UNCLE SAM’S EMANCIPATION
A SKETCH.
IT may be gratifying to those who desire to think well of human nature, to know that the leading incidents of the subjoined sketch are literal matters of fact, occurring in the city of Cincinnati, which have come within the scope of the writer’s personal knowledge-the incidents have merely been clothed in a dramatic form, to present them more vividly to the reader.
In one of the hotel parlors of our queen city, a young gentleman, apparently in no very easy frame of mind, was pacing up and down the room, looking alternately at his watch and out of the window, as if expecting somebody. At last he rang the bell violently, and a hotel servant soon appeared.
“Has my man Sam come in yet?” he inquired.
The polished yellow gentleman to whom this was addressed, answered with a polite, but somewhat what sinister smirk, that nothing had been seen of him since early that morning.
“Lazy dog! full three hours since I sent him off to B — street, and I have seen nothing of him since.”
The yellow gentleman remarked with consolatory politeness, that “he hoped Sam had not run away,” adding, with an ill-concealed grin, that “them boys was mighty apt to show the clean heel when they come into a free State.”
“Oh, no; I’m quite easy as to that,” returned the young gentleman; “I’ll risk Sam’s ever being willing to part from me. I brought him because I was sure of him.”
“Don’t you be too sure,” remarked a gentleman from behind, who had been listening to the conversation. “There are plenty of mischief-making busybodies on the trail of every southern gentleman, to interfere with his family matters, and decoy off his servants.”
“Didn’t I see Sam talking at the corner with the Quaker Simmons?” said another servant, who meanwhile had entered.
“Talking with Simmons, was he?” remarked the last speaker, with irritation; “that rascal Simmons does nothing else, I believe, but tote away gentlemen’s servants. Well, if Simmons has got him, you may as well be quiet; you’ll not see your fellow again in a hurry.”
“And who the deuce is this Simmons?” said our young gentleman, who, though evidently of a good natured mould, was now beginning to wax wroth; “and what business has he to interfere with other people’s affairs?”
“You had better have asked those questions a few days ago, and then you would have kept a closer eye on your fellow; a meddlesome, canting, Quaker rascal, that all these black hounds run to, to be helped into Canada, and nobody knows where all.”
The young gentleman jerked out his watch with increasing energy, and then walking fiercely up to the coloured waiter, who was setting the dinner table with an air of provoking satisfaction, he thundered at him, “You rascal, you understand this matter; I see it in your eyes.”
Our gentleman of colour bowed, and with an air of mischievous intelligence, protested that he never interfered with other gentlemen’s matters, while sundry of his brethren in office looked unutterable things out of the corners of their eyes.
“There is some cursed plot hatched up among you,” said the young man. “You have talked Sam into it; I know he never would have thought of leaving me unless he was put up to it. Tell me now,” he resumed, “have you heard Sam say anything about it? Come, be reasonable,” he added, in a milder tone, “you shall find your account in it.”
Thus adjured, the waiter protested he would be happy to give the gentleman any satisfaction in his power. The fact was, Sam had been pretty full of notions lately, and had been to see Simmons, and in short, he should not wonder if he never saw any more of him.
And as hour after hour passed, the whole day, the whole night, and no Sam was forthcoming, the truth of the surmise became increasingly evident. Our young hero, Mr. Alfred B — , was a good deal provoked, and strange as the fact may seem, a good deal grieved too, for he really loved the fellow. “Loved him!” says some scornful zealot; “a slaveholder love his slave!” Yes, brother; why not? A warm-hearted man will love his dog, his horse, even to grieving bitterly for their loss, and why not credit the fact that such a one may love the human creature whom custom has placed on the same level. The fact was, Alfred B — did love this young man; he had been appropriated to him in childhood; and Alfred had always redressed his grievances, fought his battles, got him out of scrapes, and purchased for him, with liberal hand, indulgences to which his comrades were strangers. He had taken pride to dress him smartly, and as for hardship and want, they had never come near him.
“The poor, silly, ungrateful puppy!” soliloquized he, “what can he do with himself? Confound that Quaker, and all his meddlesome tribe-been at him with their bloody-bone stories, I suppose-Sam knows better, the scamp-halloa, there,” he called to one of the waiters, “where does this Simpkins-Simon-Simmons, or what d’ye call him, live?”
“His shop is No. 5, on G. street.”
“Well, I’ll go at him, and see what business he has with my affairs.”
The Quaker was sitting at the door of his shop, with a round, rosy, good-humoured face, so expressive of placidity and satisfaction, that it was difficult to approach in ireful feeling.
“Is your name Simmons?” demanded Alfred, in a voice whose natural urbanity was somewhat sharpened by vexation.
“Yes, friend; what dost thou wish?”
“I wish to inquire whether you have seen anything of my coloured fellow, Sam; a man of twenty-five, or thereabouts, lodging at the Pearl street House?”
“I rather suspect that I have,” said the Quaker, in a quiet, meditative tone, as if thinking the matter over with himself.
“And is it true, sir, that you have encouraged and assisted him in his efforts to get out of my service?”
“Such, truly, is the fact, my friend.”
Losing patience at this provoking equanimity, our young friend poured forth his sentiments with no inconsiderable energy, and in terms not the most select or pacific, all which our Quaker received with that placid, full-orbed tranquillity of countenance, which seemed to say, “Pray, sir, relieve your mind; don’t be particular, scold as hard as you like.” The singularity of this expression struck the young man, and as his wrath became gradually spent, he could hardly help laughing at the tranquillity of his opponent, and he gradually changed his tone for one of expostulation. “What motive could induce you, sir, thus to incommode a stranger, and one who never injured you at all?”
“I am sorry thou art incommoded,” rejoined the Quaker. “Thy servant, as thee calls him, came to me, and I helped him, as I would any other poor fellow in distress.”
“Poor fellow!” said Alfred, angrily; “that’s the story of the whole of you. I tell you there is not a free negro in your city so well off as my Sam is, and always has been, and he’ll find it out before long.”
“But tell me, friend, thou mayest die as well as another man; thy establishment may fall into debt, as well as another man’s; and thy Sam may be sold by the Sheriff for debt, or change hands in dividing the estate, and so, though he was bred easily, and well cared for, he may come to be a field hand, under hard masters, starved, beaten, overworked-such things to happen sometimes, do they not?”
“Sometimes, perhaps they do,” replied the young man.
“Well, look you, by our laws in Ohio, thy Sam is not a free man; as free as I or thou; he hath a strong back, good hands, good courage, can earn his ten or twelve dollars a month-or do better. Now taking all things into account, if thee were in his place, what would thee do-would thee go back a slave, or try thy luck as a free man?”
Alfred said nothing in reply to this, only after a while he murmured half to himself, “I thought the fellow had more gratitude, after all my kindness.”
“Thee talks of gratitude,” said the Quaker, “now how does that account stand? Thou hast fed, and clothed, and protected this man; thou hast not starved, beaten, or abused him-that would have been unworthy of thee; thou hast shown him special kindness, and in return he has given thee faithful service f
or fifteen or twenty years; all his time, all his strength, all he could do or be, he has given thee, and ye are about even.” The young man looked thoughtful, but made no reply.
“Sir,” said he at last, “I will take no unfair advantage of you; I wish to get my servant once more; can I do so?”
“Certainly. I will bring him to thy lodgings this evening, if thee wish it. I know thee will do what is fair,” said the Quaker.
It were difficult to define the thoughts of the young man, as he returned to his lodgings. Naturally generous and humane, he had never dreamed that he had rendered injustice to the human beings he claimed as his own. Injustice and oppression he had sometimes seen with detestation, in other establishments; but it had been his pride that they were excluded from his own. It had been his pride to think that his indulgence and liberality made a situation of dependence on him preferable even to liberty.
The dark picture of possible reverses which the slave system hangs over the lot of the most favoured slaves, never occurred to him. Accordingly, at six o’clock that evening, a light tap at the door of Mr. B.’s parlor, announced the Quaker, and hanging back behind him, the reluctant Sam, who, with all his newly-acquired love of liberty, felt almost as if he were treating his old master rather shabbily, in deserting him.
“So, Sam,” said Alfred, “how is this? they say you want to leave me.”
“Yes, master.”
“Why, what’s the matter, Sam? haven’t I always been good to you; and has not my father always been good to you?”
“Oh yes, master; very good.”
“Have you not always had good food, good clothes, and lived easy?”
“Yes, master.”
“And nobody has ever abused you?”
“No, master.”
“Well, then, why do you wish to leave me?”
“Oh, massa, I want to be a free man.”
“Why, Sam, ain’t you well enough off now?”
“Oh, massa may die; then nobody knows who get me; some dreadful folks, you know, master, might get me, as they did Jim Sanford, and nobody to take my part. No, master, I rather be free man.”
Alfred turned to the window, and thought a few moments, and then said, turning about, “Well, Sam, I believe you are right. I think, on the whole, I’d like best to be a free man myself, and I must not wonder that you do. So, for ought I see, you must go; but then, Sam, there’s your wife and child.” Sam’s countenance fell.
“Never mind, Sam. I will send them up to you.”
“Oh, master!”
“I will; ut you must remember now, Sam, you have got both yourself and them to take care of, and have no master to look after you; be steady, sober, and industrious, and then if ever you get into distress, send word to me, and I’ll help you.” Lest any accuse us of over-colouring our story, we will close it by extracting a passage or two from the letter which the generous young man the next day left in the hands of the Quaker, for his emancipated servant. We can assure our readers that we copy from the original document, which now lies before us:
DEAR SAM-I am just on the eve of my departure for Pittsburg; I may not see you again for a long time, possibly never, and I leave this letter with your friends, Messrs. A. and B., for you, and herewith bid you an affectionate farewell. Let me give you some advice, which is, now that you are a free man, in a free State, be obedient as you were when a slave; perform all the duties that are required of you, and do all you can for your own future welfare and respectability. Let me assure you that I have the same good feeling towards you that you know I always had; and let me tell you further, that if ever you want a friend, call or write to me, and I will be that friend. Should you be sick, and not able to work, and want money to a small amount at different times, write to me, and I will always let you have it. I have not with me at present much money, though I will leave with my agent here, the Messrs. W., five dollars for you; you must give them a receipt for it. On my return from Pittsburg, I will call and see you if I have time; fail not to write to my father, for he made you a good master, and you should always treat him with respect, and cherish his memory so long as you live. Be good, industrious, and honourable, and if unfortunate in your undertakings, never forget that you have a friend in me. Farewell, and believe me your affectionate young master and friend.
ALFRED B —
That dispositions as ingenuous and noble as that of this young man, are commonly to be found either in slave States or free, is more than we dare to assert. But when we see such found, even among those who are born and bred slaveholders, we cannot but feel that there is encouragement for a fair, and mild, and brotherly presentation of truth, and every reason to lament hasty and wholesale denunciations. The great error of controversy is, that it is ever ready to assail persons rather than principles. The slave system, as a system, perhaps concentrates more wrong than any other now existing, and yet those who live under and in it may be, as we see, enlightened, generous, and amenable to reason. If the system alone is attacked, such minds will be the first to perceive its evils, and to turn against it; but if the system be attacked through individuals, self-love, wounded pride, and a thousand natural feelings, will be at once enlisted for its preservation. We therefore subjoin it as the moral of our story, that a man who has had the misfortune to be born and bred a slaveholder, may be enlightened, generous, humane, and capable of the most disinterested regard to the welfare of his slave.
EARTHLY CARE, A HEAVENLY DISCIPLINE.
NOTHING is more frequently felt and spoken of as a hindrance to the inward life of devotion, than the “cares of life;” and even upon the showing of our Lord himself, the cares of the world are the thorns that choke the word, and render it unfruitful.
And yet, if this is a necessary and inevitable result of worldly cares, why does the providence of God so order things that they form so large and unavoidable a part of every human experience? Why is the physical system of man framed with such daily, oft-returning wants? Why has God arranged an outward system, which is a constant diversion from the inward-a weight on its wheels-a burden on its wings-and then commanded a strict and rigid inwardness and spirituality? Why has he placed us where the things that are seen and temporal must unavoidably have so much of our thoughts, and time, and care, and yet told us, “Set your affections on things above, and not on things on the earth;” “Love not the world, neither the things in the world?” And why does one of our brightest examples of Christian experience, as it should be, say, “While we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are not seen are eternal?”
The Bible tells us that our whole existence here is disciplinary; that this whole physical system, by which our spirit is connected with all the joys and sorrows, hopes, and fears, and wants which form a part of it, is designed as an education to fit the soul for its immortality. Hence, as worldly care forms the greater part of the staple of every human life, there must be some mode of viewing and meeting it, which converts it from an enemy of spirituality into a means of grace and spiritual advancement.
Why, then, do we so often hear the lamentation, “It seems to me as if I could advance to the higher stages of Christian life, if it were not for the pressure of my business, and the multitude of my worldly cares?” Is it not God, O Christian! who, in his providence, has laid these cares upon thee, and who still holds them about thee, and permits no escape from them? If God’s great undivided object is thy spiritual improvement, is there not some misapprehension or wrong use of these cares, if they do not tend to advance it? Is it not even as if a scholar should say, I could advance in science were it not for all the time and care which lessons, and books, and lectures require?
How, then, shall earthly care become heavenly discipline? How shall the disposition of the weight be altered so as to press the spirit upward towards God, instead of downward and away? How shall the pillar of cloud which rises between us and Him, become one of fire, to r
eflect upon us constantly the light of his countenance, and to guide is over the sands of life’s desert?
It appears to us that the great radical difficulty lies in a wrong belief. There is not a genuine and real belief of the presence and agency of God in the minor events and details of life, which is necessary to change them from secular cares into spiritual blessings.
It is true there is much loose talk about an overruling Providence; and yet, if fairly stated, the belief of a great many Christians might be thus expressed: God has organized and set in operation certain general laws of matter and mind, which work out the particular results of life, and over these laws he exercises a general supervision and care, so that all the great affairs of the world are carried on after the counsel of his own will: and, in a certain general sense, all things are working together for good to those that love God. But when some simple-minded and child-like Christian really proceeds to refer all the smaller events of life to God’s immediate care and agency, there is a smile of incredulity-and it is thought that the good brother displays more Christian feeling than sound philosophy.
But as the life of every individual is made up of fractions and minute atoms-as those things, which go to affect habits and character, are small and hourly recurring, it comes to pass, that a belief in Providence so very wide and general is altogether inefficient for consecrating and rendering sacred the great body of what comes in contact with the mind in the experience of life. Only once in years does the Christian, with this kind of belief, hear the voice of the Lord speaking ing to him. When the hand of death is laid on his child, or the bolt strikes down the brother by his side; then, indeed, he feels that God is drawing near; he listens humbly for the inward voice that shall explain the meaning and need of this discipline. When, by some unforeseen occurrence, the whole of his earthly property is swept away, and he becomes a poor man, this event, in his eyes, assumes sufficient magnitude to have come from God, and to have a design and meaning; but when smaller comforts are removed, smaller losses are encountered, and the petty every-day vexations and annoyances of life press about him, he recognises no God, and hears no voice, and sees no design. Hence John Newton says, “Many Christians, who bear the loss of a child or the destruction of all their property with the most heroic Christian fortitude, are entirely vanquished and overcome by the breaking of a dish, or the blunders of a servant, and show so unchristian a spirit, that we cannot but wonder at them.”
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 465