CHAPTER VIII.LIBERIA AS IT IS. I wave a torch that floods the lessening gloom J. BAYARD TAYL0R. AFTER a pleasant voyage of thirty-five days, Ben saw the high promontory of Cape Mesurado rising in bold relief against the clear sky. It was a bright, sunshiny day in July when the emigrants landed at the cove near the base of the cape. Polydore and Nathan were on the beach to greet them on their arrival, and make them feel less like strangers in a strange land, and they were struck with the improvement manifest in Polydore's language and bearing. The pretty town of Monrovia also excited their surprise and
admiration. Its substantial, well-built houses, its churches, and its
warehouses were superior to any thing that they had imagined. The
streets were shaded with the singular and beautiful trees of the tropics, and by many of the houses were gardens filled with flowers and vegetables. "Our farm was very near Monrovia," said Polydore; "but we found out that the land was better a little farther from the sea-shore, and so, when Nathan came, we moved to a place near Caldwell, on the St. John's River. There's some of the best land there that I've seen any wheres. It's 'bout nine mile from here; but I have a wagon, with some little African ponies, that will soon take us there." "Are these houses well furnished?" asked Clara. "I reckon they are," replied Polydore; "some of them are most equal to ol' mast'r's house at home. Here's one of our newspapers," continued he, handing "The Liberia Herald" to Ben; "we've another one besides that." "Is this written by colored men?" asked Ben. "Yes, po'try and all. Don't you 'member Colin Teage, that came over here the same time Keziah and I came? His son, the Reverend Hilary Teage is the editor." "Yes, I remember it," said Ben; "he freed himself and his two children." On their ride to Caldwell, their road lay for a little while along Stockton Creek, the southern fork of the St. John's. They passed the little village of New Georgia. "The people there seem to be paying a good deal of attention to their land," said Ben. "Yes," replied Nathan, "most all the vegetables used in Monrovia are raised here. The persons about here are mostly native Africans, and have been slaves. If you could only have seen what poor, mis'able wretches they were when they first came, you would not have thought they would ever have had such comfortable homes." "Are they considered Liberians?" asked Ben. "To be sure they are—one of them was sent to the Legislature a few years ago." "This is the St. Paul's," said Polydore, after a while. "What a beautiful river!" exclaimed Clara. "It is so wide and full of islands. What are all those strange-looking trees?" "That tree with the leaves growing out of the top is the palm. It is the most useful tree in the world, I think. I can't tell you what the natives don't do with it. They thatch their houses with its leaves, and make cloth and ropes out of its bark, and wine from its sap, and a great many other things, besides the oil from the nut, which is the most valuable part of it, and is one of their principal articles of trade." "How do they make it?" asked Ben. "The natives have a very rough way of manag-
ing it. They dig a square pit in the earth, and fill it with the palm-nuts, pounded shell and all together; then the women trample the oil out with their feet. When they think they have pressed it all out, they pour water into the pit, and skim off the oil as it rises with their hands. But in this way, of course, a great deal of oil is wasted; yet it is wonderful how much they make. They sell it to the traders for about thirty-three cents a gallon. You know a great deal of fine soap is made with palm-oil, and so it is always in demand. We have presses to use; and one of our settlers, Mr. Henning, of Bassa, has invented a machine for extracting the oil from the kernel. This is much finer than that which is made from the whole nut. It is as pure as water, and can be made quite hard. Many persons use it instead of lard or butter. The common oil makes very good candles, and can also be burned in lamps." "Does Mr. Henning make any money by his oil?" "It sells for one dollar a gallon, and he can make ten gallons a day. You can judge for yourself whether it is profitable or not. The palm is one of our most common trees, so that nuts can always be obtained. Do you see that weed growing through the woods?" "Yes." "Well," continued Nathan, "that is indigo. It is a great trouble to
the farmers here. We have
the hardest work to get rid of it. It grows every where, even in the streets. Once Keziah said she meant to make some use of it, to pay her for all the labor it had cost her, and she made some very nice indigo, that my wife dyed these stockings with; but it was a good deal of trouble, and she has not tried to make any more. The natives make a fine blue with it, and at Monrovia they manufacture it a little. People say a fine living might be made out of it by those who are willing to take a little pains." "Does cotton grow here?" asked Ben. "Yes; there are several kinds of native cotton. It grows much higher than ours, and is a tree rather than a plant. Junius, who has been traveling about a great deal in the interior, says that he has stood under a cotton-tree whose branches were so heavy with their bolls that they had to be supported by sticks. He says that the cotton was as good as any he ever saw. The natives manufacture it for themselves. We have never tried cultivating it enough to know whether it w ill be profitable to us or not. Keziah has one small tree on her place, and she gets cotton enough from that to knit all the stockings her family need during the year, and she has quite a large one." "There is one thing in its favor here," said Ben; "there are no frosts to ruin the crop." "Yes," replied Nathan, "the plants will live and
yield a good crop for six or seven years, with but little trouble besides what is necessary in picking it." "I thought this was the rainy season," said Clara; "but the sun has been shining all day." "This is what we call 'the middle dries.' It is the pleasantest time of the year, and one of the most healthy. I am glad you came during this season. We shall not have much more rain now till September." "Is it never any warmer than it is now?" asked Clara; for the cool breeze that blew so refreshingly over her face was very unlike the scorching heat she had expected to find. "Yes; our warmest weather is in January and February. That seemed mighty strange to me when I first came over here, and I have hardly got used to it yet. In January we have a very dry spell, and if it were not for the sea-breeze, we should suffer from the heat. But yet our thermometer has never risen above ninety degrees, and it is often much warmer than that in Virginia." "I see a great many rice fields along here," said Ben; "I suppose you have a plenty of that." "Yes; but the natives raise the most of it. They take very little
trouble with it. They just scratch the ground and throw the seed in,
some time in April generally, and by August the rice can be harvested.
The crops are very abundant, and, though
the Africans will not work on their farms more than three or four months in the year, they raise much more than they need. Many of these little dwellings and farms along this river belong to the natives; and we find we can get our rice from them cheaper than if we sowed it ourselves. Some of the farmers are beginning to cultivate it a little." It was night—one of those beautiful moonlight nights of the tropics when every thing seems bathed in a flood of silver light-before the travelers reached Polydore's farm, where they were to remain until they had decided where they would make their future home. They had only time to observe that the house, a low building of one story, but covering quite a large space of ground, had a pleasant, well-shaded look of coolness and comfort, when they were surrounded by so eager a group of welcomers, that they had no opportunity to notice any thing farther. Sally and all her children had come over from Nathan's place, and Polydore's brother had joined them, with his family, evidently looking upon the new-comers as old acquaintances. Keziah's adopted children were also there. One of them was married, and settled on an adjoining place; the other was still a member of Keziah's family. Ben and Clara were too much occupied in asking and answering questions
of personal interest to gain
many new ideas on the subject of Liberian affairs; but the next morning Keziah took them over her farm, and showed them her arrangements with no little pride. Nathan had warned Ben beforehand not to think that every place in Liberia was as well attended to as Keziah's. "They might be, easily," said he, "for every settler has the same chance; but some folks are lazy, and won't take the least trouble. They seem to think they oughtn't to be expected to do any thing but open their mouths, and the food will drop into them, ready cooked." "You know," said Keziah, "that every single man receives five acres of good land when he comes here. He can have a town lot, if he prefers it. If he is married, and has a family, more land is given to him; but never more than ten acres. If he would like a larger farm, there is plenty of land to be bought for a dollar or two an acre. We only have ten acres, though, and find we can raise a great deal more than we want from them. Nathan has more. He has a little coffee plantation that he is very proud of." "What is this?" asked Ben. "That is our sugar-mill. Polydore made it himself. We make all our own
sugar and molasses, and generally have some to sell, though we only
plant one acre in sugar-cane. It grows very high.
Some people who came from Louisiana say it is a great deal larger here than they ever saw it there. "Here are a few cotton trees," continued Keziah. " I suppose, one of these days, we shall raise a great deal of cotton, for it grows very easily; but we have hardly tried it fairly yet. And here is my arrow-root. Did you notice the biscuits we had this morning, and the bread and cake that were on the table last night?" "Yes," replied Clara; "they were very white and nice." "Well, they were all made of arrow-root. You see, it can be raised without any trouble hardly, and when it is ripe, we take the roots and pound them, and throw them into some water, stirring them about for some time; then we strain the water into another tub, and let it stand until the arrowroot is settled at the bottom of the vessel, and we keep on washing and straining it until it is perfectly pure and white. Then we dry it in the sun, and it is ready for use. It is so easily made, and so very wholesome, that we use a great deal of it." "Do you ever make any to sell?" asked Ben. "Yes, we sell all we do not want. We have never planted more than an
acre with it, and last year I made from it fifteen hundred pounds of
the best arrow-root I ever saw. I sold eight hundred
pounds for fifteen cents a pound, and made one hundred and twenty dollars. "This is my orchard," continued Keziah, as they stood in a little grove of fruit trees. "I am not going to let you taste much of the fruit now, for that is the way so many of the emigrants get sick. Polydore almost died from eating too many bananas and pine-apples." The children found the denial a very hard one. The orange-trees, laden with their golden fruit hanging just above their reach, was a strong temptation, and Keziah could not resist their entreaties. There were a number of lemon and lime trees, and many others which the new-comers had never seen before. "That is the guava-tree," said Keziah, pointing to one about as large as a peach-tree; "and that other is the mango plum. Those two make the best preserves I ever tasted. I sent some to Mast'r Charles, made with my own sugar, and he sent me back word that they were as nice as any West India preserve. We have a great many other fruits. Pine-apples grow wild all through the woods. There are tamarind-trees all about here, and African cherry and peach trees; and I have two or three cocoa-nut and breadfruit trees growing near my house. In fact, I can't tell you all the kinds of fruits we have, for I hardly know them myself yet. "Here is my vegetable garden," continued she. "These are plantains; they are very nice when they are well cooked, and we are never without them through the whole year. Those are bananas; here are my Lima beans. I planted them four years ago, and there has not been a month since when I could not gather the greatest abundance of beans from them. These are sweet potatoes. They can be raised, like every thing else here, with but little trouble, and are very fine. We get enough from this little patch to supply our table nearly the whole year round." "And there are some black-eyed peas," said Ben. "Oh yes, we have plenty of them, and Indian corn too, though some of our folks think it is not quite as good as what we had in Virginia; but I don't see much difference in it." "What is this tall plant?" asked Ben. "That is the cassada. The root of it is the part we use; we generally roast or boil it, and I like it better than sweet potatoes. The natives almost live upon it. You see them walking about every where with a roasted cassada in one hand and a bunch of bird-pepper in the other, that they use for seasoning." "That must be what I saw the children eating in New Georgia as we rode
through," said Clara. "Every one we met seemed to have a long potato
in one hand and something else in the other. What is bird-pepper?" "Some people call it African cayenne," said Keziah. "It is a kind of pepper that grows all around here. You can find quantities of it through the woods about, and good judges say that it is better than any kind that is raised in other countries. It would be worth while, they say, to gather it for exportation. All that any one would have to do would be to pick the pods when they are ripe, and spread them out to dry." "There seems to be no end to the valuable plants that are growing wild about Liberia," said Ben. "Oh, you have not heard half of them yet," said Keziah; "there are ground-nuts that can be gathered by the barrelful, and very fine ginger growing in the greatest abundance. We raise a great deal of it, and make two or three hundred dollars a year by it. But coffee is, I think, what we shall find the most profitable. You can find coffee-trees growing wild through the whole of Liberia. At Bassa many of the woods are full of coffee thickets; and by transplanting scions from them, and taking a little trouble with them, we can make quite a good income in a few years. Nathan planted five acres in coffee about six years ago, and last year he made six hundred dollars by them. Our coffee is said to be as good as that from Mocha." "I wonder more people don't go into the business," said Ben. "They are just beginning to understand it," said Keziah. " Judge Benson, of Bassa, has twenty acres of coffee. There are seven thousand trees on them, and from many of these he can get six pounds of berries a year." "That does not seem much to get from a tree," observed Clara. "It is a very fair quantity," said Keziah; "they often do not yield as much as that; though I have one tree that I gathered twenty pounds from last year." "How long do they continue to bear?" "From ten to twenty years; and I will promise you that, if you will devote three of your ten acres to coffee, you will be able to support yourselves entirely, clothe yourselves, and put your children to school with the produce of the seven acres, and be able to lay by all the money you get from your coffee-trees." "How much ought that to be?" "Why, at first it will not be much; but after they begin to bear well, which will be in six years, you ought to make at the very least three hundred dollars a year. "Besides all these," continued Keziah, "the bean that castor-oil is
made from grows wild here, and the Croton oil is made from the seeds
of one of our
bushes. We have a great many valuable trees, too, that a settler might make a good deal of money by cutting, besides doing the country a good service; for the more it is cleared the healthier it grows." "What are the trees?" asked Ben. "Besides the palm, the most valuable of all—and, by-the-way, did you observe our candles last night?" "Yes, they were quite good." "They were made of palm-oil. Well, besides the palm, there is the Cam wood. That does not grow much near the coast; the natives generally cut it, and bring it down here to exchange it for what they want. It is used for dyeing, and is very valuable. The gum-elastic-tree, and the trees that gum Arabic, and the copaiva balsam, and frankincense are obtained from, all grow around here; and there are many kinds of timber that are useful for building." "You seem to have a great deal of poultry," said Clara. "Yes, we have more chickens, and ducks, and geese than we care about, and lately we have begun to raise turkeys. We have a good many sheep and goats too." "Have you any cows?" "Oh yes; but they do not give as much milk as those in America. We
have some small native
oxen that we use for plowing, and find that they do very well. The people in the interior bring us down plenty of beef, so that we seldom take the trouble to raise any ourselves. We could easily do it if we wished. We have plenty of pigs, and all the care we have to take of them is to keep them from straying." "I am almost afraid to walk through this long grass," said Clara; "for I heard, before I came here that Liberia was full of poisonous snakes. Have you ever seen any?" "I used to see one occasionally when I first came up here from Monrovia, but I haven't found one for a long time; and there never have been half so many as there were in Virginia. Don't you remember how many rattlesnakes Polydore killed in one year there? and the copperheads and moccasins we used to see?" "But you have a great many insects?" said Clara. "Yes, we have, to be sure, and they give us some trouble; and the woods are full of monkeys, that do a good deal of mischief sometimes; but the more settled the country gets, the less we are annoyed by any thing of that kind." "What pretty bushes these are," said Clara. "That is my fence,"
replied Keziah; "you see I have only a small place, and I wanted to
keep it
as nice as possible; so Polydore found those bushes in the woods, and we made a hedge all around our farm with them. It looks very pretty, and, besides it never needs any repairs." "Do you and Polydore keep the farm in order yourselves?" asked Ben. "Oh no. I never do any thing but give my opinion now and then. There are plenty of natives that are glad to help us, and think a shilling a day a great deal." "By the time they had examined Keziah's place in all its details, the sun was so warm that she thought it unsafe for them to expose themselves to its influence longer. After dinner, in which a nicely cured ham, and plump turkey, and sweet potatoes showed their familiar faces amid a variety of strange vegetables, Keziah left her guests to attend to her school. This consisted of about a dozen native children, and a few women whom she had collected, and was teaching to read and sew. The African girl whom she had brought up taught them in the morning, and Keziah usually devoted an hour or two in the afternoon to them, being regarded by these ignorant and docile children of the forest as a wonder in learning and skill. Late in the afternoon she walked over with Ben and Clara to Nathan's
place. On their way they
passed a farm, where every thing seemed to be growing in wild luxuriance, certainly, but very much at its own will and pleasure. "That belongs to Polydore's brother," said Keziah; "we can't make him believe that it is at all worth while to take the least trouble to keep things in order. He thinks if he makes as much as he and his family want off his place, he does all that is necessary. But he is very much improved since he came here. At first he wouldn't work at all, but said it was the women's place to do all the planting and raising the vegetables." They reached at last a substantial farm-house, standing in the midst of a well-cleared and cultivated plantation of about forty acres, which Keziah informed them, belonged to Nathan. The order and neatness in which the whole place was kept, and its flourishing condition, filled Ben with admiration. "It looks just like him," said he; "I always knew if Nathan had a fair chance he would be a rich man." Keziah informed them that, besides attending to his farm, he preached every Sunday to the natives, and had collected from among them quite a large Sunday-school. "The Africans are mighty curious to know how to read," said she; "they
think that it is the book
learning that makes us so much ahead of them in every thing. One of their kings, Joe Harris, said that 'God made first white man, den black man; den God held out both his hands—book in one, rice and palm oil in other. White man choose book, black man choose rice and palm-oil. Book tell white man how to get every thing else; black man never get nothin' but rice and palm-oil.'" "Have you good schools here?" asked Clara. "Yes, we have very good schools, and they are all free. They are supported by the different churches and societies in America. There is one at Monrovia that people say is equal to any common school the white folks have at home. We have three high schools, perhaps more, for I remember, when I was last at Monrovia, they said there were to be two more established; and we are trying to get up a college." In talking with Nathan, Ben asked him if he had ever wished to go back to America. "Never for one minute," said Nathan, with energy; "the first moment I
stepped my foot on Liberia, I felt like a different man; and if I had
known that I should have died in the first six months, I would not
have regretted my coming. It is a blessed thing to be able to bring up
a family of children where they need not be ashamed of their color,
and where their feelings as well as their rights are respected.
Besides, they have such a good opportunity to make something of themselves here. I intend this little fellow," said Nathan, putting his hand on the head of a bright-looking boy about ten years old, "to be a senator or a judge, if not a president. He is a native Liberian, and I mean him to show the world what stuff they are made of." "You seem to be quite proud of Liberia," said Ben, smiling. "To be sure I am," replied Nathan. "When I think how little while it is since we have been any thing at all, I am surprised at the improvement we have made. I do not believe there ever was a nation before that has grown so rapidly. And the natives look up to us as something wonderful. Soon after I first came here, one of the kings, Long Peter they call him, said to Junius, "'Here am I and my tribe, always afraid lest the bigger kings get mad, or get poor, or want goods; then they come pounce on us, steal us, handcuff us, whip us, sells us slaves over the seas. Now settlers no such fear. Here I, my tribe, Devil King make us drink sassy-water—we die—we don't want to die—we die—settlers don't drink sassy-water—I'll be settlers—I'll be.' And he was almost beside himself with joy when we consented to receive him and his people under our protection." "Don't these natives give you any trouble?" asked Ben. "Very seldom. Last November Cresson, or, as the natives call it, Fishtown, was attacked for the second time by Grando, the chief of the tribe of Fishmen, and afterward they made an attempt on Bassa Cove; but President Roberts went to the assistance of the people with some men, and the natives fled directly. Such things are very uncommon though, and the Africans are generally urged on by the traders. In this part of the country there is not the slightest danger, and in fact nowhere but in the extreme outskirts." The next day was Sunday, and the new-comers were taken to a plain but comfortably-thatched church, where they heard a very good sermon from a missionary in the morning, and one in the afternoon from a colored clergyman. The Sunday-schools were well attended by the natives as well as the Liberians, and among the congregation Nathan pointed out to Ben several, who, he said, were converted Africans. One of them was a teacher in the Sunday-school, and also officiated occasionally as a missionary. "The Baptist mission among the Bassa tribe has been for two or three years conducted by a native African and four native assistants, who were all educated in Liberia," said Nathan. One morning, a few days after Ben's arrival, he was awakened by the firing of a cannon, and numerous guns and pistols, at short intervals. He had been dreaming of America, and sprang up in great haste, thinking that it was the Fourth of July. He soon recollected himself, and said with a smile to Polydore, whom he found out enjoying the cool morning breeze, "What does that noise mean? I thought, when I first woke up, that it was Independence day." "So it is," said Polydore; "it's our Independence day. The twenty-sixth of July is the day we keep here. I was in Monrovia last year at this time, and we had a procession there, and an oration, and some very good music too. I wish we could have taken you there to spend the day; but we was afraid you might be made sick." "I do not feel very well this morning," said Ben; "my head aches, and I have a little fever." "I s'pose you is going to have the 'climating fever; people generally has it when they fust come over; but it won't last long if you keep your spirits up—not more than a week or two. Keziah is a fust-rate doctor; she has nussed I don't know how many people through it, and knows jest what to do." "But is there no regular doctor about here?" asked Ben. "Oh yes; we has a white doctor and a colored one. I don't know which is the best, for I 's thankful to say I never needs one; but some folks likes one best, and some the other." Ben's illness lasted only four or five days. At first it was rather severe, and he was somewhat alarmed; but Keziah, knowing by experience that the most effectual cure in such cases was to prevent the patient from desponding, and to keep his mind as calm as possible, assured him that he was in no real danger. "Just think you are going to get well," said she, "and you will sure. I never knew it fail. But give up, and expect to die, and I don't know nothing that will do you any good. I know 'zackly how this fever works, and I tell you if you only keep up good courage, you will be well in a week." Thus encouraged, and with every thing around him calculated to cheer and animate him, Ben soon threw off his temporary illness. Clara was even more fortunate than he; for, being naturally of a more tranquil temperament, she was less affected by the change of climate than he had been. Their children also suffered very little; and within a month after their landing, Ben and Clara acknowledged with thankfulness that they had never felt better in their lives. "People don't always get off clear with one fit
of sickness," said Keziah; "sometimes they have several attacks in the first few months. But, if you take proper care of yourselves, you won't be likely to be sick again. People that's imprudent must suffer for it." Ben selected his ten acres as near Polydore's and Nathan's as he could. A little cottage was put up for him for fifty dollars, that was amply large enough for his family. "The first house I had built," said Nathan, "cost only twenty-five dollars, and it lasted me five years. I thought it was mighty nice then; but we get proud after we have lived in Liberia a little while. Don't you notice the difference, Ben, between the colored people here and in Virginia. I can tell a man that's been raised in Liberia from an American as soon as I see him." "How?" asked Ben. "Why, they seem more like men. You know Ben, you never felt like a man in America." "No," said Ben, with some reluctance; "I used to try mighty hard, but I never could feel like any thing but a nigger." "Well, here you forget all about your color in a little while, and every body else that comes here, white or black, seems to do so too. See if it isn't so." Ben did notice, and by his observations he re-
ceived the same impressions so clearly stated by the Rev. Mr. Gurley, in his report concerning Liberia to the Senate of the United States, where he says: "From personal observation, I may speak with confidence of the mighty effects wrought upon the intellect, hopes, and purposes of the authorities and people of Liberia, by the freedom which has ever been theirs upon that shore, and by the high position which they have now taken of national independence. Some of the most distinguished men in the republic are among those who went thither in childhood, have received their entire education in its schools; and bear in their manners, their whole deportment, and upon their very aspect, the signs of a just self-respect, of subdued passions, of virtuous resolution, and of a mature and well-disciplined judgment." The opinion of Dr. Durbin, well known as one of the most prominent divines of the Methodist Episcopal Church, also founded on facts coming under his own knowledge, should not be without its effect. In an address to the House of Representatives in the capital of Pennsylvania, he observed: "I am a native of, and was reared in a slave state. I have seen the
colored man under all conditions in this country, from the rice
plantations in Georgia and South Carolina, to the cold regions of
Maine and Canada. I know his position and capabilities in America; I know he never can obtain freedom and equality before the law of the Legislature, and still more imperious law of society; he can not obtain such freedom and equality as his heart naturally and justly yearns after. The differences between his race and ours are such, that political and social equality is impracticable. What changes, moral, political, and physical, agents acting through centuries to come may work out tending to assimilate the white and colored races, no man can foresee. We are called on to act under the present conditions of the case; and to act for the good of the colored man, and for the honor, safety, and peace of our country. I say, then, knowing as I do the positions and capabilities of the colored man in America, he can not attain to the functions and enjoyments of a man among us. He is not, and can not be free in the proper sense of the word; the pressure that keeps him down is irresistible; he can not rise to a manly hope or ambition; he can not develop his powers here, and show what he could do if circumstances were favorable. If by industry and good fortune he make money, and rear a family of sons and daughters in a respectable manner, where will he find suitable alliances for them? I need not pursue this subject. I have talked with such, and found them faint and discouraged with the prospects before their children. "But transport these people to Africa, with our religion, our
civilization, though in a low degree, and our political institutions,
and experience has shown that there they become men, and show
themselves to be men. After large opportunities, and long and patient
observation, I am persuaded that nowhere else but in Africa is the
African a man. I have reason to know that there he is a man. Shortly
after I went to New York, to take charge of the missionary affairs of
our whole Church, I received large dispatches from our African
mission. Among them were the minutes of our mission conference in
Liberia, composed wholly of some twenty colored men; also the annual
report of the superintendent of the mission; together with reports on
education, on Church property, and the extension of the mission, and
on various subjects. Upon opening the papers, I was struck with the
clear, bold hand in which they were generally written; and, upon
reading a portion of the annual report and minutes, I was astonished
at the perspicuous arrangement of the matter, and the clear and
forcible language in which it was expressed. I turned to the clerk,
who had been accustomed to see dispatches from Africa, and asked him
if colored men wrote these papers. He smiled, and replied there is no
white person in the colony, except one lone woman, Mrs. Wilkins, a martyr to the education of the children of the colonists. The position, the circumstances of the African colonist in Liberia make him a man and give him action. Transplant him there, and he becomes a man, and takes place among men. His descendants, in a few generations, may stand forward grandly in the affairs of this world." Ben experienced in his own spirit the invigorating effects of the moral atmosphere of Liberia. His ambition once more aroused, and his energy called into exercise by objects worthy of it, he soon laid aside the habits of indolence into which he had fallen during the latter part of his life in Philadelphia, and set himself so vigorously to work clearing and cultivating his farm, that eight months after he landed at Monrovia, he sent word to Mr. Peyton, through Junius, that "he was living of his own, enjoying vegetables of his own raising, and that he and his family had never been in better health or spirits, and that he was already beginning to feel proud of being called a Liberian." And well might he cherish the title. But thirty years had passed since
the colonists first landed, a little band of weak men on the coast,
and but four since they became a nation, and already their influence
was felt by nearly a million of people. Wherever their power extended,
the slave-trade died away;
abolished by their firm, though gentle control more surely and effectually than by all the armaments of England or America.. More than six hundred miles of a coast once dotted by barracoons, and given up to that abominable traffic, were now freed from its accursed influence. The independence of Liberia had been acknowledged by Great Britain, France, Belgium, and Prussia. Its reputation and commerce was rapidly increasing, and its influence over the natives was astonishing. Though there were not, in 1852, eight thousand emigrants in Liberia and the Maryland colony together, yet they had nearly two hundred thousand Africans living in their republic and submitting to their laws. More than three times as many had given up the slave-trade as the first step toward becoming their allies. And without being reproached as an enthusiast, the calmest mind might regard it as a moral certainty that the time would come when all Central Africa would look to Liberia for protection, for instruction, and for laws, as well as for Christianity. |