Thanks to our
young brethren for their hearty — noble-souled committee's call. Now for
obeying it. Now see if our abolitionists, who “remember those in bonds,”
&c. will spend a day or two to make it manifest. We would spend time
chiefly, brethren, so far as traveling expenses go. Our brethren,
fortunately for the cause, have not much “property or standing.” They should
not lay out much of either on the road. The grog-selling inns should receive
little of anti-slavery patronage. The money is too sacred for their foul
coffers. The “cold chunk,” or the johnny cake, or the saw-dust pudding,
(Franklin's editorial dinner,) any thing on the road, and all the mites for the
Society treasury. We have got to cure this glorious slaveholding republic of
its character, and to pay all the doctors' bills, and we must spend
little, very little, for confectionaries.
We echo the
summons of the committee of arrangements. From our Moosehillock position we
send it on, and back, to every point of compass. To none but the whole-hearted,
fully-committed, cross-the-Rubicon spirits—men of more heart than “But” — who can leave home for the sake
of their principles — who can deny themselves, and “lap the water, as the dog
lappeth,” for their thirst. From the sea coast, the Green Mountain west, the
sky-seeking north, and the New Hampshire south — old, young and mid-aged — gray
bearded and beardless — the sturdy and the infirm — from all streams and all
valleys, and along all hill-sides — from rich “old Cheshire,” — from
Rockingham, with her horizon setting down away to the salt sea. — Strafford,
from the “slide”-scarred mountains of Sandwich to the rainbow mists of the
Cocheco — from Pigwacket to Winnipisseogee — Strafford of the lakes — up from
old Hillsborough, where the staunch yeoman drives his team from the mouths of
Piscataquog and Souhegan, up to the very springs of the Contoocook, — young
Sullivan, where she stretches from Sunapee to the valley of the Connecticut,
and from the falls of Walpole to the cedars of Lebanon, — Merrimack — key-stone of the Granite State —
abolitionists “of our county of Merrimack,” start at day-break for the
Convention, — from where the sun sets behind Kearsarge, even to where he rises
gloriously over Moses Norris’ own town of Pittsfield; and from
Amoskeag to Ragged Mountains, — Coos — Upper Coos, home of the everlasting
hills, send out your bold advocates of human rights — wherever they lay
scattered by lonely lake or Indian stream — or “Grant,” or “Location” — from
the trout-haunted brooks of the Amoriscoggin, and where the adventurous streamlet
takes up its mountain march for the St. Lawrence. — Scattered and insulated
men, wherever the light of philanthropy and liberty has beamed in upon your
solitary spirits, come down to us like your streams and clouds: — and our own
Grafton, all about among your dear hills and your mountain-flanked valleys — whether
you home along the swift Ammonoosuck, the cold Pemigewasset or the ox-bowed
Connecticut; from the “heights of Dorchester,” and the “vale of Hebron” — from
Canaan, that land of promise to the negro student boy — and from
anti-slavery Campton — come from the meadows of Alexandria — one and all
abolitionists of Grafton — Lyme, the peerless town of Lyme, the native town of
temperance.
Abolitionists
of New Hampshire! your brethren in bondage call loudly upon you for help — they
clank their chains — they rattle their fetters — they lift up the cry of
despair — will you hear them? Remember what God is doing for your cause. Hark,
that shout from the isles of the sea! It is the emancipation cry of the West
Indies — God hath given them liberty. Their deliverance has come — He is
drawing nigh to us. We shall hear Him, or perish. And if this nation is marked
out for destruction, let abolitionists remember Rahab of Jericho. We are slow,
brethren, dishonorably slow, in a cause like ours. Our feet should be “as hinds’
feet.” “Liberty lies bleeding.” The leaden-colored wing of slavery obscures the
land with its baleful shadow. Let us come together, and inquire at the hand of
the Lord what is to be done.
SOURCE: Collection from the Miscellaneous Writings
of Nathaniel Peabody Rogers, Second Edition, p. 9-11 which states it was
published in the Herald of Freedom of August 18, 1838.
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