Nathaniel Peabody Rogers: Dr. Farmer Dead, September 1, 1838

We were amazed as well as deeply afflicted, at the death of this distinguished and most excellent man. His departure surprised us — invalid as he long has been, and feeble as was his hold on life — so insensible are we to the uncertainty and frailty of mortal existence! We have lost a highly valued personal friend, as well as our cause a faithful, devoted and invaluable advocate. We could weep for ourselves as well as for the poor slave, who does not know his loss. But it is not a time to weep. Survivors on the field do not pause in thick of the fight, to lament comrades or chieftains falling around them.

The departed Farmer lived and died a devoted abolitionist. We proclaim this amid the notes of his requiem and the tolling of his knell — in the ears of the scorner of the supplicating slave and of bleeding liberty. Admirers of his distinguished worth — his admirable industry — his capacity — his usefulness — his blameless life — who felt awed at his virtues, while he lived almost invisibly among men — mingling with the busy throng of life scarcely more than now his study-worn frame reposes in the grave — know all, and be reminded all, that Farmer was in zeal, in devotion, in principles and in measures, not a whit behind the very chiefest abolitionist. No heart beat more ardently than his, in the great cause of human rights — or more keenly felt the insults, the inhumanity and the ruffian persecutions, heaped upon its friends. How deep was his mortification at the brutal and ignoble treatment of the generous and gifted Thompson, and with what agonizing solicitude did his heart throb, as the life of that innocent and most interesting and wonderful stranger was hunted in our streets! How freely would he have yielded up his own sickness-wasted form, to save his friend! Scorners of the slave — sneerers at the negro's plea — ruthless invaders (whoever you are) of the hearth of hospitality and the sanctities of Home, we point you to the fresh grave of Farmer. To the grave of Kimball, too, his beloved brother — that young martyred heart — who still pleaded among you, unheeded but faithfully, the cause of the suffering and the dumb, when his voice was hollow with consumption — whose mild eye still beamed with remembrance of those in bonds, when lustrous with the hectic touch of death. To the grave of young Bradley too, who bowed his beautiful head to the destroyer, like the “lily of the field” surcharged with rain, remembering the down-trodden slave amid all the promises and allurements of youth and genius. And to other graves recent in your peopled church-yard, into which we should have looked with heart-broken disconsolation, but for thought of the resurrection. To these graves we point you — as you ponder on the past — not now to be recalled — registered for eternity.

Advocates of the slave too, a voice from the church-yard speaks also to you. There is neither knowledge, nor wisdom, nor device there, where the departed faithful lie, and whither you hasten. Your brothers and sisters in bondage descend thither in the darkness of brutal heathenism, from lives that know no consolation. What thy hands find to do, do with thy might.

SOURCE: Collection from the Miscellaneous Writings of Nathaniel Peabody Rogers, Second Edition, p. 13-4 which states it was published in the Herald of Freedom of September 1, 1838.