disappointed in the few I saw.
In almost any church-yard you may see monuments
and tombs far superior to anything in the
Poets' Corner. A few only have monuments.
Shakspere, who wrote of man to man, and for
man to the end of time, is honoured with one.
Addison's monument is also there; but the
greater number have nothing more erected to
their memories than busts or medallions. Poets'
Corner is not splendid in appearance, yet I
observed visiters lingering about it, as if they
were tied to the spot by love and veneration
for some departed friend. All seemed to regard
it as classic ground. No sound louder than a
whisper was heard during the whole time, except
the verger treading over the marble floor with a
light step. There is great pleasure in sauntering
about the tombs of those with whom we are
familiar through their writings; and we tear
ourselves from their ashes, as we would from
<!-- Page 129 --><SPAN name="Page_129" id="Page_129" title="129" class="pagenum"></SPAN>those of a bosom friend. The genius of these
men spreads itself over the whole panorama of
Nature, giving us one vast and varied picture,
the colour of which will endure to the end of
time. None can portray like the poet the passions
of the human soul. The statue of Addison,
clad in his dressing-gown, is not far from that of
Shakspere. He looks as if he had just left the
study, after finishing some chosen paper for
the <i>Spectator</i>. This memento of a great man,
was the work of the British public. Such a
mark of national respect was but justice to one
who has contributed more to purify and raise the
standard of English literature, than any man of
his day. We next visited the other end of the
same transept, near the northern door. Here lie
Mansfield, Chatham, Fox, the second William
Pitt, Grattan, Wilberforce, and a few other
statesmen. But, above all, is the stately monument
to the Earl of Chatham. In no other place
so small, do so many great men lie together. To
these men, whose graves strangers from all parts
of the world wish to view, the British public are
in a great measure indebted for England's fame.
<!-- Page 130 --><SPAN name="Page_130" id="Page_130" title="130" class="pagenum"></SPAN>The high pre-eminence which England has so
long enjoyed and maintained in the scale of
empire, has constantly been the boast and pride
of the English people. The warm panegyrics
that have been lavished on her constitution and
laws—the songs chaunted to celebrate her glory—the
lustre of her arms, as the glowing theme of
her warriors—the thunder of her artillery in proclaiming
her moral prowess, her flag being unfurled
to every breeze and ocean, rolling to her
shores the tribute of a thousand realms—show
England to be the greatest nation in the world, and
speak volumes for the great departed, as well as
for those of the living present. One requires no
company, no amusements, no books in such a
place as this. Time and death have placed within
those walls sufficient to occupy the mind, if one
should stay here a week.</p>
<p>On my return, I spent an hour very pleasantly
in the National Academy, in the same building
as the National Gallery. Many of the paintings
here are of a fine order. Oliver Cromwell looking
upon the headless corpse of King Charles
I., appeared to draw the greatest number of spec<!-- Page 131 --><SPAN name="Page_131" id="Page_131" title="131" class="pagenum"></SPAN>tators.
A scene from "As You Like it," was one
of the best executed pieces we saw. This was
"Rosalind, Celia, and Orlando." The artist did
himself and the subject great credit. Kemble, in
Hamlet, with that ever memorable skull in his
hand, was one of the pieces which we viewed with
no little interest. It is strange that Hamlet is
always represented as a thin, lean man, when the
Hamlet of Shakspere was a fat, John Bull-kind of
a man. But the best piece in the Gallery was
"Dante meditating the episode of Francesca da
Rimini and Paolo Malatesta, S'Inferno, Canto
V." Our first interest for the great Italian poet
was created by reading Lord Byron's poem,
"The Lament of Dante." From that hour we
felt like examining everything connected with the
great Italian poet. The history of poets, as well
as painters, is written in their works. The best
written life of Goldsmith is to be found in his
poem of "The Traveller," and his novel of "The
Vicar of Wakefield." Boswell could not have
written a better life of himself than he has done
in giving the Biography of Dr. Johnson. It
seems clear that no one can be a great poet with<!-- Page 132 --><SPAN name="Page_132" id="Page_132" title="132" class="pagenum"></SPAN>out
having been sometime during life a lover, and
having lost the object of his affection in some
mysterious way. Burns had his Highland Mary,
Byron his Mary, and Dante was not without his
Beatrice. Whether there ever lived such a
person as Beatrice seems to be a question
upon which neither of his biographers have
thrown much light. However, a Beatrice existed in
the poet's mind, if not on earth. His attachment
to Beatrice Portinari, and the linking of her
name with the immortality of his great poem,
left an indelible impression upon his future
character. The marriage of the object of his
affections to another, and her subsequent death,
and the poet's exile from his beloved Florence,
together with his death amongst strangers—all
give an interest to the poet's writings, which
could not be heightened by romance itself. When
exiled and in poverty, Dante found a friend in the
father of Francesca. And here, under the roof of
his protector, he wrote his great poem. The
time the painter has chosen is evening. Day and
night meet in mid-air: one star is alone visible.
Sailing in vacancy are the shadows of the lovers.
<!-- Page 133 --><SPAN name="Page_133" id="Page_133" title="133" class="pagenum"></SPAN>The countenance of Francesca is expressive of
hopeless agony. The delineations are sublime,
the conception is of the highest order, and the
execution admirable. Dante is seated in a marble
vestibule, in a meditating attitude, the face partly
concealed by the right hand upon which it is
resting. On the whole, it is an excellently
painted piece, and causes one to go back with a
fresh relish to the Italian's celebrated poem. In
coming out, we stopped a short while in the upper
room of the Gallery, and spent a few minutes
over a painting representing Mrs. Siddons in
one of Shakspere's characters. This is by Sir
Joshua Reynolds, and is only one of the many
pieces that we have seen of this great artist. His
genius was vast, and powerful in its grasp. His
fancy fertile, and his inventive faculty inexhaustible
in its resources. He displayed the very
highest powers of genius by the thorough originality
of his conceptions, and by the entirely new
path that he struck out in art. Well may
Englishmen be proud of his name. And as time
shall step between his day and those that follow
after him, the more will his works be appreciated.
<!-- Page 134 --><SPAN name="Page_134" id="Page_134" title="134" class="pagenum"></SPAN>We have since visited his grave, and stood over
his monument in St. Paul's.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="LETTER_XI" id="LETTER_XI"></SPAN>LETTER XI.</h2>
<h3>York Minster—The Great Organ—Newcastle-on-Tyne—The Labouring Classes—The American Slave—Sheffield—James Montgomery.</h3>
<p class="quotdate"><i>January, 1850</i>.</p>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Some</span> days since, I left the Metropolis to fulfil a
few engagements to visit provincial towns; and
after a ride of nearly eight hours, we were in
sight of the ancient city of York. It was night,
the moon was in her zenith, and there seemed
nothing between her and the earth but glittering
gold. The moon, the stars, and the innumerable
gas-lights, gave the city a panoramic appearance.
Like a mountain starting out of a plain, there
stood the Cathedral in all its glory, looking down
upon the surrounding buildings, with all the
appearance of a Gulliver standing over the Lilli<!-- Page 135 --><SPAN name="Page_135" id="Page_135" title="135" class="pagenum"></SPAN>putians.
Night gave us no opportunity to view
the Minster. However, we were up the next
morning before the sun, and walking round the
Cathedral with a degree of curiosity seldom
excited within us. It is thought that a building
of the same dimensions would take fifty years to
complete it at the present time, even with all the
improvements of the nineteenth century, and
would cost no less than the enormous sum of two
millions of pounds sterling. From what I had
heard of this famous Cathedral, my expectations
were raised to the highest point; but it surpassed
all the idea that I had formed of it. On entering
the building, we lost all thought of the external
appearance by the matchless beauty of the interior.
The echo produced by the tread of our feet
upon the floor as we entered, resounding through
the aisles, seemed to say "Put off your shoes, for
the place whereon you tread is holy ground."
We stood with hat in hand, and gazed with
wonder and astonishment down the incomparable
vista of more than five hundred feet. The organ,
which stands near the centre of the building, is
said to be one of the finest in the world. A
<!-- Page 136 --><SPAN name="Page_136" id="Page_136" title="136" class="pagenum"></SPAN>wall, in front of which is a screen of the most
gorgeous and florid architecture and executed in
solid stone, separates the nave from the service
choir. The beautiful workmanship of this makes
it appear so perfect, as almost to produce the belief
that it is tracery work of wood. We ascended
the rough stone steps through a winding stair to
the turrets, where we had such a view of the surrounding
country, as can be obtained from no
other place. On the top of the centre and highest
turret, is a grotesque figure of a fiddler; rather
a strange looking object, we thought, to occupy
the most elevated pinnacle on the house of God.
All dwellings in the neighbourhood appear like so
many dwarfs couching at the feet of the Minster;
while its own vastness and beauty impress the
observer with feelings of awe and sublimity. As
we stood upon the top of this stupendous mountain
of ecclesiastical architecture, and surveyed
the picturesque hills and valleys around, imagination
recalled the tumult of the sanguinary
battles fought in sight of the edifice. The rebellion
of Octavius near three thousand years ago,
his defeat and flight to the Scots, his return and
<!-- Page 137 --><SPAN name="Page_137" id="Page_137" title="137" class="pagenum"></SPAN>triumph over the Romans, and being crowned
king of all Britain; the assassination of Oswald
king of the Northumbrians; the flaying alive of
Osbert; the crowning of Richard III; the siege
by William the Conqueror; the siege by Cromwell,
and the pomp and splendour with which the
different monarchs had been received in York,
all appeared to be vividly before me. While we
were thus calling to our aid our knowledge of
history, a sweet peal from the lungs of the ponderous
organ below cut short our stay among the
turrets, and we descended to have our organ of
tune gratified, as well as to finish the inspection
of the interior.</p>
<p>I have heard the sublime melodies of Handel,
Hayden, and Mozart, performed by the most
skilful <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "muscians" in the original text">musicians</ins>; I have listened with delight
and awe to the soul-moving compositions of those
masters, as they have been chaunted in the most
magnificent churches; but never did I hear such
music, and played upon such an instrument, as
that sent forth by the great organ in the
Cathedral of York. The verger took much
delight in showing us the Horn that was once
<!-- Page 138 --><SPAN name="Page_138" id="Page_138" title="138" class="pagenum"></SPAN>mounted with gold, but is now garnished with
brass. We viewed the monuments and tombs of
the departed, and then spent an hour before the
great north window. The designs on the painted
glass, which tradition states was given to the
church by five virgin sisters, is the finest thing of
the kind in Great Britain. I felt a relief on once
more coming into the open air and again beholding
Nature's own sun-light. The splendid ruins of
St. Mary's Abbey, with its eight beautiful light
gothic windows, next attracted our attention. A
visit to the Castle finished our stay in York; and
as we were leaving the old city we almost
imagined that we heard the chiming of the bells
for the celebration of the first Christian Sabbath,
with Prince Arthur as the presiding genius.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>England stands pre-eminently the first government
in the world for freedom of speech and of
the press. Not even in our own beloved America,
can the man who feels himself oppressed speak
as he can in Great Britain. In some parts of
England, however, the freedom of thought is
tolerated to a greater extent than in others; and
<!-- Page 139 --><SPAN name="Page_139" id="Page_139" title="139" class="pagenum"></SPAN>of the places favourable to reforms of all kinds,
calculated to elevate and benefit mankind, Newcastle-on-Tyne
doubtless takes the lead. Surrounded
by innumerable coal mines, it furnishes
employment for a large labouring population,
many of whom take a deep interest in the
passing events of the day, and, consequently,
are a reading class. The public debater or
speaker, no matter what may be his subject,
who fails to get an audience in other towns, is
sure of a gathering in the Music Hall, or Lecture
Room in Newcastle. Here I first had an opportunity
of coming in contact with a portion of the
labouring people of Britain. I have addressed
large and influential meetings in Newcastle and
the neighbouring towns, and the more I see and
learn of the condition of the working-classes of
England the more I am satisfied of the utter
fallacy of the statements often made that their
condition approximates to that of the slaves of
America. Whatever may be the disadvantages
that the British peasant labours under, he is
free; and if he is not satisfied with his employer
he can make choice of another. He also has the
<!-- Page 140 --><SPAN name="Page_140" id="Page_140" title="140" class="pagenum"></SPAN>right to educate his children; and he is the equal
of the most wealthy person before an English
Court of Justice. But how is it with the
American Slave? He has no right to himself,
no right to protect his wife, his child, or his own
person. He is nothing more than a living tool.
Beyond his field or workshop he knows nothing.
There is no amount of ignorance he is not
capable of. He has not the least idea of the face
of this earth, nor of the history or constitution
of the country in which he dwells. To him the
literature, science, and art—the progressive
history, and the accumulated discoveries of <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "byegone" in the original text">bygone</ins>
ages, are as if they had never been. The
past is to him as yesterday, and the future
scarcely more than to-morrow. Ancestral monuments,
he has none; written documents fraught
with cogitations of other times, he has none;
and any instrumentality calculated to awaken
and expound the intellectual activity and comprehension
of a present or approaching generation,
he has none. His condition is that of the
leopard of his own native Africa. It lives, it
propagates its kind; but never does it indicate a
<!-- Page 141 --><SPAN name="Page_141" id="Page_141" title="141" class="pagenum"></SPAN>movement towards that all but angelic intelligence
of man. The slave eats, drinks, and sleeps—all
for the benefit of the man who claims his body
as his property. Before the tribunals of his
country he has no voice. He has no higher
appeal than the mere will of his owner. He
knows nothing of the inspired Apostles through
their writings. He has no Sabbath, no Church,
no Bible, no means of grace,—and yet we are
told that he is as well off as the labouring classes
of England. It is not enough that the people of
my country should point to their Declaration of
Independence which declares that "all men are
created equal." It is not enough that they
should laud to the skies a constitution containing
boasting declarations in favour of freedom.
It is not enough that they should extol the
genius of Washington, the patriotism of Henry,
or the enthusiasm of Otis. The time has come
when nations are judged by the acts of the
present instead of the past. And so it must be
with America. In no place in the United Kingdom
has the American Slave warmer friends
than in Newcastle.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p><!-- Page 142 --><SPAN name="Page_142" id="Page_142" title="142" class="pagenum"></SPAN>I am now in Sheffield, and have just returned
from a visit to James Montgomery, the poet. In
company with James Wall, Esq., I proceeded to
The Mount, the residence of Mr. Montgomery;
and our names being sent in, we were soon in the
presence of the "Christian Poet." He held in
his left hand the <i>Eclectic Review</i> for the
month, and with the right gave me a hearty
shake, and bade me "Welcome to old England."
He was anything but like the portraits I had
seen of him, and the man I had in my mind's eye.
I had just been reading his "Pelican Island,"
and I eyed the poet with no little interest. He
is under the middle size, his forehead high and
well formed, the top of which was a little bald;
his hair of a yellowish colour, his eyes rather
small and deep set, the nose long and slightly
<ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "acquiline" in the original text">aquiline</ins>, his mouth rather small, and not at all
pretty. He was dressed in black, and a large
white cravat entirely hid his neck and chin: his
having been afflicted from childhood with salt-rhum,
was doubtless the cause of his chin being so
completely buried in the neckcloth. Upon the
<!-- Page 143 --><SPAN name="Page_143" id="Page_143" title="143" class="pagenum"></SPAN>whole, he looked more like one of our American
Methodist parsons, than any one I have seen in
this country. He entered freely into conversation
with us. He said he should be glad to attend
my lecture that evening, but that he had
long since quit going out at night. He mentioned
having heard William Lloyd Garrison
some years before, and with whom he was well
pleased. He said it had long been a puzzle to
him, how Americans could hold slaves and still
retain their membership in the churches. When
we rose to leave, the old man took my hand between
his two, and with tears in his eyes said, "Go
on your Christian mission, and may the Lord protect
and prosper you. Your enslaved countrymen
have my sympathy, and shall have my prayers."
Thus ended our visit to the Bard of Sheffield.
Long after I had quitted the presence of the poet,
the following lines of his were ringing in my
ears:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div><span style="margin-left: -.5em;">"Wanderer, whither dost thou roam?</span></div>
<div>Weary wanderer, old and grey,</div>
<div>Wherefore has thou left thine home,</div>
<div>In the sunset of thy day.</div>
<div><!-- Page 144 --><SPAN name="Page_144" id="Page_144" title="144" class="pagenum"></SPAN>Welcome wanderer as thou art,</div>
<div>All my blessings to partake;</div>
<div>Yet thrice welcome to my heart,</div>
<div>For thine injured people's sake.</div>
<div>Wanderer, whither would'st thou roam?</div>
<div>To what region far away?</div>
<div>Bend thy steps to find a home,</div>
<div>In the twilight of thy day.</div>
<div>Where a tyrant never trod,</div>
<div>Where a slave was never known—</div>
<div>But where Nature worships God</div>
<div>In the wilderness alone."</div>
</div></div>
<p>Mr. Montgomery seems to have thrown his
entire soul into his meditations on the wrongs of
Switzerland. The poem from which we have
just quoted, is unquestionably one of his best
productions, and contains more of the fire of
enthusiasm than all his other works. We feel a
reverence almost amounting to superstition, for
the poet who deals with nature. And who is
more capable of understanding the human heart
than the poet? Who has better known the
human feelings than Shakspere; better painted
than Milton, the grandeur of Virtue; better
sighed than Byron over the subtle weaknesses of
<!-- Page 145 --><SPAN name="Page_145" id="Page_145" title="145" class="pagenum"></SPAN>Hope? Who ever had a sounder taste, a more
exact intellect than Dante? or who has ever
tuned his harp more in favour of Freedom, than
our own <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: Erratum applied, "Dante" in the original text">Whittier</ins>?</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="LETTER_XII" id="LETTER_XII"></SPAN>LETTER XII.</h2>
<h3>Kirkstall Abbey—Mary the Maid of the Inn—Newstead Abbey: Residence of Lord Byron—Parish Church of Hucknall—Burial Place of Lord Byron—Bristol: "Cook's Folly"—Chepstow Castle and Abbey—Tintern Abbey—Redcliffe Church.</h3>
<p class="quotdate"><i>January 29</i>.</p>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">In</span> passing through Yorkshire, we could not
resist the temptation it offered, to pay a visit to
the extensive and interesting ruin of Kirkstall
Abbey, which lies embosomed in a beautiful recess
of Airedale, about three miles from Leeds. A
pleasant drive over a smooth road, brought us
abruptly in sight of the Abbey. The tranquil and
<!-- Page 146 --><SPAN name="Page_146" id="Page_146" title="146" class="pagenum"></SPAN>pensive beauty of the desolate Monastery, as it
reposes in the lap of pastoral luxuriance, and amidst
the touching associations of seven centuries, is
almost beyond description when viewed from
where we first beheld it. After arriving at its
base, we stood for some moments under the mighty
arches that lead into the great hall, gazing at its
old grey walls frowning with age. At the distance
of a small field, the Aire is seen gliding past
the foot of the lawn on which the ruin stands,
after it has left those precincts, sparkling over a
weir with a pleasing murmur. We could fully enter
into the feelings of the Poet when he says:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div><span style="margin-left: -.5em;">"Beautiful fabric! even in decay</span></div>
<div class="i1">And desolation, beauty still is thine;</div>
<div>As the rich sunset of an autumn day,</div>
<div class="i1">When gorgeous clouds in glorious hues combine</div>
<div>To render homage to its slow decline,</div>
<div class="i1">Is more majestic in its parting hour:</div>
<div>Even so thy mouldering, venerable shrine</div>
<div class="i1">Possesses now a more subduing power,</div>
<div>Than in thine earlier sway, with pomp and pride thy dower."</div>
</div></div>
<p>The tale of "Mary, the Maid of the Inn," is
<!-- Page 147 --><SPAN name="Page_147" id="Page_147" title="147" class="pagenum"></SPAN>supposed, and not without foundation, to be connected
with this Abbey. "Hark to Rover," the
name of the house where the key is kept, was, a
century ago, a retired inn or pot-house, and the
haunt of many a desperate highwayman and
poacher. The anecdote is so well known, that it
is scarcely necessary to relate it. It, however, is
briefly this:—</p>
<p>"One stormy night, as two travellers sat at
the inn, each having exhausted his news,
the conversation was directed to the Abbey, the
boisterous night, and Mary's heroism; when a
bet was at last made by one of them, that she
would not go and bring back from the nave a
slip of the alder-tree growing there. Mary, however,
did go; but having nearly reached the tree,
she heard a low, indistinct dialogue; at the same
time, something black fell and rolled towards her,
which afterwards proved to be a hat. Directing
her attention to the place whence the conversation
proceeded, she saw, from behind a pillar, two
men carrying a murdered body: they passed near
the place where she stood, a heavy cloud was
swept from off the face of the moon, and Mary
<!-- Page 148 --><SPAN name="Page_148" id="Page_148" title="148" class="pagenum"></SPAN>fell senseless—one of the murderers was her
intended husband! She was awakened from her
swoon, but—her reason had fled for ever." Mr.
Southey wrote a beautiful poem founded on this
story, which will be found in his published works.
We spent nearly three hours in wandering through
these splendid ruins. It is both curious and interesting
to trace the early history of these old
piles, which become the resort of thousands,
nine-tenths of whom are unaware either of the
classic ground on which they tread, or of the
peculiar interest thrown around the spot by the
deeds of remote ages.</p>
<p>During our stay in Leeds, we had the
good fortune to become acquainted with Wilson
Armistead, Esq. This gentleman is well
known as an able writer against Slavery. His
most elaborate work is "A Tribute for the
Negro." This is a volume of 560 pages, and is
replete with facts refuting the charges of inferiority
brought against the Negro race. Few
English gentlemen have done more to hasten the
day of the American slave's liberation, than
Wilson Armistead.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p><!-- Page 149 --><SPAN name="Page_149" id="Page_149" title="149" class="pagenum"></SPAN>We have just paid a visit to Newstead Abbey,
the far-famed residence of Lord Byron. I posted
from Hucknall over to Newstead one pleasant
morning, and, being provided with a letter of
introduction to Colonel Wildman, I lost no time
in presenting myself at the door of the Abbey.
But, unfortunately for me, the Colonel was at
Mansfield, in attendance at the Assizes—he being
one of the County Magistrates. I did not however
lose the object of my visit, as every attention
was paid in showing me about the premises.
I felt as every one must, who gazes for the first
time upon these walls, and remembers that it was
here, even amid the comparative ruins of a
building once dedicated to the sacred cause of
Religion and her twin sister, Charity, that the
genius of Byron was first developed. Here that
he paced with youthful melancholy the halls
of his illustrious ancestors, and trode the walks of
the long-banished monks. The housekeeper—a
remarkably good looking and polite woman—showed
us through the different apartments, and
explained in the most minute manner every
<!-- Page 150 --><SPAN name="Page_150" id="Page_150" title="150" class="pagenum"></SPAN>object of interest connected with the interior
of the building. We first visited the Monks'
Parlour, which seemed to contain nothing of note,
except a very fine stained window—one of the
figures representing St. Paul, surmounted by a
cross. We passed through Lord Byron's Bedroom,
the Haunted Chamber, the Library, and the
Eastern Corridor, and halted in the Tapestry Bedroom,
which is truly a magnificent apartment,
formed by the Byrons for the use of King
Charles II. The ceiling is richly decorated
with the Byron arms. We next visited the
grand Drawing-room, probably the finest in
the building. This saloon contains a large number
of splendid portraits, among which is the
celebrated portrait of Lord Byron, by Phillips.
In this room we took into our hand the
Skull-cup, of which so much has been written, and
that has on it a short inscription, commencing with—"Start
not—nor deem my spirit fled." Leaving
this noble room, we descended by a few polished
oak steps into the West Corridor, from which we
entered the grand Dining Hall, and through
several other rooms, until we reached the
<!-- Page 151 --><SPAN name="Page_151" id="Page_151" title="151" class="pagenum"></SPAN>Chapel. Here we were shown a stone coffin
which had been found near the high altar,
when the workmen were excavating the vault,
intended by Lord Byron for himself and his
dog. The coffin contained the skeleton of
an Abbot, and also the identical skull from
which the cup, of which I have made mention,
was made. We then left the building,
and took a stroll through the grounds. After
passing a pond of cold crystal water, we came
to a dark wood in which are two leaden
statues of Pan, and a female satyr—very fine
specimens as works of art. We here inspected
the tree whereon Byron carved his own name
and that of his sister, with the date, all of which
are still legible. However, the tree is now dead,
and we were informed that Colonel Wildman
intended to have it cut down so as to preserve
the part containing the inscription. After crossing
an interesting and picturesque part of the
gardens, we arrived within the precincts of the
ancient Chapel, near which we observed a neat
marble monument, and which we supposed to
have been erected to the memory of some of the
<!-- Page 152 --><SPAN name="Page_152" id="Page_152" title="152" class="pagenum"></SPAN>Byrons; but, on drawing near to it, we read the
following inscription:—</p>
<div class="poem">
<div style="text-align: center;">"Near this spot </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">are deposited the remains of one</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">who possessed beauty without vanity,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">strength without insolence,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">courage without ferocity,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">and all the virtues of man without his vices.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">if inscribed over human ashes,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">is but a just tribute to the memory of</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">BOATSWAIN, a dog,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;"> and died at Newstead Abbey, November 18, 1808.<ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: typo, missing quote inserted">"</ins></div>
</div>
<p>By a will which his Lordship executed in 1811,
he directed that his own body should be buried in
a vault in the garden, near his faithful dog. This
feeling of affection to his dumb and faithful follower,
commendable in itself, seems here to have
been carried beyond the bounds of reason and
propriety.</p>
<p>In another part of the grounds we saw the oak
tree planted by the poet himself. It has now attained
a goodly size, considering the growth of
the oak, and bids fair to become a lasting memento
<!-- Page 153 --><SPAN name="Page_153" id="Page_153" title="153" class="pagenum"></SPAN>to the Noble Bard, and to be a shrine to which
thousands of pilgrims will resort in future ages,
to do homage to his mighty genius. This tree
promises to share in after times the celebrity of
Shakspere's mulberry, and Pope's willow. Near
by, and in the tall trees, the rooks were keeping
up a tremendous noise. After seeing everything
of interest connected with the great poet, we
entered our chaise, and left the premises. As we
were leaving, I turned to take a farewell look at
the Abbey, standing in solemn grandeur, the long
ivy clinging fondly to the rich tracery of a former
age. Proceeding to the little town of Hucknall,
we entered the old grey Parish Church, which has
for ages been the last resting-place of the Byrons,
and where repose the ashes of the Poet, marked
only by a neat marble slab, bearing the date of
the poet's birth, death, and the fact that the
tablet was placed there by his sister. This closed
my visit to the interesting scenes associated with
Byron's strange eventful history—scenes that ever
acquire a growing charm as the lapse of years
softens the errors of the man, and confirms the
genius of the poet.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p class="quotdate"><!-- Page 154 --><SPAN name="Page_154" id="Page_154" title="154" class="pagenum"></SPAN><i>May 10</i>.</p>
<p>It was on a lovely morning that I found myself
on board the little steamer <i>Wye</i>, passing out of
Bristol harbour. In going down the river, we
saw on our right, the stupendous rocks of St.
Vincent towering some four or five hundred feet
above our heads. By the swiftness of our fairy
steamer, we were soon abreast of Cook's Folly, a
singular tower, built by a man from whom it takes
its name, and of which the following romantic
story is told:—"Some years since a gentleman,
of the name of Cook, erected this tower, which
has since gone by the name of 'Cook's Folly.'
A son having been born, he was desirous of ascertaining,
by means of astrology, if he would live to
enjoy his property. Being himself a firm believer,
like the poet Dryden, that certain information
might be obtained from the above science,
he caused the child's horoscope to be drawn, and
found, to his dismay, that in his third, sixteenth,
or twenty-first year, he would be in danger of
meeting with some fearful calamity or sudden
<!-- Page 155 --><SPAN name="Page_155" id="Page_155" title="155" class="pagenum"></SPAN>death, to avert which he caused the turret to be
constructed, and the child placed therein. Secure,
as he vainly thought, there he lived, attended
by a faithful servant, their food and fuel
being conveyed to them by means of a pully-basket,
until he was old enough to wait upon
himself. On the eve of his twenty-first year, his
parent's hopes rose high, and great were the rejoicings
prepared to welcome the young heir to
his home. But, alas! no human skill could avert
the dark fate which clung to him. The last night
he had to pass alone in the turret, a bundle of
faggots was conveyed to him as usual, in which
lay concealed a viper, which clung to his hand.
The bite was fatal; and, instead of being borne
in triumph, the dead body of his only son was the
sad spectacle which met the sight of his father."</p>
<p>We crossed the channel and soon entered the
mouth of that most picturesque of rivers, the Wye.
As we neared the town of Chepstow the old
Castle made its appearance, and a fine old ruin it
is. Being previously provided with a letter of
introduction to a gentleman in Chepstow, I lost
no time in finding him out. This gentleman
<!-- Page 156 --><SPAN name="Page_156" id="Page_156" title="156" class="pagenum"></SPAN>gave me a cordial reception, and did what
Englishmen seldom ever do, lent me his saddle
horse to ride to the Abbey. While lunch was in
preparation I took a stroll through the Castle
which stood near by. We entered the Castle
through the great door-way and were soon treading
the walls that had once sustained the cannon
and the sentinel, but were now covered with
weeds and wild flowers. The drum and fife had
once been heard within these walls—the only
music now is the cawing of the rook and daw.
We paid a hasty visit to the various apartments,
remaining longest in those of most interest. The
room in which Martin the Regicide was imprisoned
nearly twenty years, was pointed out to us.
The Castle of Chepstow is still a magnificent pile,
towering upon the brink of a stupendous cliff, on
reaching the top of which, we had a splendid view
of the surrounding country. Time, however,
compelled us to retrace our steps, and after partaking
of a lunch, we mounted a horse for the
first time in ten years, and started for Tintern
Abbey. The distance from Chepstow to the
Abbey is about five miles, and the road lies along
<!-- Page 157 --><SPAN name="Page_157" id="Page_157" title="157" class="pagenum"></SPAN>the banks of the river. The river is walled
in on either side by hills of much beauty, clothed
from base to summit with the richest verdure. I
can conceive of nothing more striking than the
first appearance of the Abbey. As we rounded a
hill, all at once we saw the old ruin standing
before us in all its splendour. This celebrated
ecclesiastical relic of the olden time is doubtless
the finest ruin of its kind in Europe. Embosomed
amongst hills, and situated on the banks of the
most fairy-like river in the world, its beauty can
scarcely be surpassed. We halted at the "Beaufort
Arms," left our horse, and sallied forth
to view the Abbey. The sun was pouring a
flood of light upon the old grey walls, lighting
up its dark recesses, as if to give us a better
opportunity of viewing it. I gazed with astonishment
and admiration at its many beauties, and
especially at the superb gothic windows over the
entrance door. The beautiful gothic pillars, with
here and there a representation of a praying
priest, and mailed knights, with saints and
Christian martyrs, and the hundreds of Scriptural
representations, all indicate that this was a place
<!-- Page 158 --><SPAN name="Page_158" id="Page_158" title="158" class="pagenum"></SPAN>of considerable importance in its palmy days.
The once stone floor had disappeared, and we
found ourselves standing on a floor of unbroken
green grass, swelling back to the old walls, and
looking so verdant and silken that it seemed the
very floor of fancy. There are more romantic
and wilder places than this in the world, but none
more beautiful. The preservation of these old
abbeys should claim the attention of those under
whose charge they are, and we felt like joining
with the poet and saying<ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: typo, colon added">:—</ins></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i9">"O ye who dwell<br/></div>
<div>Around yon ruins, guard the precious charge</div>
<div>From hands profane! O save the sacred pile—</div>
<div>O'er which the wing of centuries has flown</div>
<div>Darkly and silently, deep-shadowing all</div>
<div>Its pristine honours—from the ruthless grasp</div>
<div>Of future violation."</div>
</div></div>
<p>In contemplating these ruins more closely, the
mind insensibly reverts to the period of feudal
and regal oppression, when structures like that of
Tintern Abbey necessarily became the scenes of
stirring and highly-important events. How
altered is the scene! Where were formerly mag<!-- Page 159 --><SPAN name="Page_159" id="Page_159" title="159" class="pagenum"></SPAN>nificence
and splendour; the glittering array of
priestly prowess; the crowded halls of haughty
bigots, and the prison of religious offenders;
there is now but a heap of mouldering ruins.
The oppressed and the oppressor have long since
lain down together in the peaceful grave. The
ruin, generally speaking, is unusually perfect,
and the sculpture still beautifully sharp. The
outward walls are nearly entire, and are thickly
clad with ivy. Many of the windows are also in a
good state of preservation; but the roof has long
since fallen in. The feathered songsters were fluttering
about, and pouring forth their artless lays
as a tribute of joy; while the lowing of the herds,
the bleating of flocks, and the hum of bees upon
the farm near by, all burst upon the ear, and gave
the scene a picturesque sublimity that can be easier
imagined than described. Most assuredly Shakspere
had such ruins in view when he exclaimed<ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: typo, colon added">:—</ins></p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div><span style="margin-left: -.5em;">"The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,</span></div>
<div>The solemn temples, the great globe itself,</div>
<div>Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve—</div>
<div>And, like the baseless fabric of a vision,</div>
<div>Leave not a wreck behind."</div>
</div></div>
<p><!-- Page 160 --><SPAN name="Page_160" id="Page_160" title="160" class="pagenum"></SPAN>In the afternoon we returned to Bristol, and I
spent the greater part of the next day in examining
the interior of Redcliffe Church. Few places
in the West of England have greater claims upon
the topographer and historian than the church of
St. Mary's, Redcliffe. Its antiquity, the beauty
of its architecture, and above all the interesting
circumstances connected with its history, entitle
it to peculiar notice. It is also associated with
the enterprise of genius; for its name has been
blended with the reputation of Rowley, of
Canynge, and of Chatterton; and no lover of
poetry and admirer of art can visit it without a
degree of enthusiasm. And when the old building
shall have mouldered into ruins, even these
will be trodden with veneration as sacred to the
recollection of genius of the highest order.
Ascending a winding stair, we were shown into
the Treasury Room. The room forms an irregular
octagon, admitting light through narrow unglazed
apertures upon the broken and scattered
fragments of the famous Rowleian chests, that
with the rubble and dust of centuries cover the
floor. It is here creative fancy pictures forth the
<!-- Page 161 --><SPAN name="Page_161" id="Page_161" title="161" class="pagenum"></SPAN>sad image of the spirit of the spot—the ardent
boy, flushed and fed by hope, musing on the
brilliant deception he had conceived—whose
daring attempt has left his name unto the intellectual
world as a marvel and a mystery.</p>
<p>That a boy under twelve years of age should
write a series of poems, imitating the style of the
fifteenth century, and palm these poems off
upon the world as the work of a monk, is indeed
strange; and that these should become the object
of interesting contemplation to the literary world,
and should awaken inquiries, and exercise the
talents of a Southey, a Bryant, a Miller, a
Mathias, and others, savours more of romance
than reality. I had visited the room in a garret
in High Holborn, where this poor boy died. I
had stood over a grave in the burial-ground of the
Lane Workhouse, which was pointed out to me as
the last resting-place of Chatterton; and now I
was in the room where it was alleged he obtained
the manuscripts that gave him such notoriety.
We descended and viewed other portions of the
church. The effect of the chancel, as seen behind
the pictures, is very singular, and suggestive of
<!-- Page 162 --><SPAN name="Page_162" id="Page_162" title="162" class="pagenum"></SPAN>many swelling thoughts. We look at the great
east window, it is unadorned with its wonted
painted glass; we look at the altar-screen beneath,
on which the light of day again falls, and behold
the injuries it has received at the hands of time.
There is a dreary mournfulness in the scene which
fastens on the mind, and is in unison with the
time-worn mouldering fragments that are seen
all around us. And this dreariness is not removed
by our tracing the destiny of man on the
storied pavements or on the graven brass, that
still bears upon its surface the names of those
who obtained the world's regard years back.
This old pile is not only an ornament to the city,
but it stands a living monument to the genius of
its founder. Bristol has long sustained a high
position as a place from which the American
Abolitionists have received substantial encouragement
in their arduous labours for the emancipation
of the slaves of that land; and the writer of
this received the best evidence that in this respect
the character of the people had not been exaggerated,
especially as regards the "Clifton Ladies'
Anti-Slavery Society."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="LETTER_XXIIIA" id="LETTER_XXIIIA"></SPAN>LETTER <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: As per editor's footnote, this letter moved to here.">XXIII.</ins><SPAN name="FNanchor_A_1" id="FNanchor_A_1"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor" title="This letter is rather out of its proper place here. I had mislaid the MS., and my distance from the printer prevented the matter being rectified. In another edition, the transposition can be effected.">[A]</SPAN></h2>
<h3>Aberdeen—Passage by Steamer—Edinburgh—Visit to the College—William and Ellen Craft.</h3>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">I have</span> visited few places where I found more
warm friends than in Aberdeen. This is the
Granite City of Scotland.</p>
<p>Aberdeen reminds one of Boston, especially in
a walk down Union Street, which is said to be
one of the finest promenades in Europe.</p>
<p>The town is situated on a neck of land between
<!-- Page 306 --><SPAN name="Page_306" id="Page_306" title="306" class="pagenum"></SPAN>the rivers Dee and Don, and is the most important
place in the north of Scotland. During our third
day in the city, we visited among other places the
Old Bridge of Don, which is not only resorted to
on account of its antique celebrity and peculiar
appearance, but also because of the notoriety that
it has gained by Lord Byron's poem of the
"Bridge of Don."</p>
<p>An engagement to be in Edinburgh and
vicinity, cut short our stay in the north. The
very mild state of the weather, and a wish to see
something of the coast between Aberdeen and
Edinburgh, induced us to make the journey by
water.</p>
<p>On Friday evening, the 14th, after delivering a
lecture before the Total Abstinence Society, in
company with William and Ellen Craft, I went
on board the steamer bound for Edinburgh. On
reaching the vessel, we found the drawing-room
almost entirely at our service, and prejudice
against colour being unknown, we had no difficulty
in getting the best accommodation which
the steamer could furnish. This is so unlike the
pro-slavery, negro-hating spirit of America, that
<!-- Page 307 --><SPAN name="Page_307" id="Page_307" title="307" class="pagenum"></SPAN>the Crafts seemed almost bewildered by the transition.
I had been in the saloon but a short
time, when, looking at the newspapers on the
table, I discovered the <i>North Star</i>. It was like
meeting with a friend in a strange land. I
looked in vain on the margin for the name
of its owner, but as I did not feel at liberty
to take it, and as it appeared to be alone,
I laid the <i>Liberator</i> by its side to keep it
company.</p>
<p>The night was a glorious one. The sky was
without a speck; and the clear, piercing air had
a brilliancy I have seldom seen. The moon was
in its zenith—the steamer and surrounding objects
were beautiful in the extreme. The boat
got under weigh at a little past twelve, and we
were soon out at sea. The "Queen" is a splendid
craft, and without the aid of sails, was able to
make fifteen miles within the hour. I was up
the next morning before the sun, and found the
sea as on the previous night—as calm and smooth
as a mirror. It was a delightful morning, more
like April than February; and the sun, as it rose,
seemed to fire every peak of the surrounding
<!-- Page 308 --><SPAN name="Page_308" id="Page_308" title="308" class="pagenum"></SPAN>hills. On our left, lay the Island of May, while
to the right was to be seen the small fishing
town of Anstruther, twenty miles distant from
Edinburgh. Beyond these, on either side, was
a range of undulating blue mountains, swelling
as they retired, into a bolder outline and a loftier
altitude, until they terminated some twenty-five
or thirty miles in the dim distance. A friend at
my side pointed out a place on the right, where
the remains of an old castle or look-out house,
used in the time of the border wars, once stood,
and which reminded us of the barbarism of the
past.</p>
<p>But these signs are fast disappearing. The
plough and roller have passed over many of these
foundations, and the time will soon come, when
the antiquarian will look in vain for those places
that history has pointed out to him, as connected
with the political and religious struggles of the
past. The steward of the vessel came round to
see who of the passengers wished for breakfast,
and as the keen air of the morning had given me
an appetite, and there being no prejudice on the
score of colour, I took my seat at the table and
<!-- Page 309 --><SPAN name="Page_309" id="Page_309" title="309" class="pagenum"></SPAN>gave ample evidence that I was not an invalid.
On returning to the deck again, I found we had
entered the Forth, and that "Modern Athens"
was in sight; and, far above every other object,
with its turrets almost lost in the clouds, could
be seen Edinburgh Castle. After landing, a
pleasant ride over one of the finest roads in Scotland,
with a sprinkling of beautiful villas on
either side, brought us once more to Cannon's
Hotel.</p>
<p>In a city like Edinburgh, there is always something
to keep the public alive, but during our three
days' stay in the town, on this occasion, there
were topics under discussion which seemed
to excite the people, although I had been
told that the Scotch were not excitable. Indeed
all Edinburgh seemed to have gone mad about the
Pope. If his Holiness should think fit to pay a
visit to his new dominions, I would advise him to
keep out of reach of the Scotch.</p>
<p>In company with the Crafts, I visited the
Calton Hill, from which we had a delightful
view of the city and surrounding country.
I had an opportunity during my stay
<!-- Page 310 --><SPAN name="Page_310" id="Page_310" title="310" class="pagenum"></SPAN>in the city, of visiting the Infirmary, and
was pleased to see among the two or three
hundred students, three coloured young men,
seated upon the same benches with those of a fairer
complexion, and yet there appeared no feeling on
the part of the whites towards their coloured
associates, except of companionship and respect.
One of the cardinal truths, both of religion and
freedom, is the equality and brotherhood of man.
In the sight of God and all just institutions, the
whites can claim no precedence or privilege, on
account of their being white; and if coloured men
are not treated as they should be in the educational
institutions in America, it is a pleasure to know
that all distinction ceases by crossing the broad
Atlantic. I had scarcely left the lecture room of
the Institute and reached the street, when I met a
large number of the students on their way to the
college, and here again were seen coloured men arm
in arm with whites. The proud American who finds
himself in the splendid streets of Edinburgh, and
witnesses such scenes as these, can but behold in
them the degradation of his own country, whose
laws would make slaves of these same young men,
<!-- Page 311 --><SPAN name="Page_311" id="Page_311" title="311" class="pagenum"></SPAN>should they appear in the streets of Charleston or
New Orleans.</p>
<p>After all, our country is the most despotic in
the wide world, and to expose and hold it up to
the scorn and contempt of other nations, is the
duty of every coloured man who would be true to
himself and his race.</p>
<p><br/>
During my stay in Edinburgh, I accepted an
invitation to breakfast with the great champion of
Philosophical Phrenology. Few foreigners are
more admired in America, than the author of
"The Constitution of Man."<SPAN name="FNanchor_B_2" id="FNanchor_B_2"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_B_2" class="fnanchor"
title="George Combe, Esq.">[B]</SPAN> Although not far
from 70 years of age, I found him apparently as
active and as energetic as many men of half that
age. He was much pleased with Mr. and Mrs.
Craft, who formed a part of the breakfast party.
It may be a pleasure to the friends of these two
fugitive slaves, to know that they are now the inmates
of a good school where they are now being
educated. For this, they are mainly indebted to
that untiring friend of the Slave, John B. Estlin,
Esq., of Bristol, whose zeal and co-operation with
the American Abolitionists, have gained for him
an undying name with the friends of freedom in
the New World.<!-- Page 312 --><SPAN name="Page_312" id="Page_312" title="312" class="pagenum"></SPAN></p>
<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>
<div class="footnote"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_A_1" id="Footnote_A_1"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_A_1"><span class="label">[A]</span></SPAN> This letter is rather out of its proper place here.
I had mislaid the MS., and my distance from the printer prevented
the matter being rectified. In another edition, the transposition
can be effected.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_B_2" id="Footnote_B_2"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_B_2"><span class="label">[B]</span></SPAN> George Combe, Esq.</p>
</div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div><!-- Page 163 --><SPAN name="Page_163" id="Page_163" title="163" class="pagenum"></SPAN></div>
<h2><SPAN name="LETTER_XIII" id="LETTER_XIII"></SPAN>LETTER XIII.</h2>
<h3>Edinburgh—The Royal Institute—Scott's Monument—John Knox's Pulpit—Temperance Meeting—Glasgow—Great Meeting in the City Hall.</h3>
<p class="quotdate"><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Edinburgh</span>, <i>January 1, 1851</i>.</p>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">You</span> will see by the date of this that I am spending
my New-Year's-Day in the Scottish Capital,
in company with our friend, William Craft. I
came by invitation to attend a meeting of the
Edinburgh Ladies' Emancipation Society.</p>
<p>The meeting was held on Monday evening
last, at which William Craft gave, for the first
time, since his arrival in this country, a history
of his escape from Georgia, two years ago,
together with his recent flight from Boston.</p>
<p>Craft's reception was one of deep enthusiasm,
and his story was well told, and made a powerful
impression on the audience. I would that the
slaveholders, Hughes and Knight, could have been
present and heard the thundering applause with
<!-- Page 164 --><SPAN name="Page_164" id="Page_164" title="164" class="pagenum"></SPAN>which our friend was received on the following
evening. Craft attended a meeting of the Edinburgh
Total Abstinence Society, before which I
lectured, and his appearance here was also hailed
with much enthusiasm. Our friend bids fair to
become a favourite with the Scotch.</p>
<p>Much regret was expressed that Ellen was not
present. She was detained in Liverpool by indisposition.
But Mrs. Craft has so far recovered,
that we expect her here to-morrow.</p>
<p>The appearance of these two fugitives in Great
Britain, at this time, and under the circumstances,
will aid our cause, and create a renewed hatred to
the abominable institution of American slavery. I
have received letters from a number of the friends
of the slave, in which they express a wish to aid
the Crafts; and among the first of these, were our
good friends, John B. Estlin, Esq., of Bristol, and
Harriet Martineau.</p>
<p>But I must give you my impression of this fine
city. Edinburgh is the most picturesque of all
the towns which I have visited since my arrival in
the father-land. Its situation has been compared
to that of Athens, but it is said that the modern
<!-- Page 165 --><SPAN name="Page_165" id="Page_165" title="165" class="pagenum"></SPAN>Athens is superior to the ancient. I was deeply
impressed with the idea that I had seen the most
beautiful of cities, after beholding those fashionable
resorts, Paris and Versailles. I have seen
nothing in the way of public grounds to compare
with the gardens of Versailles, or the <i>Champs
<ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "Elyses" in the original text">Elysees</ins> </i> at Paris; and as for statuary, the latter
place is said to take the lead of the rest of the
world.</p>
<p>The general appearance of Edinburgh prepossesses
one in its favour. The town being built
upon the brows of a large terrace, presents the
most wonderful perspective. Its first appearance
to a stranger, and the first impression, can scarcely
be but favourable. In my first walk through
the town, I was struck with the difference in the
appearance of the people from the English. But
the difference between the Scotch and the
Americans, is very great. The cheerfulness
depicted in the countenances of the people here,
and their free and easy appearance, is very striking
to a stranger. He who taught the sun to
shine, the flowers to bloom, the birds to sing, and
blesses us with rain, never intended that his
<!-- Page 166 --><SPAN name="Page_166" id="Page_166" title="166" class="pagenum"></SPAN>creatures should look sad. There is a wide
difference between the Americans and any other
people which I have seen. The Scotch are
healthy and robust, unlike the long-faced, sickly-looking
Americans.</p>
<p>While on our journey from London to Paris, to
attend the Peace Congress, I could not but observe
the marked difference between the English and
American delegates. The former looked as if
their pockets had been filled with sandwiches,
made of good bread and roast beef, while the
latter appeared as if their pockets had been filled
with Holloway's Pills, and Mrs. Kidder's Cordial.</p>
<p>I breakfasted this morning in a room in which
the Poet Burns, as I was informed, had often sat.
The conversation here turned upon Burns.
The lady of the house pointed to a scrap of
poetry which was in a frame hanging on the
wall, written, as she said, by the Poet, on hearing
the people rejoicing in a church over the
intelligence of a victory. I copied it and will
give it to you:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div><span style="margin-left: -.5em;">"Ye hypocrites! are these your pranks,</span></div>
<div>To murder men and give God thanks?</div>
<div><!-- Page 167 --><SPAN name="Page_167" id="Page_167" title="167" class="pagenum"></SPAN>For shame! give o'er, proceed no further,</div>
<div>God won't accept your thanks for murder."</div>
</div></div>
<p>The fact that I was in the room where Scotland's
great national poet had been a visitor,
caused me to feel that I was on classic, if not
hallowed ground. On returning from our morning
visit, we met a gentleman with a coloured lady
on each arm. Craft remarked in a very dry
manner, "If they were in Georgia, the slaveholders
would make them walk in a more hurried
gait than they do." I said to my friend, that if
he meant the pro-slavery prejudice would not
suffer them to walk peaceably through the
streets, they need go no further than the pro-slavery
cities of New York and Philadelphia. When
walking through the streets, I amused myself, by
watching Craft's countenance; and in doing so,
imagined I saw the changes experienced by every
fugitive slave in his first month's residence in
this country. A sixteen months' residence has
not yet familiarized me with the change.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p class="quotdate"><!-- Page 168 --><SPAN name="Page_168" id="Page_168" title="168" class="pagenum"></SPAN><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Laurel Bank</span>, <i>Jan. 18, 1851</i>.</p>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Dear Douglass</span>,—I remained in Edinburgh a
day or two after the date of my last letter, which
gave me an opportunity of seeing some of the
lions in the way of public buildings, &c., in
company with our friend Wm. Craft. I paid a
visit to the Royal Institute, and inspected the
very fine collection of paintings, statues, and
other productions of art. The collection in the
Institute is not to be compared to the British
Museum at London, or the Louvre at Paris, but is
probably the best in Scotland. Paintings from
the hands of many of the masters, such as Sir A.
Vandyke, Tiziano, Vercellio and Van Dellen,
were hanging on the wall, and even the names of
Reubens, and Titian, were attached to some of
the finer specimens. Many of these represent
some of the nobles, and distinguished families of
Rome, Athens, Greece, &c. A beautiful one
representing a group of the Lomellini family of
Genoa, seemed to attract the attention of most of
the visitors.</p>
<p>In visiting this place, we passed close by the
monument of Sir Walter Scott. This is the
<!-- Page 169 --><SPAN name="Page_169" id="Page_169" title="169" class="pagenum"></SPAN>most exquisite thing of the kind that I have seen
since coming to this country. It is said to be
the finest monument in Europe. There sits the
author of "Waverley," with a book and pencil in
hand, taking notes. A beautiful dog is seated by
his side. Whether this is meant to represent his
favourite dog, Camp, at whose death the Poet shed
so many tears, we were not informed; but I was of
opinion that it might be the faithful Percy,
whose monument stands in the grounds at Abbotsford.
Scott was an admirer of the canine
tribe. One may form a good idea of the appearance
of this distinguished writer, when living, by
viewing this remarkable statue. The statue is
very beautiful, but not equal to the one of
Lord Byron, which was executed to be placed
by the side of Johnson, Milton, and Addison,
in Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey; but the
Parliament not allowing it a place there, it now
stands in one of the Colleges at Cambridge.
While viewing the statue of Byron, I thought
he, too, should have been represented with a
dog by his side, for he, like Scott, was remarkably
fond of dogs, so much so that he in<!-- Page 170 --><SPAN name="Page_170" id="Page_170" title="170" class="pagenum"></SPAN>tended
to have his favourite, Boatswain, interred
by his side.</p>
<p>We paid a short visit to the monuments of
Burns and Allan Ramsay, and the renowned old
Edinburgh Castle. The Castle is now used as
a barrack for Infantry. It is accessible only from
the High Street, and must have been impregnable
before the discovery of gunpowder. In the wars
with the English, it was twice taken by stratagem;
once in a very daring manner, by climbing
up the most inaccessible part of the rock upon
which it stands, and where a foe was least expected,
and putting the guard to death; and
another time, by a party of soldiers disguising
themselves as merchants, and obtaining admission
inside the Castle gates. They succeeded
in preventing the gates from being closed, until
reinforced by a party of men under Sir Wm.
Douglas, who soon overpowered the occupants of
the Castle.</p>
<p>We could not resist the temptation held out to
see the Palace of Holyrood. It was in this place
that the beautiful, but unfortunate Mary, Queen
of Scots, resided for a number of years. On
<!-- Page 171 --><SPAN name="Page_171" id="Page_171" title="171" class="pagenum"></SPAN>reaching the palace, we were met at the door by
an elderly looking woman, with a red face, garnished
with a pair of second-hand curls, the
whole covered with a cap having the widest border
that I had seen for years. She was very kind
in showing us about the premises, especially as
we were foreigners, no doubt expecting an extra
fee for politeness. The most interesting of the
many rooms in this ancient castle, is the one
which was occupied by the Queen, and where her
Italian favourite, Rizzio, was murdered.</p>
<p>But by far the most interesting object which
we visited while in Edinburgh, was the house
where the celebrated Reformer, John Knox, <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "re-resided" in the original text">resided</ins>.
It is a queer-looking old building, with
a pulpit on the outside, and above the door are
the nearly obliterated remains of the following
inscription:—"Lufe. God. Above. Al. And. your.
Nichbour. As you. Self." This was probably
traced under the immediate direction of the great
Reformer. Such an inscription put upon a house
of worship at the present day, would be laughed
at. I have given it to you, punctuation and all,
just as it stands.</p>
<p><!-- Page 172 --><SPAN name="Page_172" id="Page_172" title="172" class="pagenum"></SPAN>The general architecture of Edinburgh is very
imposing, whether we regard the picturesque
disorder of the buildings, in the Old Town, or the
symmetrical proportions of the streets and squares
in the New. But on viewing this city which has
the reputation of being the finest in Europe, I
was surprised to find that it had none of those
sumptuous structures, which like St. Paul's, or
Westminster Abbey, York Minster, and some other
of the English provincial Cathedrals, astonish the
beholder alike by their magnitude and their
architectural splendour. But in no city which I
have visited in the kingdom, is the general
standard of excellence better maintained than in
Edinburgh.</p>
<p>I am not sure, my dear friend, whether or not
I mentioned in my last letter the attendance
of Wm. Craft and myself at a splendid Soiree of
the Edinburgh Temperance Society, and our being
voted in life members, in the most enthusiastic
manner, by the whole audience. I will here give
you a part of the speech of the President, as
reported in the <i>Christian News</i>. This should
cause the pro-slavery whites, and especially negro-<!-- Page 173 --><SPAN name="Page_173" id="Page_173" title="173" class="pagenum"></SPAN>hating
Sons of Temperance, who refuse the
coloured man a place in their midst, to feel
ashamed of their unchristian conduct. Here it is,
let them judge for themselves:—</p>
<p>"A great feature in our meeting to-night, is
that we have beside us two individuals, who, according
to the immaculate laws of immaculate
Yankeedom, have been guilty of the tremendous
crime of stealing themselves. (Applause.) Mr.
Craft, who sits beside me, has stolen his good
wife, and Mrs. Craft has stolen her worthy husband;
and our respected friend, Mr. Brown, has
cast a covetous eye on his own person. In the
name of the Temperance reformers of Edinburgh—in
the name of universal Scotland, I would
welcome these two victims of the white man's
pride, ambition, selfishness, and cupidity. I welcome
them as our equals in every respect. (Great
applause.) What a humiliating thought it will
be, surely, for our American friends on the other
side of the water, when they hear (and we shall
endeavour to let them hear) that the very man
whom they consider not worthy to sit in a third
class carriage along with a white man, and that
<!-- Page 174 --><SPAN name="Page_174" id="Page_174" title="174" class="pagenum"></SPAN>too in a district of country where the very aristocracy
deal in cheap cheese—(great applause)
traffic in tallow candles, and spend their nights
and days among raw hides and train oil—(applause)—what
a humbling thought it will be for
them to know that these very men in the centre
of educated Scotland, in the midst of educated
Edinburgh, are thought fit to hold even the first
rank upon our aristocratic platform. Let us, then,
my friends, lift our voices this evening in one
swelling chorus for the down-trodden slave. Let
us publish abroad the fact to the world, that the
sympathies of Scotland are with the bondsman
everywhere. Let us unite our voices to cry, Down
with the iniquitous Slave Bill!—Down with the aristocracy
of the skin!—Perish forever the deepest-dyed,
the hardest-hearted system of abomination
under heaven!—Perish the sum of all villanies!
Perish American slavery. (Great applause.)"</p>
<p>But I must leave the good and hospitable people
of the Scottish Capital for the present. I have
taken an elaborate stock of notes, and may speak
of Edinburgh again.</p>
<p>I left William and Ellen Craft (the latter of
<!-- Page 175 --><SPAN name="Page_175" id="Page_175" title="175" class="pagenum"></SPAN>whom has just come to Edinburgh), and took the
Glasgow train, and after a ride of two hours
through a beautiful country, with its winding hills
on either side—its fertile fields, luxuriant woods,
and stately mansions lying around us, arrived in
the muddy, dirty, smoky, foggy city of Glasgow.
As I had had a standing invitation from a distinguished
gentleman with whom I became acquainted
in London, to partake of his hospitality,
should I ever visit Glasgow, and again received
a note while in Edinburgh renewing the invitation,
I proceeded to his residence at Partick, three
miles from Glasgow. This is one of the loveliest
spots which I have yet seen. Our mansion is on
the side of Laurel Bank, a range of the Kilpatrick
hills. We have a view of the surrounding country.</p>
<p>On Monday evening, Jan. 6, a public meeting
was held in the City Hall, to extend a welcome
to the American fugitive slaves. The hall, one of
the largest in the kingdom, was filled at an early
hour. At the appointed time, Alex. Hastie, Esq.,
M.P., entered the great room, followed by the
fugitives and most of the leading abolitionists, amid
<!-- Page 176 --><SPAN name="Page_176" id="Page_176" title="176" class="pagenum"></SPAN>rapturous applause. With a Member of Parliament
in the chair, and almost any number of
clergymen on the platform, the meeting had an
influential appearance. From report, I had
imbibed the opinion that the Scotch were not
easily moved, but if I may judge from the enthusiasm
which characterised the City Hall demonstration,
I should place them but little behind the
English. After an excellent speech from the
Chairman, and spirited addresses from several
clergymen, William Craft was introduced to the
meeting, and gave an account of the escape of
himself and wife from slavery, and their subsequent
flight from Boston. Any description of
mine would give but a poor idea of the intense
feeling that pervaded the meeting. I think all
who were there, left the hall after hearing that
noble fugitive, with a greater abhorrence of
American slavery than they previously entertained.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div><!-- Page 177 --><SPAN name="Page_177" id="Page_177" title="177" class="pagenum"></SPAN></div>
<h2><SPAN name="LETTER_XIV" id="LETTER_XIV"></SPAN>LETTER XIV.</h2>
<h3>Stirling—Dundee—Dr. Dick—Geo. Gilfillan—Dr. Dick at home.</h3>
<p class="quotdate"><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Perth, Scotland</span>, <i>Jan. 31, 1851</i>.</p>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">I am</span> glad once more to breathe an atmosphere
uncontaminated by the fumes and smoke of a
city with its population of three hundred thousand
inhabitants. In company with our friends Wm.
and Ellen Craft, I left Glasgow on the afternoon
of the 23d inst., for Dundee, a beautiful town
situated on the banks of the river Tay. One like
myself, who has spent the best part of an eventful
life in cities, and who prefers, as I do, a country
to a town life, feels a greater degree of freedom
when surrounded by forest trees, or country
dwellings, and looking upon a clear sky, than when
walking through the thronged thoroughfares of a
city, with its dense population, meeting every
moment a new or strange face which one has
never seen before, and never expects to see again.
Although I had met with one of the warmest
<!-- Page 178 --><SPAN name="Page_178" id="Page_178" title="178" class="pagenum"></SPAN>public receptions with which I have been greeted
since my arrival in the country, and had had
an opportunity of shaking hands with many noble
friends of the slave, whose names I had often seen
in print, yet I felt glad to see the tall chimneys
and smoke of Glasgow receding in the distance,
as our 'iron horse' was taking us with almost
lightning speed from the commercial capital of
Scotland.</p>
<p>The distance from Glasgow to Dundee is some
seventy or eighty miles, and we passed through
the finest country which I have seen in this
portion of the Queen's dominions. We passed
through the old town of Stirling, which lies
about thirty miles distant from Glasgow, and
is a place much frequented by those who travel
for pleasure. It is built on the brow of a hill,
and the Castle from which it most probably
derived its name, may be seen from a distance.
Had it not been for a "professional" engagement
the same evening at Dundee, I would most
assuredly have halted to take a look at the old
building.</p>
<p>The Castle is situated or built on an isolated
<!-- Page 179 --><SPAN name="Page_179" id="Page_179" title="179" class="pagenum"></SPAN>rock, which seems as if Nature had thrown it
there for that purpose. It was once the retreat
of the Scottish Kings, and famous for its historical
associations. Here the "Lady of the Lake,"
with the magic ring, sought the monarch to
intercede for her father; here James II. murdered
the Earl of Douglas; here the beautiful but
unfortunate Mary was made Queen; and here
John Knox, the Reformer, preached the coronation
sermon of James VI. The Castle Hill rises
from the valley of the Forth, and makes an
imposing and picturesque appearance. The windings
of the noble river till lost in the distance,
present pleasing contrasts, scarcely to be surpassed.</p>
<p>The speed of our train, after passing Stirling,
brought before us, in quick succession, a number
of fine valleys and farm houses. Every spot
seemed to have been arrayed by Nature for the
reception of the cottage of some happy family.
During this ride, we passed many sites where the
lawns were made, the terraces defined and
levelled, the groves tastefully clumped, the ancient
trees, though small when compared to our
<!-- Page 180 --><SPAN name="Page_180" id="Page_180" title="180" class="pagenum"></SPAN>great forest oaks, were beautifully sprinkled here
and there, and in everything the labour of art
seemed to have been anticipated by Nature.
Cincinnatus could not have selected a prettier
situation for a farm, than some which presented
themselves, during this delightful journey.
At last we arrived at the place of our
destination, where our friends were in waiting
for us.</p>
<p>As I have already forwarded to you a paper
containing an account of the Dundee meeting, I
shall leave you to judge from these reports the character
of the demonstration. Yet I must mention
a fact or two connected with our first evening's
visit to this town. A few hours after our arrival
in the place, we were called upon by a gentleman
whose name is known wherever the English language
is spoken—one whose name is on the
tongue of every student and school-boy in this
country and America, and what lives upon their
lips will live and be loved for ever.</p>
<p>We were seated over a cup of strong tea, to
revive our spirits for the evening, when our friend
entered the room, accompanied by a gentleman,
<!-- Page 181 --><SPAN name="Page_181" id="Page_181" title="181" class="pagenum"></SPAN>small in stature, and apparently seventy-five
years of age, yet he appeared as active as one
half that age. Feeling half drowsy from riding in
the cold, and then the sudden change to a warm
fire, I was rather inclined not to move on the
entrance of the stranger. But the name of
Thomas Dick, LL.D., roused me in a moment,
from my lethargy; I could scarcely believe that I
was in the presence of the "Christian Philosopher."
Dr. Dick is one of the men to whom the age is
indebted. I never find myself in the presence of
one to whom the world owes so much as Dr.
Dick, without feeling a thrilling emotion, as
if I were in the land of spirits. Dr. Dick had
come to our lodgings to see and congratulate
Wm. and Ellen Craft upon their escape from the
republican Christians of the United States; and
as he pressed the hand of the "white slave," and
bid her "welcome to British soil," I saw the
silent tear stealing down the cheek of this man of
genius. How I wished that the many slaveholders
and pro-slavery professed Christians of
America, who have read and pondered the
philosophy of this man, could have been present.
<!-- Page 182 --><SPAN name="Page_182" id="Page_182" title="182" class="pagenum"></SPAN>Thomas Dick is an abolitionist—one who is willing
that the world should know that he hates
the "peculiar institution." At the meeting that
evening, Dr. Dick was among the most prominent.
But this was not the only distinguished man who
took part on that occasion.</p>
<p>Another great mind was on the platform, and
entered his solemn protest in a manner long to
be remembered by those present. This was the
Rev. George Gilfillan, well known as the author
of the "Portraits of Literary Men." Mr. Gilfillan
is an energetic speaker, and would have
been the lion of the evening, even if many others
who are more distinguished as platform orators
had been present. I think it was Napoleon who
said that the enthusiasm of others abated his own.
At any rate, the spirit with which each speaker
entered upon his duty for the evening, abated my
own enthusiasm for the time being. The last day
of our stay in Dundee, I paid a visit, by invitation,
to Dr. Dick, at his residence in the little
village of Broughty Ferry. We found the great
astronomer in his parlour waiting for us. From
the parlour we went to the new study, and here I
<!-- Page 183 --><SPAN name="Page_183" id="Page_183" title="183" class="pagenum"></SPAN>felt more at ease, for I went to see the Philosopher
in his study, and not in his drawing-room. But
even this room had too much the look of nicety
to be an author's <i>sanctum</i>; and I inquired and
was soon informed by Mrs. Dick, that I should
have a look at the "<i>old study</i>."</p>
<p>During a sojourn of eighteen months in Great
Britain, I have had the good fortune to meet with
several distinguished literary characters, and have
always managed, while at their places of abode,
to see the table and favourite chair. Wm. and
Ellen Craft were seeing what they could see
through a microscope, when Mrs. Dick returned
to the room, and intimated that we could now
see the old literary workshop. I followed, and
was soon in a room about fifteen feet square,
with but one window, which occupied one side of
the room. The walls of the other three sides
were lined with books. And many of these
looked the very personification of age. I took
my seat in the "<i>old arm chair</i>;" and here,
thought I, is the place and the seat in which this
distinguished man sat, while weaving the radiant
wreath of renown which now in his old age sur<!-- Page 184 --><SPAN name="Page_184" id="Page_184" title="184" class="pagenum"></SPAN>rounds
him, and whose labours will be more appreciated
by future ages than the present.</p>
<p>I took a farewell of the author of the "Solar
System," but not until I had taken a look
through the great telescope in the observatory.
This instrument, through which I tried to see
the heavens, was not the one invented by Galileo,
but an improvement upon the original. On
leaving this learned man, he shook hands with
us, and bade us "God speed" in our mission;
and I left the philosopher, feeling I had not
passed an hour more agreeably, with a literary
character, since the hour which I spent with
Poet Montgomery a few months since. And, by-the-bye,
there is a resemblance between the poet
and the philosopher. In becoming acquainted
with great men, I have become a convert to the
opinion, that a big nose is an almost necessary
appendage to the form of a man with a giant
intellect. If those whom I have seen be a criterion,
such is certainly the case. But I have
spun out this too long, and must close.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div><!-- Page 185 --><SPAN name="Page_185" id="Page_185" title="185" class="pagenum"></SPAN></div>
<h2><SPAN name="LETTER_XV" id="LETTER_XV"></SPAN>LETTER XV.</h2>
<h3>Melrose Abbey—Abbotsford—Dryburgh Abbey—The Grave of Sir Walter Scott—Hawick—Gretna Green—Visit to the Lakes.</h3>
<p class="quotdate"><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">York</span>, <i>March 26, 1851</i>.</p>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">I closed</span> my last letter in the ancient town of
Melrose, on the banks of the Tweed, and within
a stone's throw of the celebrated ruins from which
the town derives its name. The valley in which
Melrose is situated, and the surrounding hills,
together with the Monastery, have so often been
made a theme for the Scottish bards, that this has
become the most interesting part of Scotland.
Of the many gifted writers who have taken up
the pen, none have done more to bring the Eildon
Hills and Melrose Abbey into note, than the
author of "Waverley." But who can read his
writings without a regret, that he should have so
woven fact and fiction together, that it is almost
impossible to discriminate between the one and
the other.</p>
<p><!-- Page 186 --><SPAN name="Page_186" id="Page_186" title="186" class="pagenum"></SPAN>We arrived at Melrose in the evening, and
proceeded to the chapel where our meeting was to
be held, and where our friends, the Crafts, were
warmly greeted. On returning from the meeting,
we passed close by the ruins of Melrose, and, very
fortunately, it was a moonlight night. There is
considerable difference of opinion among the
inhabitants of the place as regards the best time
to view the Abbey. The author of the "Lay of
the Last Minstrel," says:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div><span style="margin-left: -.5em;">"If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,</span></div>
<div>Go visit it by the pale moonlight:</div>
<div>For the gay beams of lightsome day</div>
<div>Gild but to flout the ruins gray."</div>
</div></div>
<p>In consequence of this admonition, I was informed
that many persons remain in town to see
the ruins by moonlight. Aware that the moon
did not send its rays upon the old building every
night in the year, I asked the keeper what he did
on dark nights. He replied that he had a large
lantern, which he put upon the end of a long
pole, and with this he succeeded in lighting up
the ruins. This good man laboured hard to convince
me that his invention was nearly, if not
<!-- Page 187 --><SPAN name="Page_187" id="Page_187" title="187" class="pagenum"></SPAN>quite as good, as Nature's own moon. But having
no need of an application of his invention to the
Abbey, I had no opportunity of judging of its
effect. I thought, however, that he had made a
moon to some purpose, when he informed me that
some nights, with his pole and lantern, he earned
his four or five shillings. Not being content
with a view by "moonlight alone," I was up the
next morning before the sun, and paid my respects
to the Abbey. I was too early for the keeper,
and he handed me the key through the window,
and I entered the rooms alone. It is one
labyrinth of gigantic arches and dilapidated halls,
the ivy growing and clinging wherever it can
fasten its roots, and the whole as fine a picture of
decay as imagination could create. This was the
favourite resort of Sir Walter Scott, and furnished
him much matter for the "Lay of the Last
Minstrel." He could not have selected a more
fitting place for solitary thought than this ancient
abode of monks and priests. In passing through
the cloisters, I could not but remark the carvings
of leaves and flowers, wrought in stone in the most
exquisite manner, looking as fresh as if they were
<!-- Page 188 --><SPAN name="Page_188" id="Page_188" title="188" class="pagenum"></SPAN>just from the hands of the artist. The lapse of
centuries seems not to have made any impression
upon them, or changed their appearance in the
least. I sat down among the ruins of the Abbey.
The ground about was piled up with magnificent
fragments of stone, representing various
texts of Scripture, and the quaint ideas of the
priests and monks of that age. Scene after scene
swept through my fancy as I looked upon the
surrounding objects. I could almost imagine I
saw the bearded monks going from hall to hall,
and from cell to cell. In visiting these dark cells,
the mind becomes oppressed by a sense of the
utter helplessness of the victims who once passed
over the thresholds and entered these religious
prisons. There was no help or hope but
in the will that ordered their fate. How painful
it is to gaze upon these walls, and to think how
many tears have been shed by their inmates, when
this old Monastery was in its glory. I ascended
to the top of the ruin by a circuitous stairway,
whose stone steps were worn deep from use by
many who, like myself, had visited them to gratify
a curiosity. From the top of the Abbey, I had a
<!-- Page 189 --><SPAN name="Page_189" id="Page_189" title="189" class="pagenum"></SPAN>splendid view of the surrounding hills and the
beautiful valley through which flows the Gala
Water and Tweed. This is unquestionably the
most splendid specimen of Gothic architectural
ruin in Scotland. But any description of mine
conveys but a poor idea to the fancy. To be
realized, it must be seen.</p>
<p>During the day, we paid a visit to Abbotsford,
the splendid mansion of the late Sir Walter Scott,
Bart. This beautiful seat is situated on the
banks of the Tweed, just below its junction with
the Gala Water. It is a dreary looking spot,
and the house from the opposite side of the river
has the appearance of a small, low castle. In a
single day's ride through England, one may see
half a dozen cottages larger than Abbotsford
House. I was much disappointed in finding the
premises undergoing repairs and alterations, and
that all the trees between the house and the river
had been cut down. This is to be regretted the
more, because they were planted, nearly every
one of them, by the same hand that waved its
wand of enchantment over the world. The fountain
had been removed from where it had been
<!-- Page 190 --><SPAN name="Page_190" id="Page_190" title="190" class="pagenum"></SPAN>placed by the hands of the Poet to the centre of
the yard; and even a small stone that had been
placed over the favourite dog "Percy," had been
taken up and thrown among some loose stones.
One visits Abbotsford because of the genius of
the man that once presided over it. Everything
connected with the great Poet is of interest to
his admirers, and anything altered or removed,
tends to diminish that interest. We entered the
house, and were conducted through the great Hall,
which is hung all round with massive armour of
all descriptions, and other memorials of ancient
times. The floor is of white and black marble.
In passing through the hall, we entered a narrow
arched room, stretching quite across the building,
having a window at each end. This little or
rather narrow room is filled with all kinds of
armour, which is arranged with great taste. We
were next shown into the Dining-room, whose
roof is of black oak, richly carved. In this room
is a painting of the head of Queen Mary, in a
charger, taken the day after the execution.
Many other interesting portraits grace the walls
of this room. But by far the finest apartment
<!-- Page 191 --><SPAN name="Page_191" id="Page_191" title="191" class="pagenum"></SPAN>in the building is the Drawing-room, with a lofty
ceiling, and furnished with antique ebony furniture.
After passing through the Library, with its
twenty thousand volumes, we found ourselves in
the Study, and I sat down in the same chair where
once sat the Poet; while before me was the table
upon which was written the "Lady of the Lake,"
"Waverley," and other productions of this gifted
writer. The clothes last worn by the Poet were
shown to us. There was the broad skirted blue
coat, with its large buttons, the plaid trousers,
the heavy shoes, the black vest and white hat.
These were all in a glass case, and all looked the
poet and novelist. But the inside of the buildings
had undergone alterations as well as the outside.
In passing through the Library, we saw a granddaughter
of the Poet. She was from London,
and was only on a visit of a few days. She
looked pale and dejected, and seemed as if she
longed to leave this secluded spot and return to
the metropolis. She looked for all the world like
a hothouse plant. I don't think the Scotch
could do better than to purchase Abbotsford,
while it has some imprint of the great magician,
<!-- Page 192 --><SPAN name="Page_192" id="Page_192" title="192" class="pagenum"></SPAN>and secure its preservation; for I am sure that, a
hundred years hence, no place will be more frequently
visited in Scotland than the home of the
late Sir Walter Scott. After sauntering three
hours about the premises, I left, but not without
feeling that I had been well paid for my trouble
in visiting Abbotsford.</p>
<p>In the afternoon of the same day, in company
with the Crafts, I took a drive to Dryburgh
Abbey. It is a ruin of little interest, except as
being the burial place of Scott. The poet lies
buried in St. Mary's Aisle. His grave is in the
left transept of the cross, and close to where the
high altar formerly stood. Sir Walter Scott
chose his own grave, and he could not have
selected a sunnier spot if he had roamed the wide
world over. A shaded window breaks the sun as
it falls upon his grave. The ivy is creeping and
clinging wherever it can, as if it would shelter
the poet's grave from the weather. The author
lies between his wife and eldest son, and there is
only room enough for one grave more, and the
son's wife has the choice of being buried here.</p>
<p>The four o'clock train took us to Hawick;
<!-- Page 193 --><SPAN name="Page_193" id="Page_193" title="193" class="pagenum"></SPAN>and after a pleasant visit in this place, and the
people registering their names against American
Slavery, and the Fugitive Bill in particular, we set
out for Carlisle, passing through the antique town
of Langholm. After leaving the latter place, we
had to travel by coach. But no matter how one
travels here, he travels at a more rapid rate than
in America. The distance from Langholm to
Carlisle, twenty miles, occupied only two and
a-half hours in the journey. It was a cold day and
I had to ride on the outside, as the inside had
been taken up. We changed horses, and took in
and put out passengers with a rapidity which
seems almost incredible. The road was as smooth
as a mirror.</p>
<p>We bid farewell to Scotland, as we reached the
little town of Gretna Green. This town being on
the line between England and Scotland, is noted
as the place where a little cross-eyed, red-faced
blacksmith, by the name of Priestly, first set up
his own altar to Hymen, and married all who
came to him, without regard to rank or station,
and at prices to suit all. It was worth a ride
through this part of the country, if for no other
<!-- Page 194 --><SPAN name="Page_194" id="Page_194" title="194" class="pagenum"></SPAN>purpose than to see the town where more clandestine
marriages have taken place than in any other
part in the world. A ride of eight or nine
miles brought us in sight of the Eden, winding
its way slowly through a beautiful valley, with
farms on either side, covered with sheep and
cattle. Four very tall chimneys, sending forth
dense columns of black smoke, announced to us
that we were near Carlisle. I was really glad of
this, for Ulysses was never more tired of the
shores of Ilion than I of the top of that coach.</p>
<p>We remained over night at Carlisle, partaking
of the hospitality of the prince of bakers, and left
the next day for the Lakes, where we had a standing
invitation to pay a visit to a distinguished
literary lady. A cold ride of about fifty miles
brought us to the foot of Lake Windermere, a
beautiful sheet of water, surrounded by mountains
that seemed to vie with each other which should
approach nearest the sky. The margin of the
lake is carved out <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "and and" in the original text">and</ins> built up into terrace
above terrace, until the slopes and windings are
lost in the snow-capped peaks of the mountains.
It is not surprising that such men as Southey,
<!-- Page 195 --><SPAN name="Page_195" id="Page_195" title="195" class="pagenum"></SPAN>Coleridge, Wordsworth, and others, resorted to
this region for inspiration. After a coach ride of
five miles (passing on our journey the "Dove's
Nest," home of the late Mrs. Hemans), we were
put down at the door of the Salutation Hotel,
Ambleside, and a few minutes after found ourselves
under the roof of the authoress of "Society
in America." I know not how it is with others,
but for my own part, I always form an opinion of
the appearance of an author whose writings I am at
all familiar with, or a statesman whose speeches I
have read. I had pictured in my own mind a tall,
stately-looking lady of about sixty years, as the authoress
of "Travels in the East," and for once I was
right, with the single exception that I had added on
too many years by twelve. The evening was spent
in talking about the United States; and William
Craft had to go through the narrative of his escape
from slavery. When I retired for the night, I
found it almost impossible to sleep. The idea that
I was under the roof of the authoress of "The
Hour and the Man," and that I was on the banks
of the sweetest lake in Great Britain, within half a
mile of the residence of the late poet Wordsworth,
<!-- Page 196 --><SPAN name="Page_196" id="Page_196" title="196" class="pagenum"></SPAN>drove sleep from my pillow. But I must leave an
account of my visit to the Lakes for a future
letter.</p>
<p>When I look around and see the happiness
here, even among the poorer classes, and that too
in a country where the soil is not at all to be
compared with our own, I mourn for our down-trodden
countrymen, who are plundered, oppressed,
and made chattels of, to enable an ostentatious
aristocracy to vie with each other in splendid
extravagance.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="LETTER_XVI" id="LETTER_XVI"></SPAN>LETTER XVI.</h2>
<h3>Miss Martineau—"The Knoll"—"Ridal Mount"—"The Dove's Nest"—Grave of William Wordsworth, Esq.—The English Peasant.</h3>
<p class="quotdate"><i>May 30, 1851</i>.</p>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">A series</span> of public meetings, one pressing
close upon the heel of another, must be an
apology for my six or eight weeks' silence.
<!-- Page 197 --><SPAN name="Page_197" id="Page_197" title="197" class="pagenum"></SPAN>But I hope that no temporary suspense on my
part will be construed into a want of interest in
our cause, or a wish to desist from giving occasionally
a scrap (such as it is) to the <i>North Star</i>.</p>
<p>My last letter left me under the hospitable
roof of Harriet Martineau. I had long had an
invitation to visit this distinguished friend of our
race, and as the invitation was renewed during
my tour through the North, I did not feel disposed
to decline it, and thereby lose so favourable
an opportunity of meeting with one who had
written so much in behalf of the oppressed of our
land. About a mile from the head of Lake
Windermere, and immediately under Wonsfell,
and encircled by mountains on all sides, except
the south-west, lies the picturesque little town of
Ambleside, and the brightest spot in the place is
"The Knoll," the residence of Miss Martineau.</p>
<p>We reached "The Knoll" a little after nightfall,
and a cordial shake of the hand by Miss M.,
who was waiting for us, soon assured us that we
had met with a warm friend.</p>
<p>It is not my intention to lay open the scenes of
domestic life at "The Knoll," nor to describe the
<!-- Page 198 --><SPAN name="Page_198" id="Page_198" title="198" class="pagenum"></SPAN>social parties of which my friends and I were
partakers during our sojourn within the hospitable
walls of this distinguished writer; but the name
of Miss M. is so intimately connected with the
Anti-slavery movement, by her early writings, and
those have been so much admired by the friends
of the slave in the United States, that I deem it
not at all out of place for me to give the readers
of the <i>North Star</i> some idea of the authoress
of "Political Economy," "Travels in the East,"
"The Hour and the Man," &c.</p>
<p>The dwelling is a cottage of moderate size,
built after Miss M.'s own plan, upon a rise of land
from which it derives the name of "The Knoll."
The Library is the largest room in the building,
and upon the walls of it were hung some beautiful
engravings and a continental map. On a
long table which occupied the centre of the room,
were the busts of Shakspere, Newton, Milton,
and a few other literary characters of the past.
One side of the room was taken up with a large
case, filled with a choice collection of books, and
everything indicated that it was the home of
genius and of taste.</p>
<p><!-- Page 199 --><SPAN name="Page_199" id="Page_199" title="199" class="pagenum"></SPAN>The room usually occupied by Miss M., and
where we found her on the evening of our arrival,
is rather small and lighted by two large windows.
The walls of this room were also decorated with
prints and pictures, and on the mantle-shelf were
some models in <i>terra cottia</i> of Italian groups.
On a circular table lay casts, medallions, and
some very choice water-colour drawings. Under
the south window stood a small table covered
with newly opened letters, a portfolio and several
new books, with here and there a page turned
down, and one with a paper knife between its
leaves as if it had only been half read. I took
up the last mentioned, and it proved to be the
"Life and Poetry of Hartly Coleridge," son of
S.T. Coleridge. It was just from the press, and
had, a day or two before, been forwarded to her
by the publisher. Miss M. is very deaf and
always carries in her left hand a trumpet; and I
was not a little surprised on learning from her
that she had never enjoyed the sense of smell,
and only on one occasion the sense of taste, and
that for a single moment. Miss M. is loved with
a sort of idolatry by the people of Ambleside, and
<!-- Page 200 --><SPAN name="Page_200" id="Page_200" title="200" class="pagenum"></SPAN>especially the poor, to whom she gives a course of
lectures every winter gratuitously. She finished
her last course the day before our arrival. She
was much pleased with Ellen Craft, and appeared
delighted with the story of herself and husband's
escape from slavery, as related by the latter—during
the recital of which I several times saw
the silent tear stealing down her cheek, and
which she tried in vain to hide from us.</p>
<p>When Craft had finished, she exclaimed, "I
would that every woman in the British Empire,
could hear that tale as I have, so that they might
know how their own sex was treated in that
boasted land of liberty." It seems strange to
the people of this county, that one so white
and so lady-like as Mrs. Craft, should have been
a slave and forced to leave the land of her nativity
and seek an asylum in a foreign country. The
morning after our arrival, I took a stroll by a
circuitous pathway to the top of Loughrigg Fell.
At the foot of the mount I met a peasant, who
very kindly offered to lend me his donkey, upon
which to ascend the mountain. Never having
been upon the back of one of these long eared
<!-- Page 201 --><SPAN name="Page_201" id="Page_201" title="201" class="pagenum"></SPAN>animals, I felt some hesitation about trusting
myself upon so diminutive <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "a looking" in the original text">looking a</ins> creature.
But being assured that if I would only resign
myself to his care and let him have his own way,
I would be perfectly safe, I mounted, and off
we set. We had, however, scarcely gone fifty
rods, when, in passing over a narrow part of the
path and overlooking a deep chasm, one of the
hind feet of the donkey slipped, and with an involuntary
shudder, I shut my eyes to meet my
expected doom; but fortunately the little fellow
gained his foothold, and in all probability saved
us both from a premature death. After we had
passed over this dangerous place, I dismounted,
and as soon as my feet had once more gained
<i>terra firma</i>, I resolved that I would never again
yield my own judgment to that of any one, not
even to a donkey.</p>
<p>It seems as if Nature has amused herself in
throwing these mountains together. From the
top of the Loughrigg Fell, the eye loses its power
in gazing upon the objects below. On our left,
lay Rydal Mount, the beautiful seat of the late
poet Wordsworth. While to the right, and away
<!-- Page 202 --><SPAN name="Page_202" id="Page_202" title="202" class="pagenum"></SPAN>in the dim distance, almost hidden by the native
trees, was the cottage where once resided Mrs.
Hemans. And below us lay Windermere, looking
more like a river than a lake, and which, if
placed by the side of our own Ontario, Erie or
Huron, would be lost in the fog. But here it
looks beautiful in the extreme, surrounded as it
is by a range of mountains that have no parallel
in the United States for beauty. Amid a sun of
uncommon splendour, dazzling the eye with the
reflection upon the water below, we descended
into the valley, and I was soon again seated by
the fireside of our hospitable hostess. In the
afternoon of the same day, we took a drive to the
"Dove's Nest," the home of the late Mrs. Hemans.</p>
<p>We did not see the inside of the house, on account
of its being occupied by a very eccentric
man, who will not permit a woman to enter the
house, and it is said that he has been known to
run when a female had unconsciously intruded
herself upon his premises. And as our company
was in part composed of ladies, we had to share
their fate, and therefore were prevented from seeing
the interior of the Dove's Nest. The exhibitor
<!-- Page 203 --><SPAN name="Page_203" id="Page_203" title="203" class="pagenum"></SPAN>of such a man would be almost sure of a prize at
the great Exhibition.</p>
<p>At the head of Grassmere Lake, and surrounded
by a few cottages, stands an old gray, antique-looking
Parish Church, venerable with the lapse
of centuries, and the walls partly covered with
ivy, and in the rear of which is the parish burial-ground.
After leaving the Dove's Nest, and
having a pleasant ride over the hills and between
the mountains, and just as the sun was disappearing
behind them, we arrived at the gate of
Grassmere Church; and alighting and following
Miss M., we soon found ourselves standing over a
grave, marked by a single stone, and that, too,
very plain, with a name deeply cut. This announced
to us that we were standing over the
grave of William Wordsworth. He chose his
own grave, and often visited the spot before his
death. He lies in the most sequestered spot in
the whole grounds, and the simplicity and beauty
of the place was enough to make one in love
with it, to be laid so far from the bustle of the
world, and in so sweet a place. The more one
becomes acquainted with the literature of the old
<!-- Page 204 --><SPAN name="Page_204" id="Page_204" title="204" class="pagenum"></SPAN>world, the more he must love her poets. Among
the teachers of men, none are more worthy of
study than the poets; and, as teachers, they
should receive far more credit than is yielded to
them. No one can look back upon the lives of
Dante, Shakspere, Milton, Goethe, Cowper, and
many others that we might name, without being
reminded of the sacrifices which they made for
mankind, and which were not appreciated until
long after their deaths. We need look no farther
than our own country to find men and women
wielding the pen practically and powerfully for
the right. It is acknowledged on all hands in
this country, that England has the greatest dead
poets, and America the greatest living ones. The
poet and the true Christian have alike a hidden
life. Worship is the vital element of each.
Poetry has in it that kind of utility which good
men find in their Bible, rather than such convenience
as bad men often profess to draw from it.
It ennobles the sentiments, enlarges the affections,
kindles the imagination, and gives to us the enjoyment
of a life in the past, and in the future, as
well as in the present. Under its light and
<!-- Page 205 --><SPAN name="Page_205" id="Page_205" title="205" class="pagenum"></SPAN>warmth, we wake from our torpidity and coldness,
to a sense of our capabilities. This impulse once
given, a great object is gained. Schiller has
truly said, "Poetry can be to a man, what love is
to a hero. It can neither counsel him nor smite
him, nor perform any labour for him, but it can
bring him up to be a hero, can summon him to
deeds, and arm him with strength for all he ought
to be." I have often read with pleasure the
sweet poetry of our own Whitfield of Buffalo,
which has appeared from time to time in the
columns of the <i>North Star</i>. I have always felt
ashamed of the fact that he should be compelled
to wield the razor instead of the pen for a
living. Meaner poets than James M. Whitfield,
are now living by their compositions; and were he
a white man he would occupy a different position.</p>
<p>After remaining a short time, and reading the
epitaphs of the departed, we again returned to
"The Knoll." Nothing can be more imposing than
the beauty of English park scenery, and especially
in the vicinity of the lakes. Magnificent <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: Erratum applied, "towns" in the original text">lawns</ins>
that extend like sheets of vivid green, with here
<!-- Page 206 --><SPAN name="Page_206" id="Page_206" title="206" class="pagenum"></SPAN>and there a sprinkling of fine trees, heaping up
rich piles of foliage, and then the forests with the
hare, the deer, and the rabbit, bounding away to
the covert, or the pheasant suddenly bursting
upon the wing—the <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "artifical" in the original text">artificial</ins> stream, the brook
taught to wind in natural meanderings, or expand
into the glassy lake, with the yellow leaf sleeping
upon its bright waters, and occasionally a rustic
temple or sylvan statue grown green and dark
with age, give an air of sanctity and picturesque
beauty to English scenery that is unknown in the
United States. The very labourer with his
thatched cottage and narrow slip of ground-plot
before the door, the little flower-bed, the woodbine
trimmed against the wall, and hanging its
blossoms about the windows, and the peasant
seen trudging home at nightfall with the avails of
the toil of the day upon his back—all this tells
us of the happiness both of rich and poor in this
country. And yet there are those who would
have the world believe that the labourer of
England is in a far worse condition than the
slaves of America. Such persons know nothing
of the real condition of the working classes of this
<!-- Page 207 --><SPAN name="Page_207" id="Page_207" title="207" class="pagenum"></SPAN>country. At any rate, the poor here, as well as
the rich, are upon a level, as far as the laws of
the country are concerned. The more one becomes
acquainted with the English people, the
more one has to admire them. They are so
different from the people of our own country.
Hospitality, frankness, and good humour, are
always to be found in an Englishman. After a
ramble of three days about the lakes, we mounted
the coach, bidding Miss Martineau farewell, and
quitted the lake district.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="LETTER_XVII" id="LETTER_XVII"></SPAN>LETTER XVII.</h2>
<h3>A Day in the Crystal Palace.</h3>
<p class="quotdate"><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">London</span>, <i>June 27th, 1851</i>.</p>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Presuming</span> that you will expect from me some
account of the great World's Fair, I take my pen
to give you my own impressions, although I
am afraid that anything which I may say about
this "Lion of the day," will fall far short of a
<!-- Page 208 --><SPAN name="Page_208" id="Page_208" title="208" class="pagenum"></SPAN>description. On Monday last, I quitted my
lodgings at an early hour, and started for the
Crystal Palace. This day was fine, such as we
seldom experience in London, with a clear sky,
and invigorating air, whose vitality was as rousing
to the spirits as a blast from the "horn of Astolpho."
Although it was not yet 10 o'clock when
I entered Piccadilly, every omnibus was full,
inside and out, and the street was lined with one
living stream, as far as the eye could reach, all
wending their way to the "Glass-House." No
metropolis in the world presents such facilities as
London for the reception of the Great Exhibition,
now collected within its walls. Throughout its
myriads of veins, the stream of industry and toil
pulses with sleepless energy. Every one seems
to feel that this great Capital of the world, is the
fittest place wherein they might offer homage to
the dignity of toil. I had already begun to feel
fatigued by my pedestrian excursion as I passed
"Apsley House," the residence of the Duke of
Wellington, and emerged into Hyde Park.</p>
<p>I had hoped that on getting into the Park, I
would be out of the crowd that seemed to press so
<!-- Page 209 --><SPAN name="Page_209" id="Page_209" title="209" class="pagenum"></SPAN>heavily in the street. But in this I was mistaken.
I here found myself surrounded by and moving
with an overwhelming mass, such as I had never
before witnessed. And, away in the distance, I
beheld a dense crowd, and above every other object,
was seen the lofty summit of the Crystal
Palace. The drive in the Park was lined with
princely-looking vehicles of every description.
The drivers in their bright red and gold uniforms,
the pages and footmen in their blue trousers and
white silk stockings, and the horses dressed up
in their neat, silver-mounted harness, made the
scene altogether one of great splendour. I was
soon at the door, paid my shilling, and entered
the building at the south end of the Transept.
For the first ten or twenty minutes I was so lost
in astonishment, and absorbed in pleasing wonder,
that I could do nothing but gaze up and down the
vista of the noble building. The Crystal Palace
resembles in some respects, the interior of the
cathedrals of this country. One long avenue from
east to west is intersected by a Transept, which
divides the building into two nearly equal parts.
This is the greatest building the world ever saw,
<!-- Page 210 --><SPAN name="Page_210" id="Page_210" title="210" class="pagenum"></SPAN>before which the Pyramids of Egypt, and the Colossus
of Rhodes must hide their diminished
heads. The palace was not full at any time during
the day, there being only 64,000 persons present.
Those who love to study the human countenance
in all its infinite varieties, can find ample
scope for the indulgence of their taste, by a visit
to the World's Fair. All countries are there represented—Europeans,
Asiatics, Americans and
Africans, with their numerous subdivisions. Even
the exclusive Chinese, with his hair braided, and
hanging down his back, has left the land of his
nativity, and is seen making long strides through
the Crystal Palace, in his wooden-bottomed shoes.
Of all places of curious costumes and different
fashions, none has ever yet presented such a variety
as this Exhibition. No dress is too absurd to be
worn in this place.</p>
<p>There is a great deal of freedom in the Exhibition.
The servant who walks behind his mistress
through the Park feels that he can crowd against
her in the Exhibition. The Queen and the day
labourer, the Prince and the merchant, the peer
and the pauper, the Celt and the Saxon, the
<!-- Page 211 --><SPAN name="Page_211" id="Page_211" title="211" class="pagenum"></SPAN>Greek and the Frank, the Hebrew and the Russ,
all meet here upon terms of perfect equality.
This amalgamation of rank, this kindly blending
of interests, and forgetfulness of the cold formalities
of ranks and grades, cannot but be attended
with the very best results. I was pleased to see
such a goodly sprinkling of my own countrymen in
the Exhibition—I mean coloured men and
women—well-dressed, and moving about with
their fairer brethren. This, some of our pro-slavery
Americans did not seem to relish very well.
There was no help for it. As I walked through
the American part of the Crystal Palace, some of
our Virginian neighbours eyed me closely and
with jealous looks, especially as an English lady
was leaning on my arm. But their sneering
looks did not disturb me in the least. I remained
the longer in their department, and criticised
the bad appearance of their goods the more.
Indeed, the Americans, as far as appearance goes,
are behind every other country in the Exhibition.
The "Greek Slave" is the only production of
Art which the United States has sent. And it
would have been more to their credit had they
<!-- Page 212 --><SPAN name="Page_212" id="Page_212" title="212" class="pagenum"></SPAN>kept that at home. In so vast a place as the
Great Exhibition one scarcely knows what to
visit first, or what to look upon last. After
wandering about through the building for five
hours, I sat down in one of the galleries and
looked at the fine marble statue of Virginius,
with the knife in his hand and about to take the
life of his beloved and beautiful daughter, to save
her from the hands of Appius Claudius. The
admirer of genius will linger for hours among the
great variety of statues in the long avenue.
Large statues of Lords Eldon and Stowell, carved
out of solid marble, each weighing above twenty
tons, are among the most gigantic in the building.</p>
<p>I was sitting with my 400 paged guide-book
before me, and looking down upon the moving
mass, when my attention was called to a small
group of gentlemen standing near the statue of
Shakspere, one of whom wore a white coat and
hat, and had flaxen hair, and trousers rather short
in the legs. The lady by my side, and who had
called my attention to the group, asked if I could
tell what country this odd-looking gentleman was
from? Not wishing to run the risk of a mistake,
<!-- Page 213 --><SPAN name="Page_213" id="Page_213" title="213" class="pagenum"></SPAN>I was about declining to venture an opinion,
when the reflection of the sun against a mirror, on
the opposite side, threw a brilliant light upon the
group, and especially on the face of the gentleman
in the white coat, and I immediately recognized
under the brim of the white hat, the
features of Horace Greeley, Esq., of the New
York "Tribune." His general appearance was as
much out of the English style as that of the Turk
whom I had seen but a moment before—in his
bag-like trousers, shuffling along in his slippers.
But oddness in dress, is one of the characteristics
of the Great Exhibition.</p>
<p>Among the many things in the Crystal Palace,
there are some which receive greater attention
than others, around which may always be seen
large groups of the visitors. The first of these is
the Koh-i-noor, the "Mountain of Light." This
is the largest and most valuable diamond in the
world, said to be worth £2,000,000 sterling. It
is indeed a great source of attraction to those who
go to the Exhibition for the first time, but it is
doubtful whether it obtains such admiration afterwards.
We saw more than one spectator turn
<!-- Page 214 --><SPAN name="Page_214" id="Page_214" title="214" class="pagenum"></SPAN>away with the idea that after all it was only a
piece of glass. After some jamming, I got a look
at the precious jewel, and although in a brass-grated
cage, strong enough to hold a lion, I found
it to be no larger than the third of a hen's egg.
Two policemen remain by its side day and night.</p>
<p>The finest thing in the Exhibition, is the "Veiled
Vestal," a statue of a woman carved in marble,
with a veil over her face, and so neatly done, that
it looks as if it had been thrown over after it was
finished. The Exhibition presents many things
which appeal to the eye and touch the heart,
and altogether, it is so decorated and furnished,
as to excite the dullest mind, and satisfy the most
fastidious.</p>
<p>England has contributed the most useful and
substantial articles; France, the most beautiful;
while Russia, Turkey, and the West Indies, seem
to vie with each other in richness. China and
Persia are not behind. Austria has also contributed
a rich and beautiful stock. Sweden, Norway,
Denmark, and the smaller states of Europe,
have all tried to outdo themselves in sending
goods to the World's Fair. In Machinery, Eng<!-- Page 215 --><SPAN name="Page_215" id="Page_215" title="215" class="pagenum"></SPAN>land
has no competitor. In Art, France is almost
alone in the Exhibition, setting aside England.</p>
<p>In natural productions and provisions, America
stands alone in her glory. There lies her pile of
canvassed hams; whether they were wood or real,
we could not tell. There are her barrels of salt,
beef, and pork, her beautiful white lard, her Indian-corn
and corn-meal, her rice and tobacco,
her beef tongues, dried peas, and a few bags of
cotton. The contributors from the United States
seemed to have <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "forgotton" in the original text">forgotten</ins> that this was an exhibition
of Art, or they most certainly would not
have sent provisions. But the United States
takes the lead in the contributions, as no other
country has sent in provisions. The finest thing
contributed by our countrymen, is a large piece
of silk with an eagle painted upon it, surrounded
by stars and stripes.</p>
<p>After remaining more than five hours in the
great temple, I turned my back upon the richly
laden stalls and left the Crystal Palace. On my
return home I was more fortunate than in the
morning, inasmuch as I found a seat for my
friend and myself in an omnibus. And even my
<!-- Page 216 --><SPAN name="Page_216" id="Page_216" title="216" class="pagenum"></SPAN>ride in the close omnibus was not without
interest. For I had scarcely taken my seat, when
my friend, who was seated opposite me, with
looks and gesture informed me that we were in
the presence of some distinguished person. I
eyed the countenances of the different persons,
but in vain, to see if I could find any one who by
his appearance showed signs of superiority over
his fellow-passengers. I had given up the hope
of selecting the person of note when another
look from my friend directed my attention to a
gentlemen seated in the corner of the omnibus.
He was a tall man with strongly marked
features, hair dark and coarse. There was a
slight stoop of the shoulder—that bend which is
almost always a characteristic of studious men.
But he wore upon his countenance a forbidding
and disdainful frown, that seemed to tell one that
he thought himself better than those about him.
His dress did not indicate a man of high rank;
and had we been in America, I would have taken
him for an Ohio farmer.</p>
<p>While I was scanning the features and general
appearance of the gentleman, the Omnibus
<!-- Page 217 --><SPAN name="Page_217" id="Page_217" title="217" class="pagenum"></SPAN>stopped and put down three or four of the passengers,
which gave me an opportunity of getting
a seat by the side of my friend, who, in a low
whisper, informed me that the gentleman whom I
had been eyeing so closely, was no less a person
than Thomas Carlyle. I had read his "Hero-worship,"
and "Past and Present," and had
formed a high opinion of his literary abilities.
But his recent attack upon the emancipated
people of the West Indies, and his laborious
article in favour of the re-establishment of the
lash and slavery, had created in my mind a dislike
for the man, and I almost regretted that we were
in the same Omnibus. In some things, Mr.
Carlyle is right: but in many, he is entirely
wrong. As a writer, Mr. Carlyle is often monotonous
and extravagant. He does not exhibit a
new view of nature, or raise insignificant objects
into importance, but generally takes commonplace
thoughts and events, and tries to express
them in stronger and statelier language than
others. He holds no communion with his kind,
but stands alone without mate or fellow. He is
like a solitary peak, all access to which is cut off.
<!-- Page 218 --><SPAN name="Page_218" id="Page_218" title="218" class="pagenum"></SPAN>He exists not by sympathy but by antipathy.
Mr. Carlyle seems chiefly to try how he shall
display his own powers, and astonish mankind, by
starting new trains of speculation or by expressing
old ones so as not to be understood. He cares
little what he says, so as he can say it differently
from others. To read his works, is one thing; to
understand them, is another. If any one thinks
that I exaggerate, let him sit for an hour over
"<ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "Sartar" in the original text">Sartor</ins> Resartus," and if he does not rise from its
pages, place his three or four dictionaries on the
shelf, and say I am right, I promise never again
to say a word against Thomas Carlyle. He
writes one page in favour of Reform, and ten
against it. He would hang all prisoners to get
rid of them, yet the inmates of the prisons and
"work-houses are better off than the poor."
His heart is with the poor; yet the blacks of the
West Indies should be taught, that if they will
not raise sugar and cotton by their own free will,
"Quashy should have the whip applied to him."
He frowns upon the Reformatory speakers upon
the boards of Exeter Hall, yet he is the prince of
reformers. He hates heroes and assassins, yet
<!-- Page 219 --><SPAN name="Page_219" id="Page_219" title="219" class="pagenum"></SPAN>Cromwell was an angel, and Charlotte Corday a
saint. He scorns everything, and seems to be
tired of what he is by nature, and tries to be what
he is not. But you will ask, what has Thomas
Carlyle to do with a visit to the Crystal Palace?
My only reply is, "Nothing," and if my remarks
upon him have taken up the space that should
have been devoted to the Exhibition, and what I
have written not prove too burdensome to read,
my next will be "a week in the Crystal Palace."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="LETTER_XVIII" id="LETTER_XVIII"></SPAN>LETTER XVIII.</h2>
<h3>The London Peace Congress—Meeting of Fugitive Slaves—Temperance Demonstration—The Great Exhibition: last visit.</h3>
<p class="quotdate"><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">London</span>, <i>August 20</i>.</p>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">The</span> past six weeks have been of a stirring nature
in this great metropolis. It commenced with the
Peace Congress, the proceedings of which have
long since reached you. And although that
<!-- Page 220 --><SPAN name="Page_220" id="Page_220" title="220" class="pagenum"></SPAN>event has passed off, it may not be out of place
here to venture a remark or two upon its deliberations.</p>
<p>A meeting upon the subject of Peace, with the
support of the monied and influential men who
rally around the Peace standard, could scarcely
have been held in Exeter Hall without creating
some sensation. From all parts of the world
flocked delegates to this practical protest against
war. And among those who took part in
the proceedings, were many men whose names
alone would, even on ordinary occasions, have
filled the great hall. The speakers were
chosen from among the representatives of the
various countries, without regard to dialect or
complexion; and the only fault which seemed to
be found with the Committee's arrangement was,
that in their desire to get foreigners and Londoners,
they forgot the country delegates, so that
none of the large provincial towns were at
all represented in the Congress, so far as
speaking was concerned. Manchester, Leeds,
Newcastle, and all the important towns in
Scotland and Ireland, were silenced in the
<!-- Page 221 --><SPAN name="Page_221" id="Page_221" title="221" class="pagenum"></SPAN>great meeting. I need not say that this was
an oversight of the Committee, and one, too,
that has done some injury. Such men as the
able Chairman of the late Anti-Corn Law
League, cannot be forgotten in such a meeting,
without giving offence to those who sent him,
especially when the Committee brought forward,
day after day, the same speakers, chosen from
amongst the metropolitan delegation. However,
the meeting was a glorious one, and will long be
remembered with delight as a step onward in the
cause of Peace. Burritt's Brotherhood Bazaar
followed close upon the heels of the Peace Congress;
and this had scarcely closed, when that
ever-memorable meeting of the American Fugitive
Slaves took place in the Hall of Commerce.</p>
<p>The Temperance people made the next reformatory
move. This meeting took place in Exeter
Hall, and was made up of delegates from the various
towns in the kingdom. They had come
from the North, East, West, and South. There
was the quick-spoken son of the Emerald Isle,
with his pledge suspended from his neck; there,
too, the Scot, speaking his broad dialect; also the
<!-- Page 222 --><SPAN name="Page_222" id="Page_222" title="222" class="pagenum"></SPAN>representatives from the provincial towns of England
and Wales, who seemed to speak anything
but good English.</p>
<p>The day after the meeting had closed in Exeter
Hall, the country societies, together with those of
the metropolis, assembled in Hyde Park, and then
walked to the Crystal Palace. Their number
while going to the Exhibition, was variously estimated
at from 15,000 to 20,000, and was said to
have been the largest gathering of Teetotalers ever
assembled in London. They consisted chiefly of
the working classes, their wives and children—clean,
well-dressed and apparently happy: their
looks indicating in every way those orderly habits
which, beyond question, distinguish the devotees
of that cause above the common labourers of this
country. On arriving at the Exhibition, they
soon distributed themselves among the departments,
to revel in its various wonders, eating
their own lunch, and drinking from the Crystal
Fountain.</p>
<p>And now I am at the world's wonder, I will
remain here until I finish this sheet. I have
spent fifteen days in the Exhibition, and have con<!-- Page 223 --><SPAN name="Page_223" id="Page_223" title="223" class="pagenum"></SPAN>versed
with those who have spent double that
number amongst its beauties, and the general
opinion appears to be, that six months would not
be too long to remain within its walls to enable
one to examine its laden stalls. Many persons
make the Crystal Palace their home, with the exception
of night. I have seen them come in the
morning, visit the dressing-room, then go to the
refreshment room, and sit down to breakfast as
if they had been at their hotel. Dinner and tea
would be taken in turn.</p>
<p>The Crystal Fountain is the great place of
meeting in the Exhibition. There you may see
husbands looking for lost wives, wives for stolen
husbands, mothers for their lost children, and
towns-people for their country friends; and unless
you have an appointment at a certain place
at an hour, you might as well prowl through the
streets of London to find a friend, as in the Great
Exhibition. There is great beauty in the "Glass
House." Here, in the transept, with the glorious
sunlight coming through that wonderful glass
roof, may the taste be cultivated and improved, the
mind edified, and the feelings chastened. Here,
<!-- Page 224 --><SPAN name="Page_224" id="Page_224" title="224" class="pagenum"></SPAN>surrounded by noble creations in marble and
bronze, and in the midst of an admiring throng,
one may gaze at statuary which might fitly decorate
the house of the proudest prince in Christendom.</p>
<p>He who takes his station in the gallery, at
either end, and looks upon that wondrous nave,
or who surveys the matchless panorama around
him from the intersection of the nave and transept,
may be said, without presumption or exaggeration,
to see all the kingdoms of this world
and the glory of them. He sees not only a
greater collection of fine articles, but also a
greater as well as more various assemblage of the
human race, than ever before was gathered under
one roof.</p>
<p>One of the beauties of this great international
gathering is, that it is not confined to rank or
grade. The million toilers from mine, and factory,
and workshop, and loom, and office, and
field, share with their more wealthy neighbours
the feast of reason and imagination spread out in
the Crystal Palace.</p>
<p>It is strange indeed to see so many nations
<!-- Page 225 --><SPAN name="Page_225" id="Page_225" title="225" class="pagenum"></SPAN>assembled and represented on one spot of British
ground. In short, it is one great theatre, with
thousands of performers, each playing his own
part. England is there, with her mighty engines
toiling and whirring, indefatigable in her enterprises
to shorten labour. India spreads her
glitter and paint. France, refined and fastidious,
is there every day, giving the last touch to her
picturesque group; and the other countries, each
in their turn, doing what they can to show off.
The distant hum of thousands of good humoured
people, with occasionally a national anthem
from some gigantic organ, together with the
noise of the machinery, seems to send life into
every part of the Crystal Palace.</p>
<p>When you get tired of walking, you can sit
down and write your impressions, and there is
the "post" to receive your letter, or if it be Friday
or Saturday, you may, if you choose, rest yourself
by hearing a lecture from Professor Anstead; and
then before leaving take your last look, and see
something that you have not before seen. Every
thing which is old in cities, new in colonial life,
splendid in courts, useful in industry, beautiful
<!-- Page 226 --><SPAN name="Page_226" id="Page_226" title="226" class="pagenum"></SPAN>in nature, or ingenious in invention, is there represented.
In one place we have the Bible translated
into one hundred and fifty languages; in
another, we have saints and archbishops painted
on glass; in another, old palaces and the
altars of a John Knox, a Baxter, or some
other divines of olden time. In the old Temple
of Delphi, we read that every state of the
civilized world had its separate treasury, where
Herodotus, born two thousand years before
his time, saw and observed all kinds of prodigies
in gold and silver, brass and iron, and
even in linen. The nations all met there on one
common ground, and the peace of the earth was
not a little promoted by their common interest
in the sanctity and splendour of that shrine.
As long as the Exhibition lasts, and its memory
endures, we hope and trust that it may shed the
same influence. With this hasty scrap, I take
leave of the Great Exhibition.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div><!-- Page 227 --><SPAN name="Page_227" id="Page_227" title="227" class="pagenum"></SPAN></div>
<h2><SPAN name="LETTER_XIX" id="LETTER_XIX"></SPAN>LETTER XIX.</h2>
<h3>Oxford—Martyrs' Monument—Cost of the Burning of the Martyrs—The Colleges—Dr. Pusey—Energy, the Secret of Success.</h3>
<p class="quotdate"><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Oxford</span>, <i>September 10th, 1851</i>.</p>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">I have</span> just finished a short visit to the far famed
city of Oxford, which has not unaptly been styled
the City of Palaces. Aside from this being one of
the principal seats of learning in the world, it is
distinguished alike for its religious and political
changes in times past. At one time it was the
seat of Popery; at another, the uncompromising
enemy of Rome. Here the tyrant, Richard the
Third, held his court, and when James the First,
and his son Charles the First, found their capital
too hot to hold them, they removed to their loyal
city of Oxford. The writings of the great
Republicans were here committed to the flames.
At one time Popery sent Protestants to the stake
and faggot; at another, a Papist King found no
favour with the people. A noble monument now
<!-- Page 228 --><SPAN name="Page_228" id="Page_228" title="228" class="pagenum"></SPAN>stands where Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer, proclaimed
their sentiments and faith, and sealed them
with their blood. And now we read upon the
Town Treasurer's book—for three loads of wood,
one load of faggots, one post, two chains and
staples, to burn Ridley and Latimer, £1 5s. 1d.
Such is the information one gets by looking over
the records of books written three centuries ago.</p>
<p>It was a beautiful day on which I arrived at
Oxford, and instead of remaining in my hotel, I
sallied forth to take a survey of the beauties of
the city. I strolled into Christ Church Meadows,
and there spent the evening in viewing the
numerous halls of learning which surround that
splendid promenade. And fine old buildings they
are: centuries have rolled over many of them,
hallowing the old walls, and making them grey
with age. They have been for ages the chosen
homes of piety and philosophy. Heroes and
scholars have gone forth from their studies here,
into the great field of the world, to seek their
fortunes, and to conquer and be conquered. As
I surveyed the exterior of the different Colleges,
I could here and there see the reflection of the
<!-- Page 229 --><SPAN name="Page_229" id="Page_229" title="229" class="pagenum"></SPAN>light from the window of some student, who was
busy at his studies, or throwing away his time
over some trashy novel, too many of which find
their way into the trunks or carpet bags of the
young men on setting out for College. As I
looked upon the walls of these buildings, I thought
as the rough stone is taken from the quarry to
the finisher, there to be made into an ornament,
so was the young mind brought here to be cultivated
and developed. Many a poor unobtrusive
young man, with the appearance of little or no
ability, is here moulded into a hero, a scholar, a
tyrant, or a friend of humanity. I never look
upon these monuments of education, without a
feeling of regret, that so few of our own race can
find a place within their walls. And this being
the fact, I see more and more the need of our
people being encouraged to turn their attention
more seriously to self-education, and thus to take
a respectable position before the world, by virtue
of their own cultivated minds and moral standing.</p>
<p>Education, though obtained by a little at a
time, and that, too, over the midnight lamp, will
<!-- Page 230 --><SPAN name="Page_230" id="Page_230" title="230" class="pagenum"></SPAN>place its owner in a position to be respected by
all, even though he be black. I know that the
obstacles which the laws of the land, and of society,
place between the coloured man and
education in the United States, are very great, yet
if <i>one</i> can break through these barriers, more
can; and if our people would only place the
right appreciation upon education, they would
find these obstacles are easier to be overcome than
at first sight appears. A young man once asked
Carlyle, what was the secret of success. His
reply was, "Energy; whatever you undertake,
do it with all your might." Had it not been for
the possession of energy, I might now have been
working as a servant for some brainless fellow
who might be able to command my labour with
his money, or I might have been yet toiling in
chains and slavery. But thanks to energy, not
only for my being to-day in a land of freedom,
but also for my dear girls being in one of the
best seminaries in France, instead of being in an
American school, where the finger of scorn
would be pointed at them by those whose superiority
rests entirely upon their having a whiter
<!-- Page 231 --><SPAN name="Page_231" id="Page_231" title="231" class="pagenum"></SPAN>skin. But I am straying too far from the purpose
of this letter.</p>
<p>Oxford is indeed one of the finest located
places in the kingdom, and every inch of ground
about it seems hallowed by interesting associations.
The University, founded by the good
King Alfred, still throws its shadow upon the
side-walk; and the lapse of ten centuries seems to
have made but little impression upon it. Other
seats of learning may be entitled to our admiration,
but Oxford claims our veneration. Although
the lateness of the night compelled me, yet I
felt an unwillingness to tear myself from the
scene of such surpassing interest. Few places in
any country as noted as Oxford is, but what has
some distinguished person residing within its
precincts. And knowing that the City of Palaces
was not an exception to this rule, I resolved to
see some of its lions. Here, of course, is the
head quarters of the Bishop of Oxford, a son of
the late William Wilberforce, Africa's noble
champion. I should have been glad to have seen
this distinguished pillar of the Church, but I soon
learned that the Bishop's residence was out of
<!-- Page 232 --><SPAN name="Page_232" id="Page_232" title="232" class="pagenum"></SPAN>town, and that he seldom visited the city except
on business. I then determined to see one who,
although a lesser dignitary in the church, is
nevertheless, scarcely less known than the Bishop
of Oxford. This was the Rev. Dr. Pusey, a divine,
whose name is known wherever the religion of
Jesus is known and taught, and the acknowledged
head of the Puseyites. On the second morning
of my visit, I proceeded to Christ Church Chapel,
where the rev. gentleman officiates. Fortunately
I had an opportunity of seeing the Dr., and
following close in his footsteps to the church.
His personal appearance is anything but that of
one who is the leader of a growing and powerful
party in the church. He is rather under the
middle size, and is round shouldered, or rather
stoops. His profile is more striking than his
front face, the nose being very large and prominent.
As a matter of course, I expected to see
a large nose, for all great men have them. He
has a thoughtful, and somewhat sullen brow, a
firm and somewhat pensive mouth, a cheek pale,
thin, and deeply furrowed. A monk fresh from
the cloisters of <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "Tinterran" in the original text">Tintern</ins> Abbey, in its proudest
<!-- Page 233 --><SPAN name="Page_233" id="Page_233" title="233" class="pagenum"></SPAN>days, could scarcely have made a more ascetic
and solemn appearance than did Dr. Pusey on
this occasion. He is not apparently above forty-five,
or at most fifty years of age, and his whole
aspect renders him an admirable study for an
artist. Dr. Pusey's style of preaching is cold and
tame, and one looking at him would scarcely
believe that such an apparently uninteresting man
could cause such an eruption in the Church as he
has. I was glad to find that a coloured young
man was among the students at Oxford.</p>
<p>A few months since, I paid a visit to our
countryman, Alexander Crummel, who is still
pursuing his studies at Cambridge—a place,
though much inferior to Oxford as far as appearance
is concerned, is yet said to be greatly its superior as
a place of learning. In an hour's walk through the
Strand, Regent, or Piccadilly Streets in London,
one may meet half a dozen coloured young men,
who are inmates of the various Colleges in the
metropolis. These are all signs of progress in the
cause of the sons of Africa. Then let our people
take courage, and with that courage let them
apply themselves to learning. A determination
<!-- Page 234 --><SPAN name="Page_234" id="Page_234" title="234" class="pagenum"></SPAN>to excel is the sure road to greatness, and that
is as open to the black man as the white. It was
that which has accomplished the <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "mightest" in the original text">mightiest</ins> and
noblest triumphs in the intellectual and physical
world. It was that which has made such rapid
strides towards civilization, and broken the chains
of ignorance and superstition, which have so long
fettered the human intellect. It was determination
which raised so many worthy individuals
from the humble walks of society, and from
poverty, and placed them in positions of trust and
renown. It is no slight barrier that can
effectually oppose the determination of the will—success
must ultimately crown its efforts. "The
world shall hear of me," was the exclamation of
one whose name has become as familiar as household
words. A Toussaint, once laboured in the
sugar field with his spelling-book in his pocket,
amid the combined efforts of a nation to keep him
in ignorance. His name is now recorded among
the list of statesmen of the past. A Soulouque
was once a slave, and knew not how to read. He
now sits upon the throne of an Empire.</p>
<p>In our own country, there are men who once
<!-- Page 235 --><SPAN name="Page_235" id="Page_235" title="235" class="pagenum"></SPAN>held the plough, and that too without any
compensation, who are now presiding at the
editor's table. It was determination that brought
out the genius of a Franklin, and a Fulton, and that
has distinguished many of the American Statesmen,
who but for their energy and determination
would never have had a name beyond the precincts
of their own homes.</p>
<p>It is not always those who have the best advantages,
or the greatest talents, that eventually
succeed in their undertakings; but it is those who
strive with untiring diligence to remove all obstacles
to success, and who, with unconquerable
resolution, labour on until the rich reward of
perseverance is within their grasp. Then again
let me say to our young men—Take courage;
"There is a good time coming." The darkness
of the night appears greatest just before the dawn
of day.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div><!-- Page 236 --><SPAN name="Page_236" id="Page_236" title="236" class="pagenum"></SPAN></div>
<h2><SPAN name="LETTER_XX" id="LETTER_XX"></SPAN>LETTER XX.</h2>
<h3>Fugitive Slaves in England.</h3>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">The</span> love of freedom is one of those natural
impulses of the human breast which cannot be
extinguished. Even the brute animals of the
creation feel and show sorrow and affection when
deprived of their liberty. Therefore is a distinguished
writer justified in saying, "Man is free,
even were he born in chains." The Americans
boast, and justly, too, that Washington was the
hero and model patriot of the American Revolution—the
man whose fame, unequalled in his own
day and country, will descend to the end of time,
the pride and honour of humanity. The
American speaks with pride of the battles of
Lexington and Bunker Hill; and when standing
in Faneuil Hall, he points to the portraits of
Otis, Adams, Hancock, Quincy, Warren, and
Franklin, and tells you that their names will go
down to posterity among the world's most devoted
and patriotic friends of human liberty.</p>
<p><!-- Page 237 --><SPAN name="Page_237" id="Page_237" title="237" class="pagenum"></SPAN>It was on the first of August, 1851, that a number
of men, fugitives from that boasted land of freedom,
assembled at the Hall of Commerce in the City of
London, for the purpose of laying their wrongs
before the British nation, and at the same time,
to give thanks to the God of Freedom for the
liberation of their West India brethren, on the
first of August, 1834. Little notice had been
given of the intended meeting, yet it seemed to
be known in all parts of the city. At the hour
of half-past seven, for which the meeting had been
called, the spacious hall was well filled, and the
fugitives, followed by some of the most noted
English Abolitionists, entered the hall, amid the
most deafening applause, and took their seats on
the platform. The appearance of the great hall
at this juncture was most splendid. Besides the
committee of fugitives, on the platform there were
a number of the oldest and most devoted of the
Slave's friends. On the left of the chair sat Geo.
Thompson, Esq., M.P.; near him was the Rev.
Jabez Burns, D.D.; and by his side the Rev.
John Stevenson, M.A., Wm. Farmer, Esq., R.
Smith, Esq.; while on the other side were the
<!-- Page 238 --><SPAN name="Page_238" id="Page_238" title="238" class="pagenum"></SPAN>Rev. Edward Mathews, John Cunliff, Esq.,
Andrew Paton, Esq., J.P. Edwards, Esq., and a
number of coloured gentlemen from the West
Indies. The body of the hall was not without its
distinguished guests. The Chapmans and
Westons of Boston, U.S., were there. The
Estlins and Tribes had come all the way from
Bristol to attend the great meeting. The Patons
of Glasgow had delayed their departure, so as to
be present. The Massies had come in from
Upper Clapton. Not far from the platform sat
Sir Francis Knowles, Bart., still farther back was
Samuel Bowly, Esq., while near the door were to
be seen the greatest critic of the age, and
England's best living poet. Macaulay had laid
aside the pen, entered the hall, and was standing
near the central door, while not far from the
historian stood the newly-appointed Poet Laureat.
The author of "In Memoriam" had been swept
in by the crowd, and was standing with his arms
folded, and beholding for the first time (and probably
the last) so large a number of coloured
men in one room. In different parts of the hall
were men and women from nearly all parts of
<!-- Page 239 --><SPAN name="Page_239" id="Page_239" title="239" class="pagenum"></SPAN>the kingdom, besides a large number who, drawn
to London by the Exhibition, had come in to see
and hear these oppressed people plead their own
cause.</p>
<p>The writer of this sketch was chosen Chairman
of the meeting, and commenced its proceedings
by delivering the following address, which we cut
from the columns of the <i>Morning Advertiser</i>:—</p>
<p>"The Chairman, in opening the proceedings,
remarked that, although the metropolis had of
late been inundated with meetings of various
character, having reference to almost every
variety of subject, yet that the subject they were
called upon that evening to discuss differed from
them all. Many of those by whom he was
surrounded, like himself, had been victims to the
inhuman institution of Slavery, and were in consequence
exiled from the land of their birth.
They were fugitives from their native land, but
not fugitives from justice, and they had not fled
from a monarchical, but from a so-called republican
government. They came from amongst a
people who declared, as part of their creed, that
<!-- Page 240 --><SPAN name="Page_240" id="Page_240" title="240" class="pagenum"></SPAN>all men were born free, but who, while they did
so, made slaves of every sixth man, woman, and
child in the country (hear, hear). He must not,
however, forget that one of the purposes for which
they were met that night was to commemorate the
emancipation of their brothers and sisters in the
isles of the sea. That act of the British Parliament,
and he might add in this case with peculiar
emphasis, of the British nation, passed on the 12th
day of August, 1833, to take effect on the first
day of August, 1834, and which enfranchised
800,000 West Indian slaves, was an event sublime
in its nature, comprehensive and mighty in its
immediate influences and remote consequences,
precious beyond expression to the cause of freedom,
and encouraging beyond the measure of any
government on earth to the hearts of all
enlightened and just men. This act was the
commencement of a long course of philanthropic
and Christian efforts on the part of some of the
best men that the world ever produced. It was not
his intention to go into a discussion or a calculation
of the rise and fall of property, or whether
sugar was worth more or less by the act of
<!-- Page 241 --><SPAN name="Page_241" id="Page_241" title="241" class="pagenum"></SPAN>emancipation. But the abolition of Slavery
in the West Indies, was a blow struck in the
right direction, at that most inhuman of all
traffics, the slave trade—a trade which would
never cease so long as slavery existed, for where
there was a market there would be merchandise;
where there was demand there would be a supply;
where there were carcases there would be vultures;
and they might as well attempt to turn the
water, and make it run up the Niagara river, as
to change this law. It was often said by the
Americans that England was responsible for the
existence of slavery there, because it was introduced
into that country while the colonies were
under the British Crown. If that were the case,
they must come to the conclusion that, as England
abolished Slavery in the West Indies, she
would have done the same for the American
States if she had had the power to do
it; and if that was so, they might safely
say that the separation of the United States
from the mother country was (to say the least)
a great misfortune to one-sixth of the population
of that land. England had set a noble
<!-- Page 242 --><SPAN name="Page_242" id="Page_242" title="242" class="pagenum"></SPAN>example to America, and he would to heaven his
countrymen would follow the example. The
Americans boasted of their superior knowledge,
but they needed not to boast of their superior
guilt, for that was set upon a hill top, and that
too, so high, that it required not the lantern of
Diogenes to find it out. Every breeze from the
western world brought upon its wings the groans
and cries of the victims of this guilt. Nearly all
countries had fixed the seal of disapprobation on
slavery, and when, at some future age, this stain
on the page of history shall be pointed at,
posterity will blush at the discrepancy between
American profession and American practice.
What was to be thought of a people boasting of
their liberty, their humanity, their Christianity,
their love of justice, and at the same time keeping
in slavery nearly four millions of God's children,
and shutting out from them the light of the
Gospel, by denying the Bible to the slave!
(Hear, hear.) No education, no marriage, everything
done to keep the mind of the slave in
darkness. There was a wish on the part of the
people of the northern States to shield themselves
<!-- Page 243 --><SPAN name="Page_243" id="Page_243" title="243" class="pagenum"></SPAN>from the charge of slave-holding, but as they
shared in the guilt, he was not satisfied with
letting them off without their share in the odium.
And now a word about the Fugitive Slave Bill.
That measure was in every respect an <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "unconsitutional" in the original text">unconstitutional</ins>
measure. It set aside the right formerly
enjoyed by the fugitive of trial by jury—it
afforded to him no protection, no opportunity of
proving his right to be free, and it placed every
free coloured person at the mercy of any unprincipled
individual who might wish to lay claim
to him. (Hear.) That law is opposed to the
principles of Christianity—foreign alike to the
laws of God and man, it had converted the whole
population of the free States into a band of slave-catchers,
and every rood of territory is but so
much hunting ground, over which they might
chase the fugitive. But while they were speaking
of slavery in the United States, they must not
omit to mention that there was a strong feeling
in that land, not only against the Fugitive Slave
Law, but also against the existence of slavery in
any form. There was a band of fearless men and
women in the city of Boston, whose labours for
<!-- Page 244 --><SPAN name="Page_244" id="Page_244" title="244" class="pagenum"></SPAN>the slave had resulted in good beyond calculation.
This noble and heroic class had created an agitation
in the whole country, until their principles
have taken root in almost every association in
the land, and which, with God's blessing, will, in
due time, cause the Americans to put into
practice what they have so long <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "professsd" in the original text">professed</ins>. (Hear,
hear.) He wished it to be continually held up
before the country, that the northern States are
as deeply implicated in the guilt of slavery as the
South. The north had a population of 13,553,328
freemen; the south had a population of only
6,393,756 freemen; the north has 152 representatives
in the house, the south only 81; and it would
be seen by this, that the balance of power was with
the free States. Looking, therefore, at the
question in all its aspects, he was sure that
there was no one in this country but who
would find out, that the slavery of the United
States of America was a system the most
abandoned and the most tyrannical. (Hear,
hear.)"</p>
<p>At the close of this address, the Rev. Edward
Matthews, last from Bristol, but who had
<!-- Page 245 --><SPAN name="Page_245" id="Page_245" title="245" class="pagenum"></SPAN>recently returned from the United States, where
he had been maltreated on account of his fidelity
to the cause of freedom, was introduced, and
made a most interesting speech. The next
speaker was George Thompson, Esq., M.P.;
and we need only say that his eloquence, which
has seldom or ever been equalled, and never surpassed,
exceeded, on this occasion, the most
sanguine expectations of his friends. All
who sat under the thundering anathemas which he
hurled against slavery, seemed instructed, delighted,
and animated. No one could scarcely
have remained unmoved by the pensive sympathies
that pervaded the entire assembly.
There were many in the meeting who had never
seen a fugitive slave before, and when any of the
speakers would refer to those on the platform,
the whole audience seemed moved to tears. No
meeting of the kind held in London for years
created a greater sensation than this gathering of
refugees from the "Land of the free, and the
home of the brave." The following appeal, which
I had <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "writen" in the original text">written</ins> for the occasion, was unanimously
adopted at the close of the meeting, and thus
<!-- Page 246 --><SPAN name="Page_246" id="Page_246" title="246" class="pagenum"></SPAN>ended the great Anti-Slavery demonstration of
1851.</p>
<div class="ctr">
<h4>AN APPEAL TO THE PEOPLE OF GREAT BRITAIN
AND THE WORLD.</h4></div>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">We</span> consider it just, both to the people of the
United States and to ourselves, in making an
appeal to the inhabitants of other countries,
against the laws which have exiled us from our
native land, to state the ground upon which we
make our appeal, and the causes which impel us
to do so. There are in the United States of
America, at the present time, between three and
four millions of persons, who are held in a state
of slavery which has no parallel in any other part
of the world; and whose numbers have, within the
last fifty years, increased to a fearful extent. These
people are not only deprived of the rights to
which the laws of Nature and Nature's God
entitle them, but every avenue to knowledge is
closed against them. The laws do not recognise
the family relation of a slave, and extend to him
protection in the enjoyment of domestic endearments.
Brothers and sisters, parents and children,
<!-- Page 247 --><SPAN name="Page_247" id="Page_247" title="247" class="pagenum"></SPAN>husbands and wives, are torn asunder, and
permitted to see each other no more. The
shrieks and agonies of the slave are heard in the
markets at the seat of government, and within
hearing of the American Congress, as well as on
the cotton, sugar and rice plantations of the far
South.</p>
<p>The history of the negroes in America is but a
history of repeated injuries and acts of oppression
committed upon them by the whites. It is not
for ourselves that we make this appeal, but
for those whom we have left behind.</p>
<p>In their Declaration of Independence, the
Americans declare that "all men are created
equal; that they are endowed by their Creator
with certain inalienable rights; that among these
are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."
Yet one-sixth of the inhabitants of the great
Republic are slaves. Thus they give the lie to
their own professions. No one forfeits his or her
character or standing in society by being engaged
in holding, buying or selling a slave; the details
of which, in all their horror, can scarcely be told.</p>
<p>Although the holding of slaves is confined to
<!-- Page 248 --><SPAN name="Page_248" id="Page_248" title="248" class="pagenum"></SPAN>fifteen of the thirty-one States, yet we hold that
the non-slave-holding States are equally guilty
with the slave-holding. If any proof is needed on
this point, it will be found in the passage of the
inhuman Fugitive Slave Law, by Congress; a law
which could never have been enacted without the
votes of a portion of the representatives from the
free States, and which is now being enforced,
in many of the States, with the utmost
alacrity. It was the passing of this law that
exiled us from our native land, and it has driven
thousands of our brothers and sisters from the free
States, and compelled them to seek a refuge in
the British possessions in North America. The
Fugitive Slave Law has converted the entire
country, North and South, into one vast hunting-ground.
We would respectfully ask you to
expostulate with the Americans, and let them
know that you regard their treatment of the
coloured people of that country as a violation of
every principle of human brotherhood, of natural
right, of justice, of humanity, of Christianity, of
love to God and love to man.</p>
<p>It is needless that we should remind you that
<!-- Page 249 --><SPAN name="Page_249" id="Page_249" title="249" class="pagenum"></SPAN>the religious sects of America, with but few exceptions,
are connected with the sin of slavery—the
churches North as well as South. We would
have you tell the professed Christians of that land,
that if they would be respected by you, they must
separate themselves from the unholy alliance with
men who are daily committing deeds which, if
done in England, would cause the perpetrator to
be sent to a felon's doom; that they must refuse
the right hand of Christian fellowship, whether
individually or collectively, to those implicated, in
any way, in the guilt of slavery.</p>
<p>We do not ask for a forcible interference on
your part, but only that you will use all lawful
and peaceful means to restore to this much
injured race their God-given rights. The moral
and religious sentiment of mankind must be
arrayed against slave-holding, to make it infamous,
ere we can hope to see it abolished. We would
ask you to set them the example, by excluding
from your pulpits, and from religious communion,
the slave-holding and pro-slavery ministers who
may happen to visit this country. We would
even go further, and ask you to shut your doors
<!-- Page 250 --><SPAN name="Page_250" id="Page_250" title="250" class="pagenum"></SPAN>against either ministers or laymen, who are at all
guilty of upholding and sustaining this monster
sin. By the cries of the slave, which come from
the fields and swamps of the far South, we ask
you to do this! By that spirit of liberty and
equality of which you all admire, we would ask
you to do this. And by that still nobler, higher,
and holier spirit of our beloved Saviour, we would
ask you to stamp upon the head of the slaveholder,
with a brand deeper than that which
marks the victim of his wrongs, the infamy of
theft, adultery, man-stealing, piracy, and murder,
and, by the force of public opinion, compel him to
"unloose the heavy burden, and let the oppressed
go free."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="LETTER_XXI" id="LETTER_XXI"></SPAN>LETTER XXI.</h2>
<h3>A Chapter on American Slavery.</h3>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">The</span> word Englishman is but another name for
an American, and the word American is but an<!-- Page 251 --><SPAN name="Page_251" id="Page_251" title="251" class="pagenum"></SPAN>other
name for an Englishman—England is the
father, America the son. They have a common
origin and identity of language; they hold the
same religious and political opinions; they study
the same histories, and have the same literature.
Steam and mechanical ingenuity have brought
the two countries within nine days sailing of each
other. The Englishman on landing at New-York
finds his new neighbours speaking the same language
which he last heard on leaving Liverpool,
and he sees the American in the same dress that
he had been accustomed to look upon at home,
and soon forgets that he is three thousand miles
from his native land, and in another country.
The American on landing at Liverpool, and
taking a walk through the great commercial
city, finding no difficulty in understanding the
people, supposes himself still in New-York; and
if there seems any doubt in his own mind,
growing out of the fact that the people have
a more healthy look, seem more polite, and
that the buildings have a more substantial
appearance than those he had formerly looked
upon, he has only to imagine, as did Rip Van
<!-- Page 252 --><SPAN name="Page_252" id="Page_252" title="252" class="pagenum"></SPAN>Winkle, that he has been asleep these hundred
years.</p>
<p>If the Englishman who has seen a Thompson
silenced in Boston, or a Macready mobbed in New-York,
upon the ground that they were foreigners,
should sit in Exeter Hall and hear an American
orator until he was hoarse, and wonder why the
American is better treated in England than the
Englishman in America, he has only to attribute it
to John Bull's superior knowledge of good manners,
and his being a more law-abiding man than brother
Jonathan. England and America has each its
reforms and its reformers, and they have more or
less sympathy with each other. It has been said
that one generation commences a reform in
England, and that another generation finishes it.
I would that so much could be said with regard to
the great object of reform in America—the system
of slavery!</p>
<p>No evil was ever more deeply rooted in a
country than is slavery in the United States.
Spread over the largest and most fertile States in
the Union, with decidedly the best climate,
and interwoven, as it is, with the religious,
<!-- Page 253 --><SPAN name="Page_253" id="Page_253" title="253" class="pagenum"></SPAN>political, commercial, and social institutions of
the country, it is scarcely possible to estimate its
influence. This is the evil which claims the attention
of American Reformers, over and above
every other evil in the land, and thanks to a kind
providence, the American slave is not without
his advocates. The greatest enemy to the
Anti-Slavery Society, and the most inveterate
opposer of the men whose names stand at the
head of the list as officers and agents of that
association, will, we think, assign to William
Lloyd Garrison, the first place in the ranks of the
American Abolitionists. The first to proclaim
the doctrine of immediate emancipation to
the slaves of America, and on that account an
object of hatred to the slave-holding interest of
the country, and living for years with his life
in danger, he is justly regarded by all, as the
leader of the Anti-Slavery movement in the New
World. Mr. Garrison is at the present time but
little more than forty-five years of age, and of the
middle size. He has a high and prominent forehead,
well developed, with no hair on the top of
the head, having lost it in early life; with a pierc<!-- Page 254 --><SPAN name="Page_254" id="Page_254" title="254" class="pagenum"></SPAN>ing
eye, a pleasant, yet anxious countenance,
and of a most loveable disposition; tender,
and blameless in his family affections, devoted
to his friends; simple and studious,
upright, guileless, distinguished, and worthy,
like the distinguished men of antiquity, to be
immortalized by another Plutarch. How many
services never to be forgotten, has he not rendered
to the cause of the slave, and the welfare of
mankind! As a speaker, he is forcible, clear, and
logical, yet he will not rank with the many who
are less known. As a writer, he is regarded as
one of the finest in the United States, and
certainly the most prominent in the Anti-Slavery
cause. Had Mr. Garrison wished to serve
himself, he might, with his great talents, long
since, have been at the head of either of the great
political parties. Few men can withstand the
allurements of office, and the prize-money that
accompanies them. Many of those who were with
him fifteen years ago, have been swept down
with the current of popular favour, either
in Church or State. He has seen a Cox
on the one hand, and a Stanton on the
<!-- Page 255 --><SPAN name="Page_255" id="Page_255" title="255" class="pagenum"></SPAN>other, swept away like so much floating wood
before the tide. When the sturdiest characters
gave way, when the finest geniuses passed one after
another under the yoke of slavery, Garrison stood
firm to his convictions, like a rock that stands
stirless amid the conflicting agitation of the
waves. He is not only the friend and advocate
of freedom with his pen and his tongue, but to
the oppressed of every clime he opens his purse,
his house, and his heart: yet he is not a man of
money. The fugitive slave, fresh from the whips
and chains, who is turned off by the politician,
and experiences the cold shoulder of the
divine, finds a bed and a breakfast under the hospitable
roof of Mr. Lloyd Garrison.</p>
<p>The party of which he is the acknowledged
head, is one of no inconsiderable influence in the
United States. No man has more bitter enemies
or stauncher friends than he. There are those
among his friends who would stake their all upon
his veracity and integrity; and we are sure that
the coloured people throughout America, bond
and free, in whose cause he has so long laboured,
will, with one accord, assign the highest niche in
<!-- Page 256 --><SPAN name="Page_256" id="Page_256" title="256" class="pagenum"></SPAN>their affection to the champion of universal
emancipation. Every cause has its writers and
its orators. We have drawn a hasty and imperfect
sketch of the greatest writer in the Anti-Slavery
field: we shall now call attention to the
most distinguished public speaker. The name of
Wendell Phillips is but another name for eloquence.
Born in the highest possible position in
America, Mr. Phillips has all the advantages that
birth can give to one in that country. Educated
at the first University, graduating with all the
honours which the College could bestow on him,
and studying the law and becoming a member of
the bar, he has all the accomplishments that
these advantages can give to a man of a great
mind. Nature has treated him as a favourite.
His stature is not tall, but handsome; his expressive
countenance paints and reflects every emotion
of his soul. His gestures are wonderfully
graceful, like his delivery. There is a
fascination in the soft gaze of his eyes,
which none can but admire. Being a great
reader, and endowed by nature with a good
memory, he supplies himself with the most com<!-- Page 257 --><SPAN name="Page_257" id="Page_257" title="257" class="pagenum"></SPAN>plicated
dates and historical events. Nothing can
equal the variety of his matter. I have heard him
more than twenty different times on the same
subject, but never heard the same speech. He is
personal, but there is nothing offensive in his
personalities. He extracts from a subject all that
it contains, and does it as none but Wendell
Phillips can. His voice is beautifully musical,
and it is calculated to attract wherever it is heard.
He is a man of calm intrepidity, of a patriotic
and warm heart, with manners the most affable,
temper the most gentle, a rectitude of principle
entirely natural, a freedom from ambition, and
a modesty quite singular. As Napoleon kept
the Old Guard in reserve, to turn the tide in
battle, so do the Abolitionists keep Mr. Phillips in
reserve when opposition is expected in their great
gatherings. We have seen the meetings turned
into a bedlam, by the mobocratic slave-holding
spirit, and when the speakers had one after
another left the platform without a hearing, and
the chairman had lost all control of the assembly,
the appearance of this gentleman upon the platform
would turn the tide of events. He would
<!-- Page 258 --><SPAN name="Page_258" id="Page_258" title="258" class="pagenum"></SPAN>not beg for a hearing, but on the contrary, he
would lash them as no preceding speaker had
done. If, by their groans and yells, they stifled
his voice, he would stand unmoved with his arms
folded, and by the very eloquence of his looks put
them to silence. His speeches against the Fugitive
Slave Law, and his withering rebukes of Daniel
Webster and other northern men who supported
that measure, are of the most splendid character,
and will compare in point of composition with anything
ever uttered by Chatham or Sheridan in
their palmiest days. As a public speaker, Mr.
Phillips is, without doubt, the first in the United
States. Considering his great talent, his high
birth, and the prospects which lay before him, and
the fact that he threw everything aside to plead
the slave's cause, we must be convinced that no
man has sacrificed more upon the altar of humanity
than Wendell Phillips.</p>
<p>Within the past ten years, a great impetus has
been given to the anti-slavery movement in
America by coloured men who have escaped from
slavery. Coming as they did from the very
house of bondage, and being able to speak from
<!-- Page 259 --><SPAN name="Page_259" id="Page_259" title="259" class="pagenum"></SPAN>sad experience, they could speak as none others
could.</p>
<p>The gentleman to whom we shall now call
attention is one of this class, and doubtless the
first of his race in America. The name of
Frederick Douglass is well known throughout this
country as well as America. Born and brought
up as a slave, he was deprived of a mother's
care and of early education. Escaping when
he was little more than twenty years of age,
he was thrown upon his own resources in the free
states, where prejudice against colour is but
another name for slavery. But during all this
time he was educating himself as well as circumstances
would admit. Mr. Douglass commenced
his career as a public speaker some ten years since,
as an agent of the American or Massachusetts Anti-Slavery
Societies. He is tall and well made.
His vast and well-developed forehead announces
the power of his intellect. His voice is full and
sonorous. His attitude is dignified, and his
gesticulation is full of noble simplicity. He is a
man of lofty reason, natural, and without pretension,
always master of himself, brilliant in the
<!-- Page 260 --><SPAN name="Page_260" id="Page_260" title="260" class="pagenum"></SPAN>art of exposing and of abstracting. Few persons
can handle a subject with which they are familiar
better than Mr. Douglass. There is a kind of
eloquence issuing from the depth of the soul,
as from a spring, rolling along its copious floods,
sweeping all before it, overwhelming by its very
force, carrying, upsetting, engulphing its adversaries,
and more dazzling and more thundering
than the bolt which leaps from crag to crag.
This is the eloquence of Frederick Douglass. He
is one of the greatest mimics of the age. No
man can put on a sweeter smile or a more sarcastic
frown than he: you cannot put him off his guard.
He is always in good humour. Mr. Douglass
possesses great dramatic powers; and had he
taken up the sock and buskin, instead of becoming
a lecturer, he would have made as fine a Coriolanus
as ever trod the stage.</p>
<p>However, Mr. Douglass was not the first
coloured man that became a lecturer, and thereby
did service to the cause of his countrymen. The
earliest and most effective speaker from among
the coloured race in America, was Charles Lennox
Remond. In point of eloquence, this gentleman
<!-- Page 261 --><SPAN name="Page_261" id="Page_261" title="261" class="pagenum"></SPAN>is not inferior to either Wendell Phillips or
Frederick Douglass. Mr. Remond is of small
stature, and neat figure, with a head well developed,
but a remarkably thin face. As an elocutionist,
he is, without doubt, the first on the anti-slavery
platform. He has a good voice, a pleasing
countenance, a prompt intelligence, and when
speaking, is calculated to captivate and carry
away an audience by the very force of his
eloquence. Born in the freest state of the Union,
and of most respectable parents, he prides himself
not a little on his birth and descent. One can
scarcely find fault with this, for, in the United
States, the coloured man is deprived of the advantages
which parentage gives to the white man.
Mr. Remond is a descendant of one of those
coloured men who stood side by side with white
men on the plains of Concord and Lexington, in
the battles that achieved the independence of
the colonies from the mother country, in the war
of the Revolution. Mr. Remond has felt deeply,
(probably more so than any other coloured man),
the odious prejudice against colour. On this point
he is sensitive to a fault. If any one will sit for
<!-- Page 262 --><SPAN name="Page_262" id="Page_262" title="262" class="pagenum"></SPAN>an hour and hear a lecture from him on this subject,
if he is not converted, he will at least become
convinced, that the boiling cauldron of anti-slavery
discussion has never thrown upon its surface
a more fiery spirit than Charles Lennox Remond.</p>
<p>There are some men who neither speak nor
write, but whose lives place them in the foremost
ranks in the cause which they espouse. One of
these is Francis Jackson. He was one of the
earliest to give countenance and support to the
anti-slavery movement. In the year 1835, when
a mob of more than 5000 merchants and others,
in Boston, broke up an anti-slavery meeting of
females, at which William Lloyd Garrison and
George Thompson were to deliver addresses, and
when the Society had no room in which to hold
its meetings (having been driven from their own
room by the mob), Francis Jackson, with a moral
courage scarcely ever equalled, came forward and
offered his private dwelling to the ladies, to hold
their meeting in. The following interesting
passage occurs in a letter from him to the
Secretary of the Society a short time after, on
receiving a vote of thanks from its members:—</p>
<p>"<!-- Page 263 --><SPAN name="Page_263" id="Page_263" title="263" class="pagenum"></SPAN>If a large majority of this community choose
to turn a deaf ear to the wrongs which are
inflicted upon their countrymen in other portions
of the land—if they are content to turn
away from the sight of oppression, and 'pass by
on the other side'—so it must be.</p>
<p>"But when they undertake in any way to
impair or annul my right to speak, write, and
publish upon any subject, and more especially
upon enormities, which are the common concern
of every lover of his country and his kind—so it
must not be—so it shall not be, if I for one can
prevent it. Upon this great right let us hold on
at all hazards. And should we, in its exercise,
be driven from public halls to private dwellings,
one house at least shall be consecrated to its
preservation. And if, in defence of this sacred
privilege, which man did not give me, and shall
not (if I can help it) take from me, this roof
and these walls shall be levelled to the earth,
let them fall if they must; they cannot crumble
in a better cause. They will appear of very
little value to me after their owner shall have
been whipt into silence."</p>
<p><!-- Page 264 --><SPAN name="Page_264" id="Page_264" title="264" class="pagenum"></SPAN>There are among the contributors to the Anti-Slavery
cause, a few who give with a liberality
which has never been surpassed by the donors
to any benevolent association in the world, according
to their means—the chief of these is Francis
Jackson.</p>
<p>In the month of May, <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: Erratum applied, "1834" in the original text">1844</ins>, while one evening
strolling up Broadway, New York, I saw a
crowd making its way into the Minerva Rooms,
and, having no pressing engagement, I followed,
and was soon in a splendid hall, where some
twelve or fifteen hundred persons were seated,
and listening to rather a strange-looking man.
The speaker was tall and slim, with long arms,
long legs, and a profusion of auburn or reddish
hair hanging in ringlets down his shoulders;
while a huge beard of the same colour fell upon
his breast. His person was not at all improved
by his dress. The legs of his trousers were
shorter than those worn by smaller men: the
sleeves of his coat were small and short, the
shirt collar turned down in Byronic style, beard
and hair hid his countenance, so that no redeeming
feature could be found there; yet there was
<!-- Page 265 --><SPAN name="Page_265" id="Page_265" title="265" class="pagenum"></SPAN>one redeeming quality about the man—that was
the stream of fervid eloquence which escaped
from his lips. I inquired his name, and was informed
that it was Charles C. Burleigh. Nature
has been profuse in showering her gifts upon Mr.
Burleigh, but all has been bestowed upon his
head and heart. There is a kind of eloquence
which weaves its thread around the hearer, and
gradually draws him into its web, fascinating him
with its gaze, entangling him as the spider does
the fly, until he is fast: such is the eloquence of
C.C. Burleigh. As a debater he is unquestionably
the first on the Anti-slavery platform. If he
did not speak so fast, he would equal Wendell
Phillips; if he did not reason his subject out of
existence, he would surpass him. However, one
would have to travel over many miles, and look in
the faces of many men, before he would find one
who has made more personal sacrifices, or done
more to bring about the Emancipation of the
American Slaves, than Mr. Charles C. Burleigh.</p>
<p>Whoever the future historian of the Anti-Slavery
movement may be, he will not be able to
compile a correct history of this great struggle,
<!-- Page 266 --><SPAN name="Page_266" id="Page_266" title="266" class="pagenum"></SPAN>without consulting the writings of Edmund
Quincy, a member of one of the wealthiest, patriotic,
and aristocratic families in New England:
the prestige of his name is a passport to all that
the heart could wish. Descended from a family,
whose name is connected with all that was glorious
in the great American Revolution, the son
of one who has again and again represented his
native State, in the National Congress, he too,
like Wendell Phillips, threw away the pearl of political
preferment, and devoted his distinguished
talents to the cause of the Slave. Mr. Quincy is
better known in this country as having filled
the editorial chair of <i>The Liberator</i>, during the
several visits of its Editor to Great Britain. As
a speaker, he does not rank as high as some who
are less known; as a writer, he has few equals.
The "Annual Reports" of the American and
Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Societies for the past
fifteen or twenty years, have emanated from his
pen. When posterity, in digging among the tombs
of the friends of mankind, and of universal freedom,
shall fail to find there the name of Edmund Quincy,
it will be because the engraver failed to do his duty.</p>
<p><!-- Page 267 --><SPAN name="Page_267" id="Page_267" title="267" class="pagenum"></SPAN>Were we sent out to find a man who should
excel all others in collecting together new facts
and anecdotes, and varnishing up old ones so that
they would appear new, and bringing them into a
meeting and emptying out, good or bad, the
whole contents of his sack, to the delight and
admiration of the audience, we would unhesitatingly
select James N. Buffum as the man. If
Mr. Buffum is not a great speaker, he has what
many accomplished orators have not—<i>i.e.</i>, a noble
and generous heart. If the fugitive slave, fresh
from the cotton-field, should make his appearance
in the town of Lynn, in Massachusetts, and
should need a night's lodging or refreshments,
he need go no farther than the hospitable door
of James N. Buffum.</p>
<p>Most men who inherit large fortunes, do little
or nothing to benefit mankind. A few, however,
spend their means in the best possible manner:
one of the latter class is Gerrit Smith. The
name of this gentleman should have been
brought forward among those who are first mentioned
in this chapter. Some eight or ten years
ago, Mr. Smith was the owner of large tracts of
<!-- Page 268 --><SPAN name="Page_268" id="Page_268" title="268" class="pagenum"></SPAN>land, lying in twenty-nine counties in the State
of New York, and came to the strange conclusion
to give the most of it away. Consequently,
three thousand lots of land, containing from
thirty to one hundred acres each, were given
to coloured men residing in the State—the
writer of this being one of the number.</p>
<p>Although universal suffrage is enjoyed by the
whites in the State of New York, a property-qualification
is imposed on coloured men; and
this act of Mr. Smith's not only made three
thousand men the owners of land, but created
also three thousand voters. The ability to give,
and the willingness to do so, is not by any means
the greatest quality of this gentleman. As a
public speaker, Mr. Smith has few equals; and
certainly no man in his State has done more to
forward the cause of Negro Emancipation than he.</p>
<p>We have already swelled the pages of this
chapter beyond what we intended when we commenced,
but yet we have called attention to only
one branch of American Reformers. The Temperance
Reformers are next to be considered.
This cause has many champions, and yet
<!-- Page 269 --><SPAN name="Page_269" id="Page_269" title="269" class="pagenum"></SPAN>none who occupy a very prominent position
before the world. The first temperance newspaper
published in the United States, was edited
by William Lloyd Garrison. Gerrit Smith has
also done much in promulgating temperance
views. But the most noted man in the movement
at the present time, and the one best known
to the British public, is John B. Gough. This
gentleman was at one time an actor on the stage,
and subsequently became an inebriate of the most
degraded kind. He was, however, reclaimed
through the great Washingtonian movement that
swept over the United States a few years since.
In stature, Mr. Gough is tall and slim, with black
hair, which he usually wears too long. As an
orator, he is considered among the first in the
United States. Having once been an actor,
he throws all his dramatic powers into his
addresses. He has a facility of telling strange
and marvellous stories which can scarcely be
surpassed; and what makes them still more
interesting, he always happens to be an eyewitness.
While speaking, he acts the drunkard,
and does it in a style which could not
<!-- Page 270 --><SPAN name="Page_270" id="Page_270" title="270" class="pagenum"></SPAN>be equalled on the boards of the Lyceum or
Adelphi. No man has obtained more signatures
to the temperance pledge than he. After all, it
is a question whether he has ever been of any
permanent service to this reform or not. Mr.
Gough has more than once fallen from his
position as a teetotaler; more than once he has
broken his pledge, and when found by his friends,
was in houses of a questionable character. However,
some are of opinion that these defects have
been of use to him; for when he has made his
appearance after one of these debaucheries, the
people appear to sympathize more with him, and
some thought he spoke better. If we believe
that a person could enjoy good health with water
upon the brain, we would be of opinion that Mr.
Gough's cranium contained a greater quantity
than that of any other living man. When speaking
before an audience, he can weep when he pleases;
and the tears shed on these occasions are none of
your make-believe kind—none of your small
drops trickling down the cheeks one at a time;—but
they come in great showers, so as even to
sprinkle upon the paper which he holds in his
<!-- Page 271 --><SPAN name="Page_271" id="Page_271" title="271" class="pagenum"></SPAN>hand. Of course, he is not alone in shedding
tears in his meetings, many of his hearers usually
join him; especially the ladies, as these showers
are intended for them. However, no one can sit
for an hour and hear John. B. Gough, without
coming to the conclusion that he is nothing more
than a theatrical mountebank.</p>
<p>The ablest speaker on the subject of Peace, is
Charles Sumner. Standing more than six feet
in height, and well proportioned, Mr. Sumner
makes a most splendid and commanding appearance
before an assembly. It is not his looks
alone that attract attention—his very countenance
indicates a superior mind. Born in
the upper circle, educated in the first College in
the country, and finally becoming a member of
the Bar, he is well qualified to take the highest
possible position as a public speaker. As an
orator, Charles Sumner has but one superior in
the United States, and that is Wendell Phillips.
Mr. Sumner is an able advocate for the liberation
of the American Slaves as well as of the cause of
Peace, and has rendered great aid to the abolition
movement.</p>
<p><!-- Page 272 --><SPAN name="Page_272" id="Page_272" title="272" class="pagenum"></SPAN>The name of Elihu Burritt, for many reasons,
should be placed at the head of the Peace Movement.
No man was ever more devoted to one
idea than he is to that of peace. If he is an
advocate of Temperance, it is because it will promote
peace. If he opposes Slavery, it is upon the
grounds of peace. Ask him why he wants an
"Ocean Penny Postage," he will tell you to
engender the principles of peace. Everything
with him hinges upon the doctrine of peace. As
a speaker, Mr. Burritt does not rank amongst the
first. However, his speeches are of a high order,
some think them too high, and complain that he
is too much of a cloud-traveller, and when he
descends from these aerial flights and cloudy
thrones, they are unwilling to admit that he can
be practical. If Mr. Burritt should prove as good
a statesman as a theorist, he would be an exception
to most who belong to the aerial school. As
a writer he stands deservedly high. In his
"Sparks from the Anvil," and "Voice from the
Forge," are to be found as fine pieces as
have been produced by any writer of the day.
His "Drunkard's Wife" is the most splendid
<!-- Page 273 --><SPAN name="Page_273" id="Page_273" title="273" class="pagenum"></SPAN>thing of the kind in the language. His stature is
of the middle size, head well developed, with eyes
deeply set, and a prepossessing countenance,
though not handsome; he wears an exterior of
remarkable austerity, and everything about him
is grave, even to his smile. Being well versed in
the languages, ancient and modern, he does not
lack <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: Erratum applied, "vanity" in the original text">variety</ins> or imagination, either in his public
addresses or private conversation; yet it would be
difficult to find a man with a better heart, or
sweeter spirit, than Elihu Burritt.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="LETTER_XXII" id="LETTER_XXII"></SPAN>LETTER XXII.</h2>
<h3>A Narrative of American Slavery.</h3>
<p><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Although</span> the first slaves, introduced into the
American Colonies from the coast of Africa, were
negroes of a very dark complexion with woolly hair,
and it was thought that slavery would be confined
to the blacks, yet the present slave population of
America is far from being black. This change in
<!-- Page 274 --><SPAN name="Page_274" id="Page_274" title="274" class="pagenum"></SPAN>colour, is attributable, solely to the unlimited
power which the slave owner exercises over his
victim. There being no lawful marriage amongst
slaves, and no encouragement to slave women to
be virtuous and chaste, there seems to be no
limits to the system of amalgamation carried on
between master and slave. This accounts for the
fact, that most persons who go from Europe, or
from the Free States, into Carolina or Virginia, are
struck with the different shades of colour amongst
the slaves. On a plantation employing fifty
slaves, it is not uncommon to see one third of
them mulattoes, and some of these nearly white.</p>
<p>In the year 1831, there resided in the state of
Virginia, a slave who was so white, that no one
would suppose for a moment that a drop of
African blood coursed through his veins. His
skin was fair, hair soft, straight, fine and white;
his eyes blue, nose prominent, lips thin; his
head well formed, forehead high and prominent;
and he was often taken for a white free person, by
those who did not know him. This made his condition
as a slave still more intolerable; for one so
white, seldom ever receives fair treatment at the
<!-- Page 275 --><SPAN name="Page_275" id="Page_275" title="275" class="pagenum"></SPAN>hands of his fellow slaves; and the whites usually
regard such slaves as persons, who, if not often
flogged and otherwise ill treated, to remind them
of their condition, would soon "forget" that they
were slaves, and "think themselves as good as
white folks." During that year, an insurrection
broke out amongst the slave population,
known as the Southampton Rebellion, or the
"Nat Turner Insurrection." Five or six hundred
slaves, believing in the doctrine that
"all men are created equal," armed with such
weapons as they could get, commenced a war for
freedom. Amongst these was George, the white
slave of whom we have spoken. He had been
employed as a house servant, and had heard his
master and visiters speak of the down-trodden
and oppressed Poles; he heard them talk of going
to Greece to fight for Grecian liberty, and against
the oppressors of that ill-fated people. George,
fired with the love of freedom, and zeal for the
cause of his enslaved countrymen, joined the insurrection.
The result of that struggle for liberty
is well known. The slaves were defeated, and
those who were not taken prisoners, took refuge
<!-- Page 276 --><SPAN name="Page_276" id="Page_276" title="276" class="pagenum"></SPAN>in the dismal swamps. These were ordered to
surrender; but instead of doing so, they challenged
their proud oppressors to take them, and
immediately renewed the war. A ferocious struggle
now commenced between the parties; but
not until the United States troops were called
in, did they succeed in crushing a handful of men
and women who were fighting for freedom. The
negroes were hunted with dogs, and many who
were caught were burnt alive; while some were
hung, and others flogged and banished from the
State.</p>
<p>Among those who were sentenced to be hanged,
was George. He was placed in prison to await
the day of execution, which would give him ten
days to prepare for his doom. George was the
son of a member of the American Congress, his
mother being a servant in the principal hotel in
Washington, where members of Congress usually
put up. After the birth of George, his mother
was sold to a negro trader, and he to a Virginian,
who sent agents through the country to buy
up young slaves to raise for the market. George
was only about nineteen years of age, when
<!-- Page 277 --><SPAN name="Page_277" id="Page_277" title="277" class="pagenum"></SPAN>he unfortunately became connected with the
insurrection. Mr. Green, who owned George,
was a comparatively good master, and prided
himself on treating his slaves better than most
men. This gentleman was also the owner of a
girl who was perfectly white, with straight hair and
prominent features. This girl was said to be the
daughter of her own master. A feeling of attachment
sprang up between Mary and George,
which proved to be more than mere friendship,
and upon which we base the burden of this narrative.</p>
<p>After poor George had been sentenced to
death and cast into prison, Mary begged and obtained
leave to visit George, and administer to
him the comforts of religion, as she was a
member of a religious body, while George was not.
As George had been a considerable favourite with
Mrs. Green, Mary had no difficulty in obtaining
permission to pay a daily visit to him, to whom
she had pledged her heart and hand. At one of
these meetings, and only four days from the time
fixed for the execution, while Mary was seated in
George's cell, it occurred to her that she might
<!-- Page 278 --><SPAN name="Page_278" id="Page_278" title="278" class="pagenum"></SPAN>yet save him from a felon's doom. She revealed
to him the secret that was then occupying her
thoughts, viz., that George should exchange
clothes with her, and thus attempt his escape in
disguise. But he would not for a single moment
listen to the proposition. Not that he feared
detection; but he would not consent to place
an innocent and affectionate girl in a position
where she might have to suffer for him.
Mary pleaded, but in vain—George was inflexible.
The poor girl left her lover with a heavy
heart, regretting that her scheme had proved unsuccessful.</p>
<p>Towards the close of the next day, Mary again
appeared at the prison door for admission, and
was soon by the side of him whom she so ardently
loved. While there, the clouds which had overhung
the city for some hours, broke, and the rain
fell in torrents amid the most terrific thunder and
lightning. In the most persuasive manner
possible, Mary again importuned George to avail
himself of her assistance to escape from an ignominious
death. After assuring him that she not
being the person condemned, would not receive
<!-- Page 279 --><SPAN name="Page_279" id="Page_279" title="279" class="pagenum"></SPAN>any injury, he at last consented, and they began
to exchange apparel. As George was of small
stature, and both were white, there was no
difficulty in his passing out without detection:
and as she usually left the cell weeping, with
handkerchief in hand, and sometimes at her face,
he had only to adopt this mode and his escape
was safe. They had kissed each other, and Mary
had told George where he would find a small
parcel of provisions which she had placed in a
secluded spot, when the prison-keeper opened the
door, and said, "Come, girl, it is time for you
to go." George again embraced Mary, and passed
out of the gaol. It was already dark and the
street lamps were lighted, so that our hero in his
new dress had no dread of detection. The provisions
were sought out and found, and poor
George was soon on the road towards Canada.
But neither of them had once thought of a change
of dress for George when he should have escaped,
and he had walked but a short distance before he
felt that a change of his apparel would facilitate
his progress. But he dared not go amongst even
his coloured associates for fear of being betrayed.
<!-- Page 280 --><SPAN name="Page_280" id="Page_280" title="280" class="pagenum"></SPAN>However, he made the best of his way on towards
Canada, hiding in the woods during the day, and
travelling by the guidance of the North Star at
night.</p>
<p>One morning, George arrived on the banks of
the Ohio river, and found his journey had terminated,
unless he could get some one to take
him across the river in a secret manner, for he
would not be permitted to cross in any of the
ferry boats; it being a penalty for crossing a slave,
besides the value of the slave. He concealed
himself in the tall grass and weeds near the river,
to see if he could embrace an opportunity to cross.
He had been in his hiding-place but a short
time, when he observed a man in a small boat,
floating near the shore, evidently fishing. His
first impulse was to call out to the man and ask
him to take him over to the Ohio side, but the
fear that the man was a slaveholder, or one who
might possibly arrest him, deterred him from it.
The man after rowing and floating about for some
time fastened the boat to the root of a tree, and
started to a neighbouring farm-house. This was
George's moment, and he seized it. Running
<!-- Page 281 --><SPAN name="Page_281" id="Page_281" title="281" class="pagenum"></SPAN>down the bank, he unfastened the boat, jumped
in, and with all the expertness of one accustomed
to a boat, rowed across the river and landed on
the Ohio side.</p>
<p>Being now in a free state, he thought he might
with perfect safety travel on towards Canada. He
had, however, gone but a few miles, when he discovered
two men on horseback coming behind
him. He felt sure that they could not be in pursuit
of him, yet he did not wish to be seen by
them, so he turned into another road, leading to
a house near by. The men followed, and were
but a short distance from George, when he ran
up to a farm house, before which was standing a
farmer-looking man, in a broad-brimmed hat and
straight collared coat, whom he implored to
save him from the "slave-catchers." The farmer
told him to go into the barn near by; he entered
by the front door, the farmer following, and
closing the door behind George, but remaining
outside, and gave directions to his hired man
as to what should be done with George. The
slaveholders by this time had dismounted, and
were in the front of the barn demanding ad<!-- Page 282 --><SPAN name="Page_282" id="Page_282" title="282" class="pagenum"></SPAN>mittance,
and charging the farmer with secreting
their slave woman, for George was
still in the dress of a woman. The Friend, for
the farmer proved to be a member of the Society
of Friends, told the slave-owners that if they
wished to search his barn, they must first get an
officer and a search warrant. While the parties
were disputing, the farmer began nailing up the
front door, and the hired man served the back
door in the same way. The slaveholders, finding
that they could not prevail on the Friend to allow
them to get the slave, determined to go in search
of an officer. One was left to see that the slave
did not escape from the barn, while the other
went off at full speed to Mount Pleasant, the
nearest town. George was not the slave of either
of these men, nor were they in pursuit of him,
but they had lost a woman who had been seen in
that vicinity, and when they saw poor George in
the disguise of a female, and attempting to elude
pursuit, they felt sure they were close upon their
victim. However, if they had caught him, although
he was not their slave, they would have
taken him back and placed him in <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "goal" in the original text">gaol</ins>, and
<!-- Page 283 --><SPAN name="Page_283" id="Page_283" title="283" class="pagenum"></SPAN>there he would have remained until his owner
arrived.</p>
<p>After an absence of nearly two hours, the slave
owner returned with an officer and found the
Friend still driving large nails into the door. In
a triumphant tone, and with a corresponding gesture,
he handed the search-warrant to the Friend,
and said, "There, Sir, now I will see if I can't get
my Nigger." "Well," said the Friend, "thou
hast gone to work according to law, and thou can
now go into my barn." "Lend me your hammer
that I may get the door open," said the slaveholder.
"Let me see the warrant again." And
after reading it over once more, he said, "I see
nothing in this paper which says I must supply
thee with tools to open my door; if thou wishes
to go in, thou must get a hammer elsewhere."
The sheriff said, "I will go to a neighbouring
farm and borrow something which will introduce
us to Miss Dinah;" and he immediately went in
search of tools. In a short time the officer returned,
and they commenced an assault and
battery upon the barn door, which soon yielded;
and in went the slaveholder and officer, and
<!-- Page 284 --><SPAN name="Page_284" id="Page_284" title="284" class="pagenum"></SPAN>began turning up the hay and using all other
means to find the lost property; but, to their
astonishment, the slave was not there. After all
hope of getting Dinah was gone, the slave-owner
in a rage, said to the Friend, "My Nigger is not
here." "I did not tell thee there was any one
here." "Yes, but I saw her go in, and you shut
the door behind her, and if she was not in the
barn, what did you nail the door for?" "Can't I
do what I please with my own barn door? Now
I will tell thee; thou need trouble thyself no
more, for the person thou art after entered the
front door and went out at the back door, and is
a long way from here by this time. Thou
and thy friend must be somewhat fatigued by
this time, wont thou go in and take a little dinner
with me?" We need not say that this cool
invitation of the good Quaker was not accepted
by the slaveholders. George, in the meantime,
had been taken to a Friend's dwelling some miles
away, where, after laying aside his female attire,
and being snugly dressed up in a straight
collared coat, and pantaloons to match, was
again put on the right road towards Canada.
<!-- Page 285 --><SPAN name="Page_285" id="Page_285" title="285" class="pagenum"></SPAN>Two weeks after this found him in the town of
St. Catharines, working on the farm of Colonel
Strut, and attending a night school.</p>
<p>George, however, did not forget his promise to
use all means in his power to get Mary out of
slavery. He, therefore, laboured with all his
might, to obtain money with which to employ
some one to go back to Virginia for Mary. After
nearly six months' labour at St. Catharines, he
employed an English missionary to go and see if
the girl could be purchased, and at what price.
The missionary went accordingly, but returned
with the sad intelligence that on account of
Mary's aiding George to escape, the court had
compelled Mr. Green to sell her out of the State,
and she had been sold to a Negro trader and
taken to the New Orleans market. As all hope
of getting the girl was now gone, George resolved
to quit the American continent for ever. He
immediately took passage in a vessel laden with
timber, bound for Liverpool, and in five weeks
from that time he was standing on the quay of the
great English seaport. With little or no education,
he found many difficulties in the way of
<!-- Page 286 --><SPAN name="Page_286" id="Page_286" title="286" class="pagenum"></SPAN>getting a respectable living. However, he obtained
a situation as porter in a large house in
Manchester, where he worked during the day,
and took private lessons at night. In this way
he laboured for three years, and was then raised
to the situation of a clerk. George was so white
as easily to pass for a white man, and being somewhat
ashamed of his African descent, he never
once mentioned the fact of his having been a
slave. He soon became a partner in the firm
that employed him, and was now on the road to
wealth.</p>
<p>In the year 1842, just ten years after George
Green (for he adopted his master's name) arrived
in England, he visited France, and spent some
days at Dunkirk. It was towards sunset, on a
warm day in the month of October, that Mr.
Green, after strolling some distance from the
Hotel de Leon, entered a burial ground and wandered
long alone among the silent dead, gazing
upon the many green graves and marble tombstones
of those who once moved on the theatre of
busy life, and whose sounds of gaiety once fell
upon the ear of man. All nature around was
<!-- Page 287 --><SPAN name="Page_287" id="Page_287" title="287" class="pagenum"></SPAN>hushed in silence, and seemed to partake of the
general melancholy which hung over the quiet
resting place of departed mortals. After tracing
the varied inscriptions which told the characters
or conditions of the departed, and viewing
the mounds 'neath which the dust of mortality
slumbered, he had now reached a secluded
spot, near to where an aged weeping
willow bowed its thick foliage to the ground, as
though anxious to hide from the scrutinizing gaze
of curiosity the grave beneath it. Mr. Green
seated himself upon a marble tomb, and began to
read Roscoe's Leo X., a copy of which he had under
his arm. It was then about twilight, and he
had scarcely gone through half a page, when he
observed a lady in black, leading a boy some
five years old up one of the paths; and as
the lady's black veil was over her face, he felt
somewhat at liberty to eye her more closely.
While looking at her, the lady gave a scream and
appeared to be in a fainting position, when Mr.
Green sprang from his seat in time to save her
from falling to the ground. At this moment, an
elderly gentleman was seen approaching with a
<!-- Page 288 --><SPAN name="Page_288" id="Page_288" title="288" class="pagenum"></SPAN>rapid step, who from his appearance was evidently
the lady's father, or one intimately connected with
her. He came up, and in a confused manner, asked
what was the matter. Mr. Green explained as
well as he could. After taking up the smelling
bottle which had fallen from her hand, and holding
it a short time to her face, she soon began to
revive. During all this time, the lady's veil had
so covered her face, that Mr. Green had not seen
it. When she had so far recovered as to be able
to raise her head, she again screamed, and fell
back into the arms of the old man. It now appeared
quite certain, that either the countenance
of George Green, or some other object, was the
cause of these fits of fainting; and the old gentleman,
thinking it was the former, in rather a petulant
tone said, "I will thank you, Sir, if you will
leave us alone." The child whom the lady was
leading had now set up a squall; and amid the
death-like appearance of the lady, the harsh look
of the old man, and the cries of the boy, Mr.
Green left the grounds and returned to his hotel.</p>
<p>Whilst seated by the window, and looking out
upon the crowded street, with every now and then
<!-- Page 289 --><SPAN name="Page_289" id="Page_289" title="289" class="pagenum"></SPAN>the strange scene in the grave-yard vividly before
him, Mr. Green thought of the book he had been
reading, and, remembering that he had left it on
the tomb, where he had suddenly dropped it when
called to the assistance of the lady, he immediately
determined to return in search of it.
After a walk of some twenty minutes, he was
again over the spot where he had been an hour
before, and from which he had been so unceremoniously
expelled by the old man. He looked
in vain for the book; it was no where to be
found: nothing save a bouquet which the lady
had dropped, and which lay half-buried in the
grass from having been trodden upon, indicated
that any one had been there that evening. Mr.
Green took up the bunch of flowers, and again
returned to the hotel.</p>
<p>After passing a sleepless night, and hearing the
clock strike six, he dropped into a sweet sleep,
from which he did not awake until roused by the
rap of a servant, who, entering his room, handed
him a note which ran as follows:—"Sir,—I owe
you an apology for the inconveniences to which
you were subjected last evening, and if you will
<!-- Page 290 --><SPAN name="Page_290" id="Page_290" title="290" class="pagenum"></SPAN>honour us with your presence to dinner to-day at
four o'clock, I shall be most happy to give you
due satisfaction. My servant will be in waiting
for you at half-past three. I am, sir, your obedt.
servant, J. Devenant. October 23, to George
Green, Esq."</p>
<p>The servant who handed this note to Mr.
Green, informed him that the bearer was waiting
for a reply. He immediately resolved to
accept the invitation, and replied accordingly.
Who this person was, and how his name and
the hotel where he was stopping had been found
out, was indeed a mystery. However, he waited
impatiently for the hour when he was to see this
new acquaintance, and get the mysterious meeting
in the grave-yard solved.</p>
<p>The clock on a neighbouring church had
scarcely ceased striking three, when the servant
announced that a carriage had called for Mr.
Green. In less than half an hour, he was seated
in a most sumptuous barouch, drawn by two
beautiful iron greys, and rolling along over a
splendid gravel road, completely shaded by large
trees which appeared to have been the accumula<!-- Page 291 --><SPAN name="Page_291" id="Page_291" title="291" class="pagenum"></SPAN>ting
growth of many centuries. The carriage soon
stopped in front of a low villa, and this too was
imbedded in magnificent trees covered with moss.
Mr. Green alighted and was shown into a superb
drawing room, the walls of which were hung with
fine specimens from the hands of the great Italian
painters, and one by a German artist representing
a beautiful monkish legend connected with "The
Holy Catherine," and illustrious lady of Alexandria.
The furniture had an antique and dignified
appearance. High backed chairs stood around
the room; a venerable mirror stood on the mantle-shelf;
rich curtains of crimson damask hung in
folds at either side of the large windows; and a
rich Turkey carpet covered the floor. In the centre
stood a table covered with books, in the midst
of which was an old fashioned vase filled with
fresh flowers, whose fragrance was exceedingly
pleasant. A faint light, together with the quietness
of the hour gave beauty beyond description to
the whole scene.</p>
<p>Mr. Green had scarcely seated himself upon
the sofa, when the elderly gentleman whom he
had met the previous evening made his appear<!-- Page 292 --><SPAN name="Page_292" id="Page_292" title="292" class="pagenum"></SPAN>ance,
followed by the little boy, and introduced
himself as Mr. Devenant. A moment more, and
a lady—a beautiful brunette—dressed in black,
with long curls of a chesnut colour hanging down
her cheeks, entered the room. Her eyes were of
a dark hazel, and her whole appearance indicated
that she was a native of a southern clime. The
door at which she entered was opposite to where
the two gentlemen were seated. They immediately
rose; and Mr. Devenant was in the act of
introducing her to Mr. Green, when he observed
that the latter had sunk back upon the sofa, and
the last word that he remembered to have heard
was, "It is her." After this, all was dark and
dreamy: how long he remained in this condition
it was for another to tell. When he awoke, he
found himself stretched upon the sofa, with his
boots off, his neckerchief removed, shirt collar
unbuttoned, and his head resting upon a pillow.
By his side sat the old man, with the smelling
bottle in the one hand, and a glass of water in the
other, and the little boy standing at the foot of
the sofa. As soon as Mr. Green had so far recovered
as to be able to speak, he said, "Where
<!-- Page 293 --><SPAN name="Page_293" id="Page_293" title="293" class="pagenum"></SPAN>am I, and what does this mean?" "Wait a
while," replied the old man, "and I will tell you
all." After the lapse of some ten minutes he
rose from the sofa, adjusted his apparel, and said,
"I am now ready to hear anything you have to
say." "You were born in America," said the old
man. "Yes," he replied. "And you were
acquainted with a girl named Mary," continued
the old man. "Yes, and I loved her as I can
love none other." "The lady whom you met
so mysteriously last evening is Mary," replied
Mr. Devenant. George Green was silent,
but the fountains of mingled grief and
joy stole out from beneath his eye lashes,
and glistened like pearls upon his pale and
marble-like cheeks. At this juncture the lady
again entered the room. Mr. Green sprang
from the sofa, and they fell into each other's arms,
to the surprise of the old man and little George,
and to the amusement of the servants who had
crept up one by one, and were hid behind the doors
or loitering in the hall. When they had given
vent to their feelings, they resumed their seats and
each in turn related the adventures through which
<!-- Page 294 --><SPAN name="Page_294" id="Page_294" title="294" class="pagenum"></SPAN>they had passed. "How did you find out my
name and address," asked Mr. Green? "After
you had left us in the grave-yard, our little
George said, 'O, mamma, if there aint a book!' and
picked it up and brought it to us. Papa opened
it, and said 'the gentleman's name is written in it,
and here is a card of the Hotel de Leon, where I
suppose he is stopping.' Papa wished to leave the
book, and said it was all a fancy of mine that I
had ever seen you before, but I was perfectly
convinced that you were my own George Green.
Are you married?" "No, I am not." "Then,
thank God!" exclaimed Mrs. Devenant. The old
man who had been silent all this time, said,
"Now, Sir, I must apologize for the trouble you
were put to last evening." "And you are single
now." "Yes," she replied. "This is indeed the
Lord's doings," said Mr. Green, at the same time
bursting into a flood of tears. Although Mr.
Devenant was past the age when men should
think upon matrimonial subjects, yet this scene
brought vividly before his eyes the days when he
was a young man, and had a wife living, and he
thought it time to call their attention to dinner,
<!-- Page 295 --><SPAN name="Page_295" id="Page_295" title="295" class="pagenum"></SPAN>which was then waiting. We need scarcely add,
that Mr. Green and Mrs. Devenant did very little
towards diminishing the dinner that day.</p>
<p>After dinner the lovers (for such we have to
call them) gave their experience from the time
that George Green left the gaol, dressed in Mary's
clothes. Up to that time, Mr. Green's was substantially
as we have related it. Mrs. Devenant's
was as follows:—"The night after you left the
prison," said she, "I did not shut my eyes in
sleep. The next morning, about 8 o'clock, Peter,
the gardener, came to the gaol to see if I had
been there the night before, and was informed
that I had, and that I left a little after dark.
About an hour after, Mr. Green came himself,
and I need not say that he was much surprised
on finding me there, dressed in your clothes.
This was the first tidings they had of your escape."
"What did Mr. Green say when he found that
I had fled?" "O!" continued Mrs. Devenant,
"he said to me when no one was near, I
hope George will get off, but I fear you will
have to suffer in his stead. I told him that if it
must be so I was willing to die if you could live."
<!-- Page 296 --><SPAN name="Page_296" id="Page_296" title="296" class="pagenum"></SPAN>At this moment George Green burst into tears,
threw his arms around her neck, and exclaimed,
"I am glad I have waited so long, with the hope
of meeting you again."</p>
<p>Mrs. Devenant again resumed her story:—"I
was kept in <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "goal" in the original text">gaol</ins> three days, during
which time I was visited by the Magistrates
and two of the Judges. On the third day
I was taken out, and master told me that I
was liberated, upon condition that I be immediately
sent out of the State. There happened to
be just at that time in the neighbourhood a
negro-trader, and he purchased me, and I was
taken to New Orleans. On the steam-boat we
were kept in a close room where slaves are
usually confined, so that I saw nothing of the
passengers on board or the towns we passed.
We arrived at New Orleans and were all put into
the slave-market for sale. I was examined by
many persons, but none seemed willing to
purchase me; as all thought me too white, and said
I would run away and pass as a free white woman.
On the second day while in the slave-market,
and while planters and others were examining
<!-- Page 297 --><SPAN name="Page_297" id="Page_297" title="297" class="pagenum"></SPAN>slaves and making their purchases, I observed a
tall young man with long black hair eyeing me
very closely, and then talking to the trader. I
felt sure that my time had now come, but the
day closed without my being sold. I did not
regret this, for I had heard that foreigners made
the worst of masters, and I felt confident that
the man who eyed me so closely was not an
American.</p>
<p>"The next day was the Sabbath. The bells
called the people to the different places of
worship. Methodists sang, and Baptists immersed,
and Presbyterians sprinkled, and Episcopalians
read their prayers, while the ministers of
the various sects preached that Christ died for
all; yet there were some twenty-five or thirty
of us poor creatures confined in the '<i>Negro
Pen</i>' awaiting the close of the Holy Sabbath,
and the dawn of another day, to
be again taken into the market, there to be examined
like so many beasts of burden. I need
not tell you with what anxiety we waited for the
advent of another day. On Monday we were
again brought out, and placed in rows to be in<!-- Page 298 --><SPAN name="Page_298" id="Page_298" title="298" class="pagenum"></SPAN>spected;
and fortunately for me, I was sold
before we had been on the stand an hour. I was
purchased by a gentleman residing in the city, for
a waiting-maid for his wife, who was just on the
eve of starting for Mobile, to pay a visit to a near
relation. I was then dressed to suit the situation
of a maid-servant; and, upon the whole, I
thought that in my new dress I looked as much
the lady as my mistress.</p>
<p>"On the passage to Mobile, who should I
see among the passengers, but the tall, long-haired
man that had eyed me so closely in
the slave-market a few days before. His eyes
were again on me, and he appeared anxious
to speak to me, and I as reluctant to be
spoken to. The first evening after leaving New
Orleans, soon after twilight had let her curtain
down, and pinned it with a star, and while I was
seated on the deck of the boat, near the ladies'
cabin, looking upon the rippled waves, and the
reflection of the moon upon the sea, all at once I
saw the tall young man standing by my side. I
immediately rose from my seat, and was in the
act of returning to the cabin, when he in a bro<!-- Page 299 --><SPAN name="Page_299" id="Page_299" title="299" class="pagenum"></SPAN>ken
accent said, 'Stop a moment; I wish to
have a word with you. I am your friend.' I
stopped and looked him full in the face, and he
said, 'I saw you some days since in the slave-market,
and I intended to have purchased you to
save you from the condition of a slave. I called
on Monday, but you had been sold and had left
the market. I inquired and learned who the
purchaser was, and that you had to go to Mobile,
so I resolved to follow you. If you are willing, I
will try and buy you from your present owner,
and you shall be free.' Although this was said
in an honest and off-hand manner, I could not
believe the man to be sincere in what he
said. 'Why should you wish to set <i>me</i>
free?' I asked. 'I had an only sister,' he replied,
'who died three years ago in France, and you are
so much like her, that had I not known of her
death, I would most certainly have taken you for
her.' 'However much I may resemble your sister,
you are aware that I am not her, and why
take so much interest in one whom you never saw
before?' 'The love,' said he, 'which I had for
my sister is transferred to you.' I had all along
<!-- Page 300 --><SPAN name="Page_300" id="Page_300" title="300" class="pagenum"></SPAN>suspected that the man was a knave, and this profession
of love confirmed me in my former belief,
and I turned away and left him.</p>
<p>"The next day, while standing in the cabin
and looking through the window, the French
gentleman (for such he was) came to the window
while walking on the guards, and again
commenced as on the previous evening. He
took from his pocket a bit of paper and put
into my hand, and at the <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "sametime" in the original text">same time</ins> saying,
'Take this, it may some day be of service to
you, remember it is from a friend,' and left me
instantly. I unfolded the paper, and found it to
be a 100 dols. <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: 'Bank' in the original text">bank</ins> note, on the United States
Branch Bank, at Philadelphia. My first impulse
was to give it to my mistress, but upon a second
thought, I resolved to seek an opportunity, and to
return the hundred dollars to the stranger. Therefore,
I looked for him, but in vain; and had almost
given up the idea of seeing him again, when
he passed me on the guards of the boat and
walked towards the stem of the vessel. It being
now dark, I approached him and offered the
money to him. He declined, saying at the
<!-- Page 301 --><SPAN name="Page_301" id="Page_301" title="301" class="pagenum"></SPAN>same time, 'I gave it to you—keep it.' 'I
do not want it,' I said. 'Now,' said he, 'you
had better give your consent for me to purchase
you, and you shall go with me to France.'
'But you cannot buy me now,' I replied, 'for
my master is in New Orleans, and he purchased
me not to sell, but to retain in his own family.'
'Would you rather remain with your present
mistress, than be free?' 'No,' said I.
'Then fly with me to-night; we shall be in
Mobile in two hours from this, and, when
the passengers are going on shore, you can
take my arm, and you can escape unobserved.
The trader who brought you to New Orleans
exhibited to me a certificate of your good
character, and one from the Minister of the
Church to which you were attached in Virginia;
and upon the faith of these assurances, and the
love I bear you, I promise before high heaven
that I will marry you as soon as it can be done.'
This solemn promise, coupled with what had
already transpired, gave me confidence in the man;
and rash as the act may seem, I determined in an
instant to go with him. My mistress had been
<!-- Page 302 --><SPAN name="Page_302" id="Page_302" title="302" class="pagenum"></SPAN>put under the charge of the captain; and as it
would be past ten o'clock when the steamer would
land, she accepted an invitation of the captain
to remain on board with several other ladies till
morning. I dressed myself in my best clothes,
and put a veil over my face, and was ready on the
landing of the boat. Surrounded by a number of
passengers, we descended the stage leading to the
wharf and were soon lost in the crowd that thronged
the quay. As we went on shore we encountered
several persons announcing the names of hotels,
the starting of boats for the interior, and vessels
bound for Europe. Among these was the ship
<i>Utica</i>, Captain Pell, bound for Havre. 'Now,'
said Mr. Devenant, 'this is our chance.' The
ship was to sail at 12 o'clock that night, at high
tide; and following the men who were seeking
passengers, we went immediately on board.
Devenant told the Captain of the ship that I was
his sister, and for such we passed during the
voyage. At the hour of twelve the <i>Utica</i> set sail,
and we were soon out at sea.</p>
<p>"The morning after we left Mobile, Devenant
met me as I came from my state-room and
<!-- Page 303 --><SPAN name="Page_303" id="Page_303" title="303" class="pagenum"></SPAN>embraced me for the first time. I loved him,
but it was only that affection which we have
for one who has done us a lasting favour: it
was the love of gratitude rather than that of the
heart. We were five weeks on the sea, and yet
the passage did not seem long, for Devenant was
so kind. On our arrival at Havre, we were
married and came to Dunkirk, and I have resided
here ever since."</p>
<p>At the close of this narrative, the clock
struck ten, when the old man, who was accustomed
to retire at an early hour, rose to
take leave, saying at the same time, "I hope
you will remain with us to-night." Mr. Green
would fain have excused himself, on the ground
that they would expect him and wait at the hotel,
but a look from the lady told him to accept the
invitation. The old man was the father of Mrs. Devenant's
deceased husband, as you will no doubt
long since have supposed. A fortnight from the day
on which they met in the grave-yard, Mr. Green
and Mrs. Devenant were joined in holy wedlock;
so that George and Mary, who had loved each
other so ardently in their younger days, were now
<!-- Page 304 --><SPAN name="Page_304" id="Page_304" title="304" class="pagenum"></SPAN>husband and wife. Without becoming responsible
for the truthfulness of the above narrative, I give
it to you, reader, as it was told to me in January
last, in France, by George Green himself.</p>
<p>A celebrated writer has justly said of woman:
"A woman's whole life is a history of the affections.
The heart is her world; it is there her
ambition strives for empire; it is there her
avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends
forth her sympathies on adventure; she embarks
her whole soul in the traffic of affection; and if
shipwrecked, her case is hopeless—for it is a
bankruptcy of the heart."</p>
<p>Mary had every reason to believe that she
would never see George again; and although she
confesses that the love she bore him was never
transferred to her first husband, we can scarcely
find fault with her for marrying Mr. Devenant.
But the adherence of George Green to the <ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: "re-resolution" in the original text">resolution</ins>
never to marry, unless to his Mary, is,
indeed, a rare instance of the fidelity of man
in the matter of love. We can but blush for our
country's shame, when we recall to mind the fact,
that while George and Mary Green, and numbers
<!-- Page 305 --><SPAN name="Page_305" id="Page_305" title="305" class="pagenum"></SPAN>of other fugitives from American slavery, can
receive protection from any of the Governments of
Europe, they cannot return to their native land
without becoming slaves.</p>
<h2>FINIS.</h2>
<SPAN name="endofbook"></SPAN>
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