Oh! child of grief, why weepest thou?
The State of Virginia is famous in American annals for the
multitudinous array of her statesmen and heroes. She has been
dignified by some the mother of statesmen. History has not been
sparing in recording their names, or in blazoning their deeds. Her
high position in this respect, has given her an enviable distinction
among her sister States. With Virginia for his birth-place, even a
man of ordinary parts, on account of the general partiality for her
sons, easily rises to eminent stations. Men, not great enough to
attract special attention in their native States, have, like a
certain distinguished citizen in the State of New York, sighed and
repined that they were not born in Virginia. Yet not all the great
ones of the Old
Dominion have, by the fact of their birth-place, escaped undeserved obscurity. By some strange neglect, one of the truest, manliest, and bravest of her children,—one who, in after years, will, I think, command the pen of genius to set his merits forth, holds now no higher place in the records of that grand old Commonwealth than is held by a horse or an ox. Let those account for it who can, but there stands the fact, that a man who loved liberty as well as did Patrick Henry,—who deserved it as much as Thomas Jefferson,—and who fought for it with a valor as high, an arm as strong, and against odds as great, as he who led all the armies of the American colonies through the great war for freedom and independence, lives now only in the chattel records of his native State.
Glimpses of this great character are all that can now be presented. He is brought to view only by a few transient incidents, and these afford but partial satisfaction. Like a guiding star on a stormy night, he is seen through the parted clouds and the howling tempests; or, like the gray peak of a menacing rock on a perilous coast, he is seen by the quivering flash of angry lightning, and he again disappears covered with mystery.
Curiously, earnestly, anxiously we peer into the dark, and wish
even for the blinding flash, or the light of northern skies to reveal
him. But alas! he is still enveloped in darkness, and we return from
the pursuit like a wearied and disheartened mother, (after a tedious
and unsuccessful search for a lost
child,) who returns weighed down with disappointment and sorrow. Speaking of marks, traces, possibles, and probabilities, we come before our readers.
In the spring of 1835, on a Sabbath morning, within hearing of the solemn peals of the church bells at a distant village, a Northern traveller through the State of Virginia drew up his horse to drink at a sparkling brook, near the edge of a dark pine forest. While his weary and thirsty steed drew in the grateful water, the rider caught the sound of a human voice, apparently engaged in earnest conversation.
Following the direction of the sound, he descried, among the tall pines, the man whose voice had arrested his attention. "To whom can he be speaking?" thought the traveller. "He seems to be alone." The circumstance interested him much, and he became intensely curious to know what thoughts and feelings, or, it might be, high aspirations, guided those rich and mellow accents. Tieing his horse at a short distance from the brook, he stealthily drew near the solitary speaker; and, concealing himself by the side of a huge fallen tree, he distinctly heard the following soliloquy: —
"What, then, is life to me? it is aimless and worthless, and
worse than worthless. Those birds, perched on yon swinging boughs, in
friendly conclave, sounding forth their merry notes in seeming
worship of the rising sun, though liable
to the sportsman's fowling-piece, are still my superiors. They live free, though they may die slaves. They fly where they list by day, and retire in freedom at night. But what is freedom to me, or I to it? I am a slave,—born a slave, an abject slave,—even before I made part of this breathing world, the scourge was platted for my back; the fetters were forged for my limbs. How mean a thing am I. That accursed and crawling snake, that miserable reptile, that has just glided into its slimy home, is freer and better off than I. He escaped my blow, and is safe. But here am I, a man,—yes, a man!—with thoughts and wishes, with powers and faculties as far as angel's flight above that hated reptile,—yet he is my superior, and scorns to own me as his master, or to stop to take my blows. When he saw my uplifted arm, he darted beyond my reach, and turned to give me battle. I dare not do as much as that. I neither run nor fight, but do meanly stand, answering each heavy blow of a cruel master with doleful wails and piteous cries. I am galled with irons; but even these are more tolerable than the consciousness, the galling consciousness of cowardice and indecision. Can it be that I dare not run away? Perish the thought, I dare do any thing which may be done by another. When that young man struggled with the waves for life, and others stood back appalled in helpless horror, did I not plunge in, forgetful of life, to save his? The raging bull from whom all others fled, pale with
fright, did I not keep at bay with a single pitchfork? Could a coward do that? No,—no,—I wrong myself,—I am no coward. Liberty I will have, or die in the attempt to gain it. This working that others may live in idleness! This cringing submission to insolence and curses! This living under the constant dread and apprehension of being sold and transferred, like a mere brute, is too much for me. I will stand it no longer. What others have done, I will do. These trusty legs, or these sinewy arms shall place me among the free. Tom escaped; so can I. The North Star will not be less kind to me than to him. I will follow it. I will at least make the trial. I have nothing to lose. If I am caught, I shall only be a slave. If I am shot, I shall only lose a life which is a burden and a curse. If I get clear, (as something tells me I shall,) liberty, the inalienable birth-right of every man, precious and priceless, will be mine. My resolution is fixed. I shall be free."
At these words the traveller raised his head cautiously and
noiselessly, and caught, from his hiding-place, a full view of the
unsuspecting speaker. Madison (for that was the name of our hero) was
standing erect, a smile of satisfaction rippled upon his expressive
countenance, like that which plays upon the face of one who has but
just solved a difficult problem, or vanquished a malignant foe; for
at that moment he was free, at least in spirit. The future gleamed
brightly before him, and his fetters lay broken at his feet. His air
Madison was of manly form. Tall, symmetrical, round, and strong. In his movements he seemed to combine, with the strength of the lion, a lion's elasticity. His torn sleeves disclosed arms like polished iron. His face was "black, but comely." His eye, lit with emotion, kept guard under a brow as dark and as glossy as the raven's wing. His whole appearance betokened Herculean strength: yet there was nothing savage or forbidding in his aspect. A child might play in his arms, or dance on his shoulders. A giant's strength, but not a giant's heart was in him. His broad mouth and nose spoke only of good nature and kindness. But his voice, that unfailing index of the soul, though full and melodious, had that in it which could terrify as well as charm. He was just the man you would choose when hardships were to be endured, or danger to be encountered,—intelligent and brave. He had the head to conceive, and the hand to execute. In a word, he was one to be sought as a friend, but to be dreaded as an enemy.
As our traveller gazed upon him, he almost trembled at the
thought of his dangerous intrusion. Still he could not quit the place.
He had long desired to sound the mysterious depths of the thoughts
and feelings of a slave. He was not, therefore, disposed to allow so
providential an opportunity to pass unimproved. He resolved to hear
more; so he listened again for those mellow and mournful accents
which, he says, made such an
impression upon him as can never be erased. He did not have to wait long. There came another gush from the same full fountain; now bitter, and now sweet. Scathing denunciations of the cruelty and injustice of slavery; heart-touching narrations of his own personal suffering, intermingled with prayers to the God of the oppressed for help and deliverance, were followed by presentations of the dangers and difficulties of escape, and formed the burden of his eloquent utterances; but his high resolution clung to him,—for he ended each speech by an emphatic declaration of his purpose to be free. It seemed that the very repetition of this, imparted a glow to his countenance. The hope of freedom seemed to sweeten, for a season, the bitter cup of slavery, and to make it, for a time, tolerable; for when in the very whirlwind of anguish,—when his heart's cord seemed screwed up to snapping tension, hope sprung up and soothed his troubled spirit. Fitfully he would exclaim, "How can I leave her? Poor thing! what can she do when I am gone? Oh! oh! 'tis impossible that I can leave poor Susan!"
A brief pause intervened. Our traveller raised his head, and saw
again the sorrow-smitten slave. His eye was fixed upon the ground.
The strong man staggered under a heavy load. Recovering himself, he
argued thus aloud: "All is uncertain here. To-morrow's sun may not
rise before I am sold, and separated from her I love. What, then,
could I do for her? I should be in more hopeless
slavery, and she no nearer to liberty,—whereas if I were free,—my arms my own,—I might devise the means to rescue her."
This said, Madison cast around a searching glance, as if the thought of being overheard had flashed across his mind. He said no more, but, with measured steps, walked away, and was lost to the eye of our traveller amidst the wildering woods.
Long after Madison had left the ground, Mr. Listwell (our
traveller) remained in motionless silence, meditating on the
extraordinary revelations to which he had listened. He seemed fastened
to the spot, and stood half hoping, half fearing the return of the
sable preacher to his solitary temple. The speech of Madison rung
through the chambers of his soul, and vibrated through his entire
frame. "Here is indeed a man," thought he, "of rare endowments,—a
child of God,—guilty of no crime but the color of his skin, hiding
away from the face of humanity, and pouring out his thoughts and
feelings, his hopes and resolutions to the lonely woods; to him those
distant church bells have no grateful music. He shuns the church, the
altar, and the great congregation of christian worshippers, and
wanders away to the gloomy forest, to utter in the vacant air
complaints and griefs, which the religion of his times and his
country can neither console nor relieve. Goaded almost to madness by
the sense of the injustice done him, he resorts hither to give
vent to his pent up feelings, and to debate with himself the feasibility of plans, plans of his own invention, for his own deliverance. From this hour I am an abolitionist. I have seen enough and heard enough, and I shall go to my home in Ohio resolved to atone for my past indifference to this ill-starred race, by making such exertions as I shall be able to do, for the speedy emancipation of every slave in the land. "