The Freedmen's Book Part 8

A REASONABLE REQUEST.

We are natives of this country; we ask only to be treated _as well_ as foreigners. Not a few of our fathers suffered and bled to purchase its independence; we ask only to be treated _as well_ as those who fought against it. We have toiled to cultivate it, and to raise it to its present prosperous condition; we ask only to share _equal_ privileges with those who come from distant lands to enjoy the fruits of our labor.--REV. PETER WILLIAMS, _colored Rector of St. Philip's Church, New York_, 1835.

THE SLAVE POET.

Mr. James Horton, of Chatham County, North Carolina, had a slave named George, who early manifested remarkable intelligence. He labored with a few other slaves on his master's farm, and was always honest, faithful, and industrious. He contrived to learn to read, and every moment that was allowed him for his own he devoted to reading. He was especially fond of poetry, which he read and learned by heart, wherever he could find it. After a time, he began to compose verses of his own. He did not know how to write; so when he had arranged his thoughts in rhyme, he spoke them aloud to others, who wrote them down for him.

He was not contented in Slavery, as you will see by the following verses which he wrote:--

"Alas! and am I born for this, To wear this slavish chain?

Deprived of all created bliss, Through hards.h.i.+p, toil, and pain?

"How long have I in bondage lain, And languished to be free!

Alas! and must I still complain, Deprived of liberty?

"O Heaven! and is there no relief This side the silent grave, To soothe the pain, to quell the grief And anguish of a slave?

"Come, Liberty! thou cheerful sound, Roll through my ravished ears; Come, let my grief in joys be drowned, And drive away my fears.

"Say unto foul oppression, Cease!

Ye tyrants, rage no more; And let the joyful trump of peace Now bid the va.s.sal soar.

"O Liberty! thou golden prize, So often sought by blood, We crave thy sacred sun to rise, The gift of Nature's G.o.d.

"Bid Slavery hide her haggard face, And barbarism fly; I scorn to see the sad disgrace, In which enslaved I lie.

"Dear Liberty! upon thy breast I languish to respire; And, like the swan unto her nest, I'd to thy smiles retire."

George's poems attracted attention, and several were published in the newspaper called "The Raleigh Register." Some of them found their way into the Boston newspapers, and were thought remarkable productions for a slave. His master took no interest in any of his poems, and knew nothing about them, except what he heard others say. Dr. Caldwell, who was then President of the University of North Carolina, and several other gentlemen, became interested for him, and tried to help him to obtain his freedom. In 1829 a little volume of his poems, called "The Hope of Liberty," was printed in Raleigh, by Gales and Son. The pamphlet was sold to raise money enough for George to buy himself. He was then thirty-two years old, in the prime of his strength, both in mind and body. He was to be sent off to Liberia as soon as he was purchased; but he had such a pa.s.sion for Liberty, that he was willing to follow her to the ends of the earth; though he would doubtless have preferred to have been a freeman at home, among old friends and familiar scenes. He was greatly excited about his prospects, and eagerly set about learning to write. When he first heard the news that influential gentlemen were exerting themselves in his behalf, he wrote:--

"'Twas like the salutation of the dove, Borne on the zephyr through some lonesome grove, When spring returns, and winter's chill is past, And vegetation smiles above the blast.

"The silent harp, which on the osiers hung, Again was tuned, and manumission sung; Away by hope the clouds of fear were driven, And music breathed my grat.i.tude to Heaven."

It would have been better for him if his hopes had not been so highly excited. His poems did not sell for enough to raise the sum his master demanded for him, and his friends were not sufficiently benevolent to make up the deficiency. In 1837, when he was forty years old, he was still working as a slave at Chapel Hill, the seat of the University of North Carolina. It was said at that time that he had ceased to write poetry. I suppose the poor fellow was discouraged. If he is still alive, he is sixty-seven years old; and I hope it will comfort his poor, bruised heart to know that some of his verses are preserved, and published for the benefit of those who have been his companions in Slavery, and who, more fortunate than he was, have become freemen before their strength has left them.

RATIE:

A TRUE STORY OF A LITTLE HUNCHBACK.

BY MATTIE GRIFFITH.

I want to tell you a story of a poor little slave-girl who lived and died away down South.

This little girl's name was Rachel, but they used to call her Ratie. She was a hunchback and a dwarf, with an ugly black face, coa.r.s.e and irregular features, but a low, pleasant voice, and nice manners. n.o.body ever scolded Ratie, for she never deserved it. She always did her work--the little that was a.s.signed her--with a cheerful heart and willing hand. This work was chiefly to gather up little bits of chips in baskets, or collect shavings from the carpenters' shops, and take them to the cabins or the great kitchen, where they were used for kindling fires. She had a sweet, gentle spirit, and a low, cheery laugh that charmed everybody. Even the white folks who lived up at the great house loved her, and somehow felt better when she was near.

Ratie used to go out into the fields on summer days, or in the early spring, and pick the first flowers. Later in the season she caught the b.u.t.terflies or gra.s.shoppers, but she never hurt them. She would look at the bright spangled wings of the b.u.t.terflies, or the green coats of the pretty, chirping gra.s.shoppers, with an eye full of admiration; and she always seemed sorry when she gave them up. The lambs used to run to her, and eat from her hands. If she went into the park, the deer came to her side lovingly, and the young fawns sported and played around her. No one harmed Ratie or expected harm from her.

Poor little hunchback! Many an idle traveller has paused in his slow wanderings to listen to her song, as she sat on the wayside stump, knitting stockings for the work-people, and singing old s.n.a.t.c.hes of songs, and airs that bring back to the heart glimpses of the paradise of our lost childhood! No broad-throated robin ever poured out a wilder, fuller gush of melody than the songs of this untaught child!

Little Ratie's days were pa.s.sed in the same even routine, without thought or chance of change. Up at the house they loved her; and her young mistresses used to supply her with cast-off ribbons and shawls and fancy trappings from their own wardrobes, which she prized very much,--delighting to deck out her odd little person with these old fineries.

Once, as she sat singing on an old stile, and knitting a stocking, a rough sort of gentleman, driving by in his neat little tilbury, stopped and listened to Ratie's song. When he looked at the strange child he felt a little shocked; but he called out in a loud voice, "Halloo, Dumpey Blackie! here is a fip for your song"; and he tossed her a small coin. "Take that, and give me another song."

The child was pleased with the gift, took it up from where it had rolled on the ground at her feet, and soon began another of her wild little ditties. As she sang on, she forgot the exact words, and put in some of her own, which harmonized just as well with the air. The stranger was so much pleased, that he gave her another fip, and called for another song, and still another. At length, he asked the child to whom she belonged. She told him that she belonged to her old master.

"And what is your old master's name?" asked the gentleman.

Ratie, who had never been two miles beyond the borders of the plantation, laughed, thinking it a fine joke that anybody should not know the name of her "old master"; for, to her, he was the most important personage in the world. So she only laughed and shook her head derisively in answer.

"Will you not tell me his name?" again asked the stranger.

But the child smiled still more incredulously; so the gentleman deemed it best to follow her home, which he accordingly did, and found that Colonel Williams, a rich old planter, was the owner of this little melodious blackbird.

The stranger alighted and asked to see Colonel Williams. After a little conversation he proposed to buy Ratie from her master. Colonel Williams had never thought of selling the little deformity. He kept her on the place more through charity than aught else. The extent of her musical genius was unappreciated, and even unknown to him; but as she was a happy little creature, much liked by all the family, and was only a trifling expense, he had never thought of parting with her. Now, however, when a handsome price was offered, she a.s.sumed something like importance and interest in his eyes. He called her into the house, and she obeyed with great alacrity, coming in neatly dressed, with a fresh white ap.r.o.n, and sundry bits of bright-colored ribbons tied round her head and neck.

"Give us one of your best songs, Ratie," said her master.

The girl broke out in a wild, warbling strain, clear, bird-like, and musical, filling the long room with gushes of melody, until the lofty arches echoed and re-echoed with the wild notes. When she had finished, the enthusiastic stranger exclaimed, "That throat is a mint of gold!"

And so little hunchback Ratie sang song after song, until she exhausted herself; when her master sent her off to the slave-quarters, where she continued her ditties out under the broad, soft light of the low-hanging southern moon.

The gentlemen sat up late that night, talking upon different subjects; but, before they parted, it was arranged that the stranger should buy Ratie at the high price he offered.

The next morning, long before the sun rose, little Ratie was up, walking through the quarter. She stooped down to look at every drop of dew that glittered and sparkled on the green leaves and shrubs; and when the great, round, golden sun began to creep up the eastern sky, and set it all ablaze with red and gold and purple clouds, glorious as the pavilion of the prophet, Ratie's little spirit danced within her, and broke forth in hymns of music such as the wise men long ago--eighteen hundred years past--sang at the foot of a little manger in a stable in Bethlehem of Judaea.

The child was too young and ignorant to know the meaning of the emotions which fluttered and set on fire her own soul, but she was none the less happy for this ignorance. G.o.d is very good!

As Ratie wandered on, singing to herself, she grew so happy that the rush of pa.s.sionate fervor half frightened her. Tears came to her eyes, and choked the song in her throat. She paused in her walk, and seated herself on a little rock that lay in one corner of the quarter. As she sat there alone, she continued to sing and weep; wherefore she could not tell. By and by the great, rusty bell of the quarter rang out from its hoa.r.s.e, iron tongue the morning summons for the slaves to a.s.semble.

Ragged, tattered, unshorn and unshaven, dirty, ill and angry-looking, the negroes--men, women, and children, in large numbers--collected in the quarter-yard, where the overseer, an ugly, harsh white man, with a pistol in his belt, knife at his side, and whip in hand, stood to call the roll. At the mention of each name, a slave came forward, saying with a bow, "Here I am, ma.s.sa."

Ratie, who had no particular work to do, went limping on past the place of the roll-call, when she saw her master and the strange gentleman coming toward her. She did not, however, notice them. They were talking together quite earnestly, and looking at her. Her master called out, "Stop, Ratie; come this way."

She obeyed the order with pleasing readiness.

"Ratie," said the master, "how do you like this gentleman?"