South Boston, June 18th, 1854.
My Dear Mann:
— I have sometimes been happy enough to get a glimpse of you through your
letters to Downer — for you had in them, once in a while, a kind word for me.
Yesterday, however, there was a hard one, — though I know not unkindly
meant;—you said “out of sight out of mind;” et tu!! You have never been
out of my mind — never out of my heart. I have not written simply because I had
little or nothing to say, except that I love you, and that you know well
enough.
We have gone through a terrible ordeal lately: a week of
intense, painful, dreadful excitement. I saw the whole, from the broken door,
the pointed pistols and the flashing cutlasses,1 to the last sad
funeral procession. During the latter I wept for sorrow, shame and indignation.
Then, let me tell you (and I know enough of mobs to know it truly) — had it not
been for the citizen soldiery and the armed citizen police, the people would
have rushed upon the United States troops, disarmed and routed them and have
rescued poor Burns. With a constable's pole in advance, — with a scrap of law
as big as this sheet, — the people would, at any time, and against all
obstacles, have done so. The fear of the law, — the fetish of law, disarmed and
emasculated us.
The most interesting thing I saw in the crowd was a comely
coloured girl of eighteen, who stood with clenched teeth and fists, and with
tears streaming down her cheeks, — the very picture of indignant despair. I
could not help saying, “do not cry, poor girl — he won't be hurt.” “Hurt!” said
she, “I cry for shame that he will not kill himself! — oh! why is he not man
enough to kill himself!” There was the intuition, the blind intuition of
genius! — had he, then and there, struck a knife into his own heart, he would
have killed outright the fugitive slave law in New England and the North.
As it is, poor Burns has been the cause of a great
revolution: you have no idea of the change of feeling here. Think of Sam'l A. Eliot,
the hard, plucky and “sort of honest”2 Eliot, coming out for repeal
of Nebraska or disunion!
Things are working well. God will get the upper hand of the
Devil, even in Boston, soon. As for Loring — old Ned Loring,3 whom
you loved, and whom for a while you boosted up on your shoulders into a
moral atmosphere, he has sunk down, and will die in the darkness of despotic
surroundings. I wrote to him, and talked with him before the decision; I have
had a letter from him since, but it is a hard and heartless one. I have liked
him much; and am loth to lose the last of my associates in that circle; but I
must. If he is white, I am blacker than hell; if he is right, I am terribly
wrong.
I think you should write to him. I have set going the
enclosed address to him. Would it were better! but it is honest, and has cost
me a pang and a tear. Goodbye, my pleasant old friend; if you are going up, I
go down; and vice versa.
As for myself, dear Mann, I am very much as I was. In health
no better, nor worse. In spirits at zero. In hopes for myself, nothing beyond
happiness reflected through that of my dear children. They are, thank God, always
well and jolly. They never know an ache or a pain; are industrious,
affectionate, obedient, truthful, and very bright.
Let me hear from you, do! Shall I never see you? ah — I do
not like to think of turning my face to the wall, and going away from earth
without again grasping your hand. I'll try not to do so.
With kind regards to Madame, ever, dear Mann, yours,
S. G. Howe.
_______________
1 The attack on the Court House to rescue Anthony
Burns.
2 In reading these letters, allowance must be
made for the intense feeling of the time. I cannot verify this quotation, but Mr.
Eliot's honesty admitted of no qualification.
3 Judge E. G. Loring, who decreed the return of
Burns to slavery. The feeling against him became so strong that he was obliged
to leave Boston and take up his residence in Washington.
SOURCE: Laura E. Richards, Editor, Letters and
Journals of Samuel Gridley Howe, Volume 2, p. 269-71
