Showing posts with label Nathaniel P Rogers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nathaniel P Rogers. Show all posts

Wednesday, November 20, 2019

Nathaniel Peabody Rogers: Reverend Ralph Randolph Gurley, December 8, 1838

[From the Herald of Freedom of Dec. 8, 1838.]

We must give the whole of this euphonic line, so harmonious to the colored ear. This silver-spoken expatriationist has appeared again, we understand, in our New England horizon, with his northern aspect on, having doffed his slaveholder phases, as he crossed his equinoctial—the Mason and Dixon line. He ranges from tropic to tropic along his crooked ecliptic—from New Orleans on the south, to — the old town hall in Concord (his northmost declination) on the north—shifting his disk, like the changing moon.

Hail to thee, in the “clear cold sky” of the North, thou star of evil promise to liberty! Welcome, caterer of slavery, to the regions of paid labor! Thou reverend advocate of a double origin of the human family, and denier that “God hath made of one blood all nations of men,” &c. Thou promoter of human banishment, and sunderer of the strong ties of native country, hail to thy dubious aspect—thy Janus facies! Come, stir, with thy magician's rod, among the hushed and abashed mobocracy of your native New England. Kindle afresh the slumbering fires of prejudice. Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of persecution! Mount the consecrated pulpit, under the ushering of the shepherds of the flock, who care for the sheep, and “pour” thence “your leprous distilment into” the common ear, till “public sentiment” shall “posset and curd” under your infusion, and the blotch and tetter of colonization shall “bark out over all” the surface of the body politic.

Thou angler for consent to exile! thou fisher for funds in the pockets of prejudice! thou recruiting sergeant for the ranks of banishment! Thou art earning the deep and indelible displeasure of thy colored brother. He must forgive thee unpardonable enmity, and “seventy times seven,” and God help him to charity unbounded—for he needs it in this emergency.

Elliot[T] Cresson, too, a satellite of the Secretary, is up here, on a winter campaign. Why does not Elliot cast the shadow of his broad brim on the snows of Canada, this winter, in the service of the Patriots, and help them become a free republic, and so break up that nest of self-emancipated niggers? For if this province of Canada were only a free, democratic state, it would not afford a refuge to those insolent fugitives, but they would have to be “given up on claim of those to whom” their souls and bodies, their time and eternity, “might be due.” Bethink thee, Friend! Elliot, thou mightest strike a capital stroke for thy master (who can enlarge his brim till it is as broad as William Penn's, to suit his turn) in the extinction of this tyrant monarchy, this refuge of runaway democrats. Thou mightest solicit the fugitives, with good prospect of colonizing them. If thou shouldest succeed in abolishing monarchy in said province, and open a way for the restoration of the lost property to be found there, thou mightest then solicit it for consent to great advantage. Thou mightest offer the candidates, either a sudden, and, as it were, a reluctant return to the patriarchs from whom they strayed, (with fetter on heel and hand-cuff on wrist,) or the glorious alternative of voluntary emigration, “with their own consent,” to the steepled paradise of Liberia. And would they not be free to go or stay? Yea, verily. Thee would say to them, "Friend, I do thee no injustice. Go to Liberia; but go freely. I abate not a tithe of thy free, thy voluntary, thy spontaneous choice. Go if thee choose. If not, stay and return south with me, whence, in an evil hour, thou came out.” Peradventure some of them would "consent," For They Have Been South. Yes, reader, they have been south.

SOURCE: Collection from the Miscellaneous Writings of Nathaniel Peabody Rogers, Second Edition, p. 54-6 which states it was published in the Herald of Freedom of December 8, 1838.

Thursday, October 10, 2019

Nathaniel Peabody Rogers: The New Hampshire Patriot, November 17, 1838

A Friend has shown us this week's number, and we see by it that poor Mr. Barton is yet at home. We wonder people should be so insensible to the pleasures of journeying. To be sure, the season is getting to be inauspicious—the trees are naked, and the landscape muddy, and the winds chilled, and the music of the birds hushed—all, all very uncongenial to such a mellifluous spirit as the patriot's of New Hampshire. But still we somehow feel disappointed that he don't travel more. We would respectfully suggest to Mr. Barton the interesting objects with which this free country abounds—all parts of which he cannot yet have visited. Has he ever been to the White Sulphur springs? He need be under no apprehension in going there. To be sure, complexion is attended with inconvenience there, and blood has its hazards. But we think Judge Larrimer and Colonel Singleton and General Carter and Major Thornton would stand the friend of a Colonel from the North, and prevent him any disagreeable consequences of an indiscriminate operation of the domestic slave trade. They are keen observers. They know the invasions the peculiar institution has made upon the Anglo-Saxon color, and they know how the pure Americo-Anglo-Saxon has verged towards the servile shadows without coming within the lawful scope of the institution, and then the symptomatic cry of “nigger,” ever and anon breaking out asleep and awake, would reveal to them at once that the Colonel had the genuine negro-phobia, which a nominal slave never has, and which goes so hard with doubtful white people. They would protect any northern gentleman against being imprisoned and sold for fees, provided they could be satisfied that his proslavery merits overbalanced his colored liabilities—which we think might easily be vouched. The Colonel has a vein of “chivalry” about him, which would go a good way in offset to mere color of liability, which after all is but prima facie evidence of servility.—We warrant him a journey to the White Sulphur against the lawful claims of any person or persons whomsoever.

Then there is Texas—the Colonel has not, peradventure, been to Texas. It is a place of resort for people of enterprise, and where patriotism is a ready passport to consideration, although it has been slanderously styled a valley of villains, field of felons, sink of scoundrels, sewer of scamps, &.c. &,c. Yet it is a most republican clime, “where patriots most do congregate.”

There is Arkansas too—all glorious in new-born liberty—fresh and unsullied, like Venus out of the ocean—that newly-discovered star in the firmament-banner of this republic. Sister Arkansas, with her bowie knife graceful at her side, like the huntress Diana with her silver bow—her knife dripping with the heart's blood of her senators and councillors, shed in legislative debate,—O, it would be refreshing and recruiting to an exhausted patriot to go and replenish his soul at her fountains. The newly-evacuated lands of the Cherokee, too—a sweet place now for a lover of his country to visit, to renew his self-complacency by wandering among the quenched hearths of the expatriated Indians, a land all smoking with the red man's departing curse— a malediction that went to the centre. Yes, and Florida—blossoming and leafy Florida, yet warm with the life-blood of Osceola and his warriors, shed gloriously under flag of truce. Why should a patriot of such a fancy for nature immure himself in the cells of the city, and forego such an inviting and so broad a landscape? Ite viator. Go forth, traveller, and leave this mouldy editing to less elastic fancies. We would respectfully incite our Colonel to travel. What signifies? Journey—wander—go forth —itinerate—exercise—perambulate—roam.

We cannot sustain ourselves or our waning cause against the reasonings of this military chieftain if he stays at home and concentrates his powers. Nigger nigger nigger, and nigger, and besides that nigger, and moreover nigger, and therefore nigger, and hence nigger, and wherefore nigger, and more than all that, and yielding every thing else, “bobalition!” urged with the peculiar force and genius of this deadly writer—with his grace, point and delicacy—with his “nihil tetigit, quod non ornavit." We crave a truce. We appeal to the magnanimity of the Patriot,— to his nighthood—to go abroad, and leave us in apprentice hands or some journeyman's; or if he won't travel in courtesy, we beseech him to turn his editorship upon other enemies than us. Let him point his guns at the Statesman, or the Courier.

But if we must meet him, we protest against encountering the arguments aforesaid. That we are a nigger we can't deny, and we can't help it. That our little paper is a "Nigger Herald," we can't deny, and we can't help it. What signifies arguing that against us, all the time? We don't deny it—we never did deny it—we never shall. And what can we do? We can't wash off our color. We cannot change our Ethiopian skin any more than the Patriot can its “spots.” The sun has looked upon us, and burnt upon us a complexion incompatible with freedom?

Is it so? Will the demoeratic Patriot aver this? Are we to be denied the right of a hearing because we are a "nigger?" Are we to be deprived in New Hampshire of human consideration because we are black, and shall Cyrus Barton dispose of us thus, because he is White? We lay before the yeomanry of New Hampshire the appalling truth, that slavery has rooted itself deep into the heart of American liberty;—“Nigger Herald,” argues this snow-drop Colonel; “Bobalition!” and our appeal is silenced. We warn the country that slavery is overshadowing the North, and that ranting and rampant professing democrats will give their very backs to the southern cart-whip. "Nigger!" replies the Honorable Cyrus Barton; “eh, old nigger!” “old black nigger!” Is it an answer, we ask the country?

But poor Mister Barton is jealous we are after votes for James Wilson. If he is really so, we pity him. He is non compos if he suspects it. He ought to be sent right up to the town farm. Votes for James Wilson! Is this the purpose and aim of the great anti-slavery enterprise that now shakes Europe and America to the centre? Is West India emancipation a plot to defeat the Patriot's democracy here in universal New Hampshire? Are George Thompson and Daniel O'Connell and Henry Brougham thundering for human liberty in Exeter Hall, (henceforth and forever the cradle of liberty—not the cradle of the bastard infant, rocked in Faneuil Hall of Boston, now formally dedicated to the Genius of Slavery,) are these champions of liberty plotting with the fifteen hundred anti-slavery societies of America to defeat the election of Governor John Page?

We give our poor jaundice-visioned neighbor no other answer than this to his paltry accusations about plotting against his partisans. We have other and bigger objects altogether.

SOURCE: Collection from the Miscellaneous Writings of Nathaniel Peabody Rogers, Second Edition, p. 51-4 which states it was published in the Herald of Freedom of November 17, 1838.

Tuesday, September 10, 2019

Nathaniel Peabody Rogers: Colonization, June 23, 1838

There is either a most strange delusion, or an obstinate wickedness in men, in relation to this matter of expatriating our colored people — probably both — for delusion — “strong delusion generally attends a long course of transgression. We believe, if there is any one crime in this land, on which the Father of the human family looks down with more displeasure than on any other, it is on this deliberate and malicious wrong and insult entertained by a portion of the proud people of this country towards their humbler brethren — a deliberate, premeditated, cool-blooded plot to banish them from their native land, and to send them to the most undesirable spot on earth. God commands us to love our neighbor as ourselves. Christ our Lord tells us in the story of the good Samaritan, who is our neighbor, and what loving him is, in practice. We ask the reverends and honorables, who compose the official list of New Hampshire Colonization, if the good Samaritan would have joined the Colonization Society. The question need only be asked. The idea of such a man as he, entering into a conspiracy like this, is so absurd, as to be almost ludicrous on the very face of it. Colonization is hate of one's neighbor, of the very deepest and most far-reaching kind.

But the organization is getting to be matter of form merely — it can't act. It may raise contributions of some amount—but no widows' mites — and not from many hands. It is impotent malice now — and kept up, probably, as a set-off effort versus anti-slavery. We are loath to speak severely of the names who compose this benevolent enterprise, but cannot help it. If we feel justly towards the plot, we feel severely, and must speak as we feel. It is not only a wicked plot against our innocent and injured (ah, injured beyond reparation) brethren, but it is a most mean and dishonorable service, done at the bidding of the slaveholder of the South. He wants to get the free man of color away, so that he can the more securely grind down the colored bond man. Poor Mr. Observer remarks that “the colored man must have a soil of his own, before he can rise.” Pray, what does he mean by a soil of his own? soil that he owns? or a sort of black soil? Can't he own soil in this country? Truly he can, if these Observers will only get out of the way, and let us win him his liberty, and let him work for wages. Free colored people are rising now as rapidly and as palpably as water ever rose in a freshet. They rise, as fast as such philanthropists as the Observer fall. The Observer's fall is their rise, and his rise their fall. Colored men can earn money and buy and own soil, and do now buy and own it. They need not go to Africa for soil. The land they own here is their soil, and the country they are born in is their native country. A man's native country (this is said for the especial benefit of Observers and colonizationists) is the country a man is born in. He can't have but one. He can't be born in one country, and have a native land somewhere else — in some other country. The land he is born on, and no other, is his native land, and it is equally so with colored people, and those who have less or no color. No American, United States-born man can have two native lands, or can have one without the limits of America. He can no more be born here and have him a native land in Africa, than an African, born on the Gold Coast, can make him out a native land here in New England. This is really so — there is no mistake — there is no two ways about it. This is a cardinal point, and it ought to be settled and made clear to the minds of our colonization brethren. They have a strong notion of restoring colored people to their native Africa — to their own soil, as the Observer calls it — where they can rise. The soil of Africa is supposed to be theirs by a kind of nativity, though they were born here, and their fathers and grandfathers before them, and their fathers not only American-born, in some cases, but “as white,” as the African prince said of the Dane — the first creature of that complexion he ever saw — “as white as the very devil,” — not only white, but white slaveholders, owners of their own children — sellers of their own blood and bones. What soil have they in Africa then, on which they can rise? None, unless they go and buy it, which they will never do. And what does the Observer mean by rising? He means getting to be governor, councillor, general court man, deputy secretary, dancing master, clerk in a store, dandy, — any of these elevations, which whiteness of outside and total lack of inside, will give folks here.

Now colored people don't want this sort of elevation; all they want is common liberty common humanity — a common sort of human chance for their lives. They don't care about rising very high. As to rising out of the dust and dunghill, into which this inhuman people have trodden them that they will do, as soon as colonizationists will take their feet off of their necks and breasts, where they are now planted. They stand on the very breasts of the colored people, and look down and taunt them with incapacity to rise; and wickedly say to them, I'll step off of you, if you will creep away to Africa before you rise. You may go freely — with your own consent — mind that; you are not to be forced away; but unless you do most voluntarily and freely consent, I shall stand here, with both my Anglo-Saxon hind-feet plump on your breast bone, where the night-mare plants her hoof, shod all round with palsy, and you never can rise till you rise to the judgment. It is a pity you can't rise in this country; but you see how it is. God has placed you in an inferior position; you are evidently beneath me, and I above you. I am your friend. I belong to an “American Union for your race's relief,” and also to a “Liberian association, auxiliary to said Union;” and besides, your people, when they stand up straight here, and we are not standing on them, have an unpleasant fragrance which annoys our noses exceedingly; but as you lay now, right under our noses, somehow or other we do not seem to smell you. And moreover we are in the way of evangelizing the world; we've got that work on our hands, and are in a hurry about it — and we must take in Africa, and we don't want to go there. The climate is deadly, the people black and inferior, and we are not exactly on terms with them, and we want you to do what is to be done there; in the way of evangelizing. You can do it well enough for black people, though you can't rise to human level here. We want to colonize you for the sake of Africa — the millions of Africa. Oh, how our hearts bleed (now we think on't) for poor, benighted Africa! And then, that accursed, bloody slave trade — we want that stopped. Why, our Congress declares it piracy. We wont have the market stopped. We'll keep up slavery here, in an improved state. We'll ameliorate, and have it done "kindly;" but that traffic on salt water must be stopped, and you must go to Africa and put it down there. Q. E. D.

SOURCE: Collection from the Miscellaneous Writings of Nathaniel Peabody Rogers, Second Edition, p. 48-51 which states it was published in the Herald of Freedom of June 23, 1838.

Monday, August 12, 2019

Nathaniel Peabody Rogers: The New Hampshire Courier, November 10, 1838

The New Hampshire Courier has a correspondent, “Homo,” out in defence of colonization and against anti-slavery. "Homo" is a man every inch of him, for coming out in black and white. Welcome, good Homo. And thanks to brother Courier (if niggers may be allowed the expression) for giving “Homo” place in his columns. It will take a Homo to maintain the ground — not against us, but against his own readers. But courage, good Homo! — on with your numbers. We have glanced over No. 1, and seen the face of No. 2. Courage! we say. You have no great of a task — not much of a stint—nothing more to encounter than humanity and divinity — and heaven and earth. Cheer, man, the odds are with you.

Welcome, Homo, to the tented field. Abolitionists are tired of fighting intangible enemies. They glory to see one visible and tangible take the plain, and stretch his lines. They rejoice at the unfurling of flags and the glitter of the drawn blade. We will diligently and respectfully peruse “Homo,” and if, by and by, we shall copy any thing unhomogeneous in his appeals to his countrymen, we will give it such essay as our people may. We rejoice that the great rights of humanity are at length being esteemed of sufficient dignity to be argued down.

SOURCE: Collection from the Miscellaneous Writings of Nathaniel Peabody Rogers, Second Edition, p. 47 which states it was published in the Herald of Freedom of November 10, 1838.

Tuesday, July 23, 2019

Nathaniel Peabody Rogers: Color-phobia, November 10, 1838

COLOR-PHOBIA.

Our people have got it. They have got it in the blue, collapse stage. Many of them have got it so bad, they can't get well. They will die of it. It will be a mercy, if the nation does not. What a dignified, philosophic malady! Dread of complexion. They don't know they have got it — or think, rather, they took it the natural way. But they were inoculated. It was injected into their veins and incided into their systems, by old Doctor Slavery, the great doctor that the famous Dr. Wayland studied with. There is a kind of varioloid type, called colonization. They generally go together, or all that have one are more apt to catch the other. Inoculate for one, (no matter which,) and they will have both, before they get over it. The remedy and the preventive, if taken early, is a kine-pock sort of matter, by the name of anti-slavery. It is a safe preventive and a certain cure. None that have it, genuine, ever catch slavery or colonization or the color-phobia. You can't inoculate either into them. It somehow changes and redeems the constitution, so that it is unsusceptible of them. An abolitionist can sleep safely all night in a close room, where there has been a colonization meeting the day before. He might sleep with It. R. Gurley and old Dr. Proudfit, three in a bed, and not catch it. The remedy was discovered by Dr. William Lloyd Jenner-Garrison.

This color-phobia is making terrible havoc among our communities. Anti-slavery drives it out, and after a while cures it. But it is a base, low, vulgar ailment. It is meaner, in fact, than the itch. It is worse to get rid of than the “seven years' itch.” It is fouler than Old Testament leprosy. It seems to set the dragon into a man, and make him treat poor, dark-skinned folks like a tiger. It goes hardest with dark-complect white people. They have it longer and harder than light-skinned people. It makes them sing out “Nigger—nigger,” sometimes in their sleep. Sometimes they make a noise like this, “Darkey—darkey— darkey.” Sometimes, “Wully—wully—wully.” They will turn up their noses, when they see colored people, especially if they are of a pretty rank, savory habit of person, themselves. They are generally apt to turn up their noses, as though there was some “bad smell” in the neighborhood, when they have it bad, and are naturally pretty odoriferous. It is a tasty disorder — a beautiful ailment; very genteel, and apt to go in “first families.” We should like to have Hogarth take a sketch of a community that had it — of ours, for instance, when the St. Vitus’ fit was on. We have read somewhere of a painter, who made so droll a picture, that he died a-laughing at the sight of it. Hogarth might not laugh at this picture. It would be a sight to cry at, rather than laugh, especially if he could see the poor objects of our frenzy, when the fit is on — which indeed is all the time, for it is an unintermittent. Our attitude would be most ridiculous and ludicrous, if it were not too mortifying and humiliating and cruel. Our Hogarth would be apt to die of something else than laughter, at sight of his sketch.

The courtly malady is the secret of all our anti-abolition, and all our mobocracy. It shuts up all the consecrated meetinghouses — and all the temples of justice, the court-houses, against the friends of negro liberty. It is all alive with fidgets about desecrating the Sabbath with anti-slavery lectures. It thinks anti-slavery pew-owners can't go into them, or use their pulpit, when it is empty, without leave of the minister whom they employ to preach in it. It will forcibly shut people out of their own houses and off their own land, — not with the respectful violence of enemies and trespassers, but the contemptuous unceremoniousness of the plantation overseer — mingled moreover with the slavish irascibility of the poor negro, when he holds down his fellow-slave for a flogging. It sneers at human rights through the free press. It handed John B. Mahin over to the alligators of Kentucky. It shot Elijah P. Lovejoy at Alton. It dragged away the free school, at Canaan. It set Pennsylvania Hall a-fire.

It broke Miss Crandall's school windows, and threw filth into her well. It stormed the female prayer meeting in Boston, with a “property and standing” forlorn hope. It passed the popish resolution at Littleton, in Grafton county. It shut up the meeting-house at Meredith Bridge, against minister and all, — and the homely court-house there, and howled like bedlam around the little, remote district school-house, and broke the windows at night. It excludes consideration and prayer in regard to the forlorn and christian-made heathenism of the American colored man, from county conferences and clerical associations. It broods over the mousings of the New York Observer, and gives keenness to the edge and point of its New Hampshire name-sake. It votes anti-slavery lectures out of the New Hampshire state house, and gives it public hearing on petitions, in a seven by nine committee room. It answers the most insulting mandate of southern governors, calling for violations of the state constitution and bill of rights, by legislative report and resolves that the paramount rights of slavery are safe enough in New Hampshire, without these violations. It sneers and scowls at woman's speaking in company, unless to simper, when she is flattered by a fool of the masculine or neuter gender. It won't sign an anti-slavery petition, for fear it will put back emancipation half a century. It votes in favor of communing with slaveholders, and throwing the pulpit wide open to men-stealers, to keep peace in the churches, and prevent disunion. It will stifle and strangle sympathy for the slave and " remembrance of those in bonds," to prevent disturbance of religious revivals. It will sell the American slave to buy Bibles, or hire negro-hating and negro-buying missionaries for foreign heathen of all quarters but christian-wasted Africa. It prefers American lecturers on slavery, to having that foreign emissary, George Thompson, come over here, to interfere with American rights and prejudices. It abhors "church action" and "meddling with politics." In short, it abhors slavery in the abstract — wishes it might be done away, but denies the right of any body or any thing to devise its overthrow, but slavery itself and slaveholders. It prays for the poor slave, that he might be elevated, while it stands both feet on his breast to keep him down. It prays God might open a way in his own time for the deliverance of the slave, while it stands, with arms akimbo, right across the way he has already opened. Time would fail us to tell of its extent and depth in this free country, or the deeds it has done. Anti-slavery must cure it, or it must die out like the incurable drunkards.

SOURCE: Collection from the Miscellaneous Writings of Nathaniel Peabody Rogers, Second Edition, p. 44-7 which states it was published in the Herald of Freedom of November 10, 1838.

Wednesday, July 3, 2019

Nathaniel Peabody Rogers: Dr. Francis Wayland, October 20, 1838

We wonder if this learned divine has ever undertaken to convince men that their “responsibilities were limited” in regard to the removal of any other nuisance than slavery. We have not seen any portion of his "limitations," except that relating to slavery. Whether he has treated on them as to any other sin, we do not know. But what possessed him to think men needed reminding of the limitations of their obligations? Are they prone to works of supererogation? Are they apt to be rampant in the exercise of that “charity,” which “seeketh not her own,” to transcend the bounds of their duty? Is it necessary, in order to a proper husbanding of their sympathies, that they be warned and admonished against their too prodigal lavishment upon their fellow-men? Is it to be predicated of fallen, depraved men, that they will be likely to overrun their obligations? Need they be guarded against an extravagance like this? Need ministers of the gospel tax their ingenuity in a behalf like this? Generally this class of men have been engaged, on what they call in court “the other side;” in enforcing human obligations, and in setting forth and urging on men's consciences their terrible responsibilities—to remove from their minds and hearts erroneous notions of their limitation?. and of their own freedom from obligation.

We take it nothing can be clearer and more reasonable than the universal obligation to do to others as we would that they should do to us — and to do likewise for others. If we were slaves, does any doctor doubt we should desire our neighbors, if we had any, to try to rescue us? If our house was a-fire, should not we want our neighbors to help put the fire out? If we were in the water, going to the bottom, could we bear it that neighbors should go indifferently by, and let us sink — that they should merely pity us — in the abstract? The slavery case is exceedingly plain. Slavery is the creature of tolerance — of public sufferance. Southern slavery exists in northern sufferance. The North is the seat of American sufferance. It is the theatre of moral influence for this nation. There is no such influence in the South — that is, no reforming influence except by negative operation. What is the moral influence of New Orleans on the nation? What of Charleston, or Mobile, or St. Louis, or Richmond, or any of the states or people of which these are the capitals? What religious or moral enterprise ever originated, or advanced in any of these places or people? They no more influence the country, than gamblers, drunkards, thieves, religiously influence the church. The church influences them for good or for evil, according to her faithfulness or unfaithfulness in her Master's service. The North influences the South in the matter of slavery. Yea, the North acts with the South in slaveholding. They directly and professedly uphold the system wherever they have occasion. They tolerate it in the District of Columbia. They directly sustain it in the territories. They allow the slave trade between the states. They conspired with the South in the constitution, that the foreign trade in slaves should not be interrupted by Congress for twenty years. They voted that Arkansas should come into the Union, with a constitution guarding slavery with a two-edged sword, giving the slaveholder a veto upon an emancipating legislature, and the legislature a check upon the repentant slaveholder. They have voted to admit a system that forbids and discourages repentance of the sin of slaveholding, and makes it desperate. All this has been done solemnly and with deliberation, and in legislative form — and the whole nation has tacitly allowed those of its people who chose, to hold slaves. It has never been disreputable, but highly the contrary, to hold slaves in this country. Is not a nation answerable for the vices and crimes which are reputable and popular within its borders? If a nation has any moral influence, any moral standard, is it not responsible for what that standard does not condemn? Has not this nation cast all its presidential votes for two men, guilty at the very moment of the election and all their days before and since, of the crime of slaveholding — Andrew Jackson, a slaveholder and a slave driver, and voted for twice by a majority of the electoral suffrage of this nation, north and south — and Henry Clay, a slaveholder and a notorious compromiser in the service of the infernal system, voted for by the rest of the nation. Jackson chosen by northern men against Adams a northern man. And then a northern man abandoned by northern men, one and the same party, in favor of Clay, a southern slaveholder[.]

We have nothing to do with abolishing slavery, says the Doctor Wayland, either as citizens of the United States, or as men. Our responsibilities for its removal are all limited away. On the very face of our case, it is palpable and grossly evident, we say, that the northern people have at least as much to do with its abolition as the people of the south. They have at least as much to do with its continuation. They are as directly engaged in it. They have the control of it in the national councils wherever it exists within congressional jurisdiction. It is the North, and not the South, that prevents a legislative abolition of it in the District of Columbia. Slavery in the national district is a northern institution, and not a southern. It is the “peculiar institution” there of the North, and not of the South. Is it not so? We declare then, that, as citizens and as men, we at the North have something to do with the abolition of American slavery — ay, that we have every thing to do with it. We can abolish it, and we alone can. We ought to abolish it, and we alone ought to do it, as appears at first impartial glance.

“I think it evident,” says Dr. Wayland, “that as citizens of the United States, we have no power whatever either to abolish slavery in the southern states, or to do any thing of which the direct intention is to abolish it.” We do not perceive the propriety of the Doctor's language when he talks of a thing having an intention. Slaves have intentions, and the Doctor and his friends call them things—but how a thing to be done can have an intention — a “direct intention,” as the Doctcr says, is beyond our slight learning. Perhaps the Doctor meant tendency by intention — and meant to say that we could not do any thing the direct tendency of which is the abolition of southern slavery. That is to say, we, as citizens of the United States, may not vote in Congress against slaveholding in the District of Columbia, or in the territories, or against the slave trade between the states. We may not receive petitions in behalf of those objects — we may not petition Congress — we may not talk against slaveholding — or write against it — or pray against it — or sympathize with our fellow-men in slavery; because each and every one of these acts has a direct tendency to abolish slavery in the southern states. Slavery in the land is a system, a whole system, a custom, a crime, and but one crime wherever committed. It is not warrantable in one place, and not in another. It is not lawful in one state, and not in another. It is one entire, individual, undivided matter of fact every where in the land, as much as murder is —  and if it is denounced and condemned in the District of Columbia by Congress, it is as fatal to it, in the whole country, as if denounced in South Carolina by Congress, or any where else — more fatal to it. A blow struck against it, as existing in that district, would be a blow at the head of it, and it would be mortal, — not one having a direct tendency to kill the system — or a direct intention, as the Doctor hath it, — but a blow destructive in itself. It would fix the brand of infamy on every slaveholder's front throughout the nation. It would render him infamous even in the eyes of Americans. Dr. Wayland could set no limits to his infamy. It would seal him a criminal with the broad seal of the nation, the E pluribus unum. Who would vote for him for President then — who would send him ambassador to London — who put him in Speaker of the House — President of the Senate — Chief Justice of the United States? Who would shake hands with him at the capitol? Now he is first in office, first in honor. Slaveholding is passport to every distinction. We ask Dr. Wayland and his aid-de-camp Major Mordecai Noachus, if a vote by Congress on our petitions, abolishing slavery in the district, and making it capital to enslave a man there, as they would do if they made it penal at all, would not give the system the death blow in the South, even if abolitionists had done nothing to kill it elsewhere. Would not that single enactment do it? Self-evidently it would. Have we not a right, as citizens of the United States, to do this? The Doctor says no. We say, ay.

But not to follow this self-immolated man any farther now, we will say that we need not get a vote from Congress against slavery in order to its abolition there and every where. Congress! what is it? The mere dregs and precipitations, the settlings and sediments of the nation. It is as soulless as a corporation. It has no soul, no mind, no principle, no opinion. It is an echo, and that not always a true one. It is a mere catastrophe—an upshot. It will only mutter the word abolition, after it has become an old story through the country. We have struck slavery its death blow already. We need not contend with the Doctor about the power. “One thing you have done,” said an eminent judge to us, “you have driven the South to come out and declare directly in favor of slavery. Heretofore they have pretended to lament it, as an evil. Now they declare it is a blessing, and a righteous institution.” Have we not, said we, driven them to join the issue, before the world, in favor of slaveholding? “You have,” said the judge. Must they not maintain it before the world, said we, to save the institution from going down? “They must,” he replied. Can they maintain it? said we. “No,” said he, — and yet the judge is not an abolitionist.

We need not contend with this Wayland and wayward President for the power, as citizens or as men, to beat down southern slaveholding. We have exercised the power already, and the South knows it. We have waked the nation to discuss the demerits of the system and the question of the negro man's humanity; and they are discussing it, and amid the flash and fervor of the agitation the foul system dies. It can no more endure it, than owls can noon, or bats sunshine, or ghosts day-break. While Wayland is groping about in his metaphysics to get hold of some puzzle to embarrass us about the power, we will have exercised it to the full, and cleared the land of slavery. Then where will the Doctor find a market for his “limitations?” Slavery is a dead man already, unless Orator Rhett, and Professor Dew, and Colonel McDuffie, and General Hamilton, and doctor this, that and the other one, can maintain the precious creature in the argument, and get the verdict of an enlightened and purged christianity in its favor. To this conclusion it has already come. The question is stated — the issue joined — the pleadings closed — all demurring and abating and delaying past by. And now for the trial. Now, Slavery, hold thine own. The Doctor's question of our having the power comes too late.

SOURCE: Collection from the Miscellaneous Writings of Nathaniel Peabody Rogers, Second Edition, p. 39-44 which states it was published in the Herald of Freedom of October 20, 1838.

Wednesday, June 12, 2019

Nathaniel Peabody Rogers: Jaunt to Vermont, October 20, 1838

We have recently journeyed through a portion of this free state, and it is not all imagination in us, that sees, in its bold scenery, — its uninfected, inland position, its mountainous, but fertile and verdant surface, the secret of the noble and antislavery predisposition of its people. They are located for freedom. Liberty's home is on their Green Mountains. Their farmer-republic no where touches the ocean — “the highway of the” world's crimes, as well as its “nations.” It has no seaport for the importation of slavery, or the exportation of its own highland republicanism. Vermont is accordingly the earliest anti-slavery state, and should slavery ever prevail over this nation to its utter subjugation, the last, lingering footsteps of retiring liberty will be seen — not, as Daniel Webster said, in the proud old commonwealth of Massachusetts, about Bunker hill and Faneuil hall, (places long since deserted of freedom) — but wailing, like Jephtha's daughter, among the “hollows,” and along the sides of the Green Mountains.

Vermont shows gloriously at this autumn season. Frost has gently laid hands on her exuberant vegetation, tinging her rockmaple woods, without abating the deep verdure of her herbage. Every where along her peopled hollows and her bold hill-slopes and summits is alive with green, while her endless hard-wood forests are uniformed with all the hues of early fall — richer than the regimentals of the kings that glittered in the train of Napoleon on the confines of Poland, when he lingered there on the last outposts of summer, before plunging into the snow-drifts of the North — more gorgeous than the “array” of Saladin's lifeguard in the wars of the Crusaders — or of “Solomon in all his glory” — decked in all colors and hues, but still the hues of life. Vegetation touched, but not dead, or if killed, not bereft yet of  “signs of life.” “Decay's effacing fingers” had not yet “swept the ‘hills,’ where beauty lingers.” All looked fresh as growing foliage. Vermont frosts don't seem to be “killing frosts.” They only change aspects of beauty. The mountain pastures, verdant to the peaks, and over the peaks of the high, steep hills, were covered with the amplest feed, and clothed with countless sheep; — the hay-fields heavy with second crop, in some partly cut and abandoned, as if in very weariness and satiety, blooming with honey-suckle, contrasting strangely with the colors on the woods — the fat cattle and the long-tailed colts and close-built Morgans wallowing in it, up to the eyes, or the cattle down to rest, with full bellies, by ten in the morning. Fine but narrow roads wound along among the hills — free, almost entirely, of stone, and so smooth as to be safe for the most rapid driving — made of their rich, dark, powder-looking soil. Beautiful villages or scattered settlements breaking upon the delighted view, on the meandering way, making the ride a continued scene of excitement and animation. The air fresh, free and wholesome, — no steaming of the fever and ague of the West, or the rank slaveholding of the South,—the road almost dead level for miles and miles among mountains that lay over the land like the great swells of the sea, and looking, in the prospect, as though there could be no passage. On the whole, we never, in our limited travel, experienced any thing like it, and we commend any one, given to despondency or dumps, to a ride, in beginning of October, chaise-top back, fleet horses tandem, fresh from the generous fodder and thorough-going groomage of Steel's tavern, a forenoon Tide, from White-river Sharon, through Tunbridge, to Chelsea Hollow. There's nothing on Salem turnpike like the road, and nothing, any where, a match for “the lay of the land” and the ever-varying, animating landscape.

We can't praise Vermonters for their fences or their barns, and it seems to us their out-houses and door-yards hardly correspond with the well-built dwellings. But they have no stones for wall — no red oak or granite for posts, or pine growth for rails and boards in their hard-wood forests, and we queried, as we observed their “insufficient fences” and lack of pounds, whether such barriers as our side of the Connecticut we have to rear about an occasional patch of feed, could be necessary in a country where no “creatures” appeared to run in the road, and where there was not choice enough in field and pasture, to make it an object for any body to be breachy, or to stray — and where every hoof seemed to have its hands full at home. Poor fences there seemed to answer all purposes of good ones among us, where every blade of grass has to be watched and guarded from the furtive voracity of hungry New Hampshire stock.

The farmers looked easy and care-free. We saw none that seemed back-broken with hard work, or brow-wrinkled with fear of coming to want. How do your crops come in, sir? “O, middlin’.” — How much wheat? “Well, about three hundred. Wheat han't filled well.” — How much hay do you cut? “Well, sir, from eighty to one hundred ton.” Corn? “Over four hundred; corn is good.” How many potatoes? “Well, I don't know; we've dug from eight hundred to one thousand.” How many cattle do you keep? “Only thirty odd head this year; cattle are scarce.” Sheep? “Three hundred and odd.” Horse kind? “Five,” and so on. And yet the Vermont farmers are leaving for the West.

The only thing we saw, that looked anti-republican, was their magnificent State House, which gleams among their hills more like some ancient Greek temple, than the agency house of a self-governed democracy. It is a very imposing object. Of the severest and most compact proportions, its form and material (the solid granite) comporting capitally with the surrounding scenery. About one hundred and fifty feet long, and some eighty or one hundred wide, we should judge, an oblong square, with a central projection in front, the roof of it supported on a magnificent row of granite pillars — the top a dome without spire. It looks as if it had been translated from old Thebes or Athens, and planted down among Ethan Allen's Green Mountains. It stands on a ledge of rock; close behind it a hill, somewhat rocky and rugged for Vermont; and before it, descends an exceedingly fine and extensive yard, fenced with granite and iron in good keeping with the building, the ground covered with the richest verdure, broken into wide walks, and planted with young trees. It is a very costly structure; but Vermont can afford it, though we hold to cheap and very plain State houses, inasmuch as the seat of government with us is, or should be, at the people's homes. We want to see the dwelling-houses of the “owners of the soil,” the palaces of the country. There the sovereignty of the country should hold its court, and there its wealth should be expended. Let despots and slaveholders build their pompous public piles and their pyramids of Egypt.

The apartments and furniture of the State House within are very rich, and, we should judge, highly commodious. The Representatives' Hall a semicircular, with cushioned seats, a luxury hardly suited to the humor of the stout old Aliens and Warners of early times, and comporting but slightly with the hardy habits of the Green Mountain boys, who now come there, and in brief session pass anti-slavery resolutions, to the dismay of the haughty South, and the shame of the neighboring dough-faced North.

Their legislature was about to sit — and an anti-slavery friend, one of their state officers, informed us that Alvan Stewart was expected there, to attend their anti-slavery anniversary. We should have rejoiced to stay and hear him handle southern slavery in that Vermont State House. — We trust yet to hear George Thompson there. It shall be our voice, when he comes again, that he go directly into Vermont; that he land there from Canada. Let him leave England in some man-of-war, that hoists the “meteor flag,” and mounts guns only in chase of the slave ship, and enter the continent by way of the gulf of St. Lawrence. Let him tarry some months among the farmers of Vermont, and tell them the whole mysteries of slavery, and infuse into their yeoman-hearts his own burning abhorrence of it, till they shall loathe slaveholding as they loathe the most dastardly thieving, and with one stern voice, from the Connecticut to Champlain, demand its annihilation. We would have him go into the upland farming towns — not to the shores of the lake, where the steamboat touches, to land the plague of pro-slavery — nor to the capital, where “property and standing” might turn up the nose at the negro's equal humanity, or the vassals of “the northern man with southern principles” veto the anti-slavery meeting with a drunken mob — but to Randolph Hill, to Danville Green, the swells of Peacham, and the plains of St. Johnsbury, to Strafford Hollow and the vales of Tunbridge and Sharon — William Slade's Middlebury, and up among James Bell's Caledonia hills. Let the South learn that George Thompson Was Stirring The Vermonters Up Among The Green Mountains. See if Alabama would send a requisition for him to Anti-slavery Governor Jennison, or Anti-slavery Lieut. Gov. Camp. And what response, think ye, she would get back? — a Gilchrist report — or the thundering judgment rather of stout old Justice Harrington to the shivering slave-chaser— “Show Me Your Bill Of Sale Of This Man From The Almighty!” [“]A decision,” said a judge of the present truly upright and learned bench of that state, “no less honorable to Judge Harrington's head than his heart, and Good Law.”

Let George Thompson land in Vermont, and stay there, till other states shall learn the courage to guaranty him his rights within their own borders, if they have not learned it already for shame. He can do anti-slavery's work, and all of it, in Vermont. He need go no farther south. They can hear him distinctly, every word he says, from Randolph Green clear down to Texas. John C. Calhoun would catch every blast of his bugle; and assassin Preston startle at its note, in the rotunda at Charleston. And by and by, when every Vermont farmer shall have heard his voice, and shaken his hand and welcomed him to his hearth-stone, let him come down into Montpelier and shake that granite State House; and mayhap to fair Burlington, to that University — where the colored student can now enjoy, unrestricted, all the equal privileges of field recitation; where he may come, under cloud of night, to gaze at the stars on the very same common with the young New-Yorker, and the son of the rich merchant of this fair city of the lake, or accompany them, in broad day, on an excursion of trigonometry, in the open fields. The doors of that college chapel would open wide to George Thompson, after the Green Mountain boys had once heard him speak.

But we are lingering too long for our readers or ourselves, m this noble state. We hasten back to our own native, sturdy quarry of rocks and party politics.

SOURCE: Collection from the Miscellaneous Writings of Nathaniel Peabody Rogers, Second Edition, p. 34-8 which states it was published in the Herald of Freedom of October 20, 1838.

Tuesday, May 7, 2019

Nathaniel Peabody Rogers: Limitations Of Human Responsibilities. — Dr. Wayland, October 6, 1838

We were unpleasantly surprised, on receiving our last number of the “Comprehensive Commentary” and the “Supplement,” from our good anti-slavery friend Boutelle, to find the unfeeling author of the “limitations” posted up, in the frontispiece, by Dr. Jenks, at his own right hand, and directly over the head of old President Dwight. Perhaps this is a sort of peace-offering to the slaveholder—a bit of policy to give the "Commentary" a currency among our “southern brethren.” The Doctor's image would give the Commentary a cordial passport to the heart of every slaveholder. He would expect to find the Bible itself chock full of limitations of human obligations and warrant for slaveholding.

We should not dare send a lad to the Doctor's college, for fear he would teach him this science of “limitations;” a science as fatal to human welfare as the atmosphere of Upas is to healthful respiration. What a kindly blow has the Rev. Doctor here struck at religion and humanity, by this work, with a most significant and appropriate title — “Limitations of Responsibilities!” Abridgment of human obligations! Curtailment of moral obligations! Irresponsibilities to God and man! What a title and a work, to surprise and delight the devil withal! Give me, quoth the devil, these abridgers of human liability. O no, sweet mortals, “ye shall not surely die.” Hath God indeed said so and so? It may be — but then the meaning hath excellent “limitations.” Commend me, quoth the arch-gambler for the exposed soul, to these highly taught rabbies — brought up at foot of Gamaliel, who will ratiocinate the apprehensive mind clear of the trammels of responsibility.

It has been a desideratum with human depravity, from the first transgression down, to discover that this fatal responsibility had limits — some resting place, short of these crucifying requirements. Orthodoxy itself hath at last discovered it, and the fortunate finder is Doctor Francis Wayland.

“Granting slavery to be in violation of the law of God,” says the daring Doctor, “it still remains to be decided, what is our duty respecting it.” In this horrible doctrine we cannot agree, but say rather, that granting slavery, or any thing else, to be in violation of that law, it is decided, and always has been, that our duty is forthwith to labor to our utmost for its immediate suppression.

The Doctor's essay is to “kill the abolitionists dead.” Colonel Mordecai Noah, of the tribe of Issachar, says exultingly, that it is doing it. A band of self-devoted men and women have formed themselves together, to deliver, by the power of simple truth, their poor, soul-withered brethren from a condition that would awaken irrepressible pity in any thing but an under mill-stone. They are succeeding. They have insured success; and this northern Doctor has volunteered, as a sort of Swiss guard, to protect the slaveholder against them in his “paramount fights,” and to “kill” these unoffending and faithful ones “dead.” He has woven a web of sophistry, which it would waste time, and no doubt puzzle our unmetaphysical brains to unravel, in the cunning order in which it is put together. We shall not worry ourselves to thread its labyrinths, or unglue its spider fastenings. In plain housewife style, we take the broomstick of “self-evident truth,” and just poke down this cobweb — dead flies and all, warp and filling, — with the sly old weaver himself, where he sits in his central woof, “cunning and fierce, mixture abhorred.” For see. — Slaveholding is a self-evident crime. We (Doctor and all) are palpably at the bottom of it. It is engendered and fed on our own vicious public (sentiment. We are bound forthwith to correct this sentiment, and thereby abolish slavery. There is no “limitation” about it, and no “two ways about it, in the expressive parlance. This is better made out, in the statement, than by any help of words with which we are acquainted,—and we here dispose of the whole Doctor.

“No cat has two tails,” quoth the Doctor. Agreed, gays Major Noah, and his gentile brother, the New Hampshire Patriot, “But every cat has one tail more than no cat,” adds the Doctor, “Han't she?” cries Major Noah. “I want to know if she han't,” echoes the New Hampshire Patriot. “Therefore,” concludes the Doctor, (and anti-slavery is extinguished) — “therefore every cat has Three tails.” “Three tails!” exults the epauletted Israelite; “three tails, by our gold-laced gabardine, every cat is a three-tailed bashaw,” and it is “perfectly conclusive to the mind” of the New Hampshire Patriot. Now we hold up any bona fide pussy in the land by the. tail, and all eyes may see that she hath but one. The Doctor cannot argue it into three.

SOURCE: Collection from the Miscellaneous Writings of Nathaniel Peabody Rogers, Second Edition, p. 31-3 which states it was published in the Herald of Freedom of October 6, 1838.

Tuesday, April 9, 2019

Nathaniel Peabody Rogers: George Thompson, September 29, 1838

Our readers may remember that his excellency Governor Hill, the Reverend Wilbur Fisk, D. D., President of Wesleyan University, the Honorable Charles G. Atherton, one of our free and enlightened delegation in Congress, and sundry other dignitaries in church and state, as well as the Honorable their Graces the Concord mob — while Mr. Thompson was in this country, and soon after our brutality drove him from these guilty shores, — took great liberties with his name, and attempted liberties with his person. We call the attention of these distinguished functionaries to some of their sayings and doings, and will then subjoin some few of the testimonials recently come to us from England, or which will be new to them, we presume, as they would not be likely to encounter them in the course of their more lofty readings.

“This fugitive from justice,” said his excellency Isaac Hill — this “bankrupt in character and in purse,” said his highness the Reverend Doctor Fisk, a gratuitous vindicator of slavery — “a miscreant who had fled from the indignation of an outraged people,” declaimed the pert Mister Atherton — amen to the whole of it, repeated their Graces the mob.

Hear Thomas Fowell Buxton, the Wilberforce of the British parliament — one of the ornaments of philanthropy for all christendom. It was at a great anti-slavery meeting in the city of Norwich, in the neighborhood of where this fugitive from justice had been brought up. He had just spoken on the platform where Buxton and other great men of England sat. “I come here,” says Thomas Fowell Buxton, “to declare my assent to the great doctrine of immediate abolition of the apprenticeship, as well as to hear a speech from George Thompson, with whose sentiments I fully concur, and with whom I hope to labor through years to come, shoulder to shoulder, for the abolition of slavery and the slave trade throughout the world.” “Fugitive from justice” indeed — “bankrupt in character,” with a witness!

Hear Ralph Wardlaw, of Glasgow, one of the ablest, profoundest divines and writers in Europe. After Mr. Thompson's victory in Scotland over Rev. Robert J. Breckenridge of Baltimore, who honored the challenge of this “fugitive from justice” in the very land from which he fled, — fought with him in presence of 1200 of the very flower of the city of Glasgow, and fell before him there — at a public meeting held in Dr. Heugh's chapel in commemoration of this victory, Dr. Wardlaw said of Mr. Thompson, “With the ability, the zeal, the eloquence, the energy, the steadfastness of principle, the exhaustless and indefatigable perseverance of Our Champion, we were more than satisfied.” — “We sent him to America,” said Dr. Wardlaw. “He went with the best wishes of the benevolent, and the fervent prayers of the pious. He remained in the faithful, laborious and perilous execution of the commission entrusted to him, as long as it could be done without the actual sacrifice of life. He returned. We hailed his arrival,” &c. “Fugitive from justice,” says the New Hampshire governor. “We sent him,” says Dr. Wardlaw. “Bankrupt in character,” says the Rev. Dr. Fisk. “He returned,” says Dr. Wardlaw, “and we hailed his arrival.”

And now hear Henry Brougham, in the House of Lords. We put him against the American Brougham, who called George Thompson “miscreant!” against the Honorable Charles G. Atherton, of America. In the House of Lords, July 16th ultimo, in reply to Lord Glenelg, who claimed for the British government the credit of abolishing slavery in the West India islands — Lord Brougham said that “he maintained that, but for the interference of this country by the friends of emancipation and of liberty, there would not to-day have been received such a despatch as had arrived from the governor of Jamaica.” “He would say, ‘Honor to those to whom honor was due.’ He would name such men as Joseph Sturge, John Scoble, William Allen, and other noble-minded and devoted philanthropists — and above all he would name one — one of the most eloquent men he had ever heard either in or out of parliament — he meant the gallant and highly-gifted George Thompson, who had not alone exerted himself in the cause of humanity in this country, but had risked his life in America, in the promulgation of those doctrines, which he knew to be founded in truth.”

Has our dainty-fingered little statesman ever heard of Henry Brougham, of England — that intellectual Titan — that combination of all that is glorious in the history of British genius and learning and eloquence and patriotism; the pride of Westminster hall, the peerless among her peerage, the very star of England, the man whose impress, of all others, this age and coming ages will bear wherever the English language shall be spoken, the man whose mental influence is felt from the palace to the hovel, from the queen to the chimney-sweeper — has the Honorable Mr. Atherton heard of him, and does he call “misereant the man who receives such eulogium from his lips, in the face of Europe? Fugitive from justice! Is the companion of Brougham and O'Connell and Buxton and Sturge and Scoble and Allen and Wardlaw, a “felon” and a “bankrupt in reputation” in England — a miscreant? What say you, Messrs. Hill, Fisk, Atherton, and mob, will you repeat your words in face of such testimonials as these?

SOURCE: Collection from the Miscellaneous Writings of Nathaniel Peabody Rogers, Second Edition, p. 29-31 which states it was published in the Herald of Freedom of September 29, 1838.

Thursday, March 28, 2019

Nathaniel Peabody Rogers: Balloon Ascension, September 29, 1838

One of these presumptuous “quittings of one's sphere,” to “rush into the skies,” was attempted in our little capital city, on Friday, the 21st inst., and with very handsome success. Popular curiosity poured in to witness it, under umbrellas and cloaks, from all the surrounding country. — We wish they would take half the pains to free their country from slavery, that they will to see a great soap-bubble go up into the air, with a gaseous man subjoined to it. It was a novel sight, to be sure, and if it is to be done, perhaps it may as well be seen; though going to see it, is all the occasion of the poor skyman's venturing up. He can have no other. — This aerostation can never, probably, come to any thing useful. We can't navigate, for the purposes of commerce, travel, or discovery, “the brave o'er-hanging firmament,” or explore, in this gas-distended craft, the great orb of day, the waning moon, or those islands of light, that sprinkle at night the boundless Pacific “hung on high.” — No rudder can be invented, that shall steer the light air-ship through the billowy clouds. The compass will not traverse, to point to the celestial pole, and no anchor can fix its crooked fluke in the bottom of the aeronaut's ocean.

The utmost result of a voyage is the escape of the voyager with a whole neck. Science can derive no accessions from it. It cannot promise even the north-west passage to China, to explore which, English audacity has braved the horrors of the polar half-year's night — the formidable ice-islands — and all the terrors of the arctic winter — a passage which commerce of course could not use, if they could find one, without a Parry or a Ross in every merchantman.

Mr. Lauriat went up at Concord. His balloon, made of oiled silk, containing, as was said, seven hundred yards, and covered with a fine netting, was about two hours inflating. The gas was made in hogsheads, passed from them through tin tubes, going out of the tight headings, as the casks stood on end—and leading into reservoirs of lime water, which purified the gas as it passed through it,—out of which it was conducted, in large cloth ducts, into one which entered the throat of the balloon. The balloon, when filled, was about sixty feet high and thirty through. As it filled and struggled to rise, like an overgrown elephant, it was held down by the cords attached to the netting, by a circle of spectators and others standing round it. The car was brought and suspended directly under the centre, by these cords. It was of basket work, about a foot high, and from four to five feet over; a net work connected a hoop with it about eighteen inches above, to keep the navigator from falling overboard. About 5 o'clock, in the midst of a rain, he got on board his frail vessel, and they let him up, by a cord about twenty feet, when he made a short valedictory, cut his cable with his pocket knife, with rather an agitated hand, as we thought, and went up.

The ascent was very graceful and gentle, and reminded us of the ascent of thistle-down. The multitude dismissed him with a good-natured hurrah — and he was soon so high that he looked more like a puppet than a man. He waved a little flag, which, if it was the starred and striped one we sometimes see flapping at liberty poles down here, could be more appropriately unfurled after he had passed beyond the clouds, than this side of them. When his vehicle was reduced to about the size of a hand, he went in behind a cloud-curtain, and disappeared. He went to Canterbury, about a dozen miles distant, and lighted down among the broad-brimmed hats of our friends the Shakers, about twenty minutes after he started, took a drop, as we are told, of their imperial cider, to keep the clouds from striking to his stomach, remounted and rode on, upon the twilight air, to Northfield, and landed near where Samuel Tilton, Esq, once arrested George Storrs for prayer. He was dripping wet, having rode in the rain and among the very springs of foul weather, most of his way — though a portion of his journey was, we understand, above them in clear sky. When he was above the clouds, he said it seemed to him he was stationary, though he knew he must be moving. he knew not whither, with great velocity. He could not see the earth. His greatest elevation was eleven thousand feet.

One of the greatest balloon feats we believe ever performed, was by a Mr. Blanchard and another adventurer, who sailed from Dover cliffs in England, crossed the entire British channel, and landed safely in France. It would have been much safer, however, and quite as rational, to take the Calais packet. The chief end and result of ballooning seem to be, as in the case of the intrepid Samuel Patch, (who ascended the other way,) to show that “some things can be done as well as others.”

SOURCE: Collection from the Miscellaneous Writings of Nathaniel Peabody Rogers, Second Edition, p. 27-9 which states it was published in the Herald of Freedom of September 29, 1838.

Monday, March 18, 2019

Nathaniel Peabody Rogers: Eclipse of The Sun, September 8, 1838

ECLIPSE OF THE SUN.

We had a fine opportunity, on our way from Plymouth to Concord, to witness this grand conjunction of the mighty orbs of the sky — this conflict of the “greater and lesser lights” — the lesser obscuring the greater, as is sometimes the case among sublunary bodies, by force of position. The glorious sun was indeed “sick almost to doomsday,” — and it was pitiful to see his regal distress, and with what dignity and decency he drew around him his robe of clouds, to hide his disaster and shame from the smoked-glass gaze of mortals. The atmosphere and the landscape sombered at his obscuration, and he looked, as the foul intrusion overshadowed his disk, like a noble nature seized upon, darkened, marred and smothered to blackness and darkness, by the Genius of slavery. The envious eclipse passes off, and the released luminary shines on gloriously again in mid heaven. Slavery is perpetual eclipse— sickness to “doomsday” — eternal obscuration. May God in his mercy rectify the erring orbs of life, to prevent and remove such fatal moral conjunctions.

All animate creation seemed to apprehend and notice instinctively the malady of the heavens. The few birds that remain extant at this unmusical season, gave token of their apprehension of night-fall by betaking themselves to the topmost boughs of the trees — to get as late a good-night as they could, from the blessed luminary whose good morrow they hail with such choral gladness, in that joyous season when “the time of the singing of birds is come.” The cricket and the grasshopper, in the fields by the road side, set up, as night came down, their twilight hum, and blew their “drowsy bugle.” A drove of cattle, through which we passed, on the way to Brighton — like a coffle from the city of Washington to Alabama — halted, as the drover told us, as if the hour for putting up for night had come. And our own good steed, refreshed by the coolness of the temperature, and warned by the deepening shadows, set up his evening trot, in full remembrance, as well as his master, of Concord hospitality — for he has a “memory like a horse” — and had every visible and ostensible reason to believe, that stable-time and release from the harness were at hand. Would that the poor human cattle of the republic could realize such a season! But neither night nor eclipse brmgs respite to them. They Are Slaves.

At the height of the obscuration, the sky wore the appearance of real sunset — a sunset far up from the horizon, with blue sky below, between it and the hills. The passing off of the eclipse was [invisible], by reason of the thick, hard, night-looking clouds, and the sun did not reappear to give assurance of his recovery. May it not be emblematic of the extinction of slavery in this country amid the gloomy shadowings and night of insurrection, which our friend, the Observer, deprecates with such deep shuddering—while the prospect cf eternal slavery he can lcok on with most se (ne compr sure.

The “specious” twilight of the eclipse gradually put on evening's bona fide enshroudings, and settled into but we forget that our eclipse was seen by all our readers, and will leave them, with the wish, that the sun may rise upon them again on the morrow, all unmarred and unscathed by his conflict with the “dirty planet,” and light them all on the way to a day cf antislavery gratitude and duty.

SOURCE: Collection from the Miscellaneous Writings of Nathaniel Peabody Rogers, Second Edition, p. 25-6 which states it was published in the Herald of Freedom of September 22, 1838.

Thursday, March 7, 2019

Nathaniel Peabody Rogers: Colonization Love and “Logic,” September 8, 1838

Abolition Logic

Not hate of one's neighbor.” We prove it to be hate, because it wants to send off. Hatred repels, and would expel. Love attracts, draws, wishes to detain. Colonization proposes to rid the land of colored people. It therefore, cannot love them. Its love is mere pretence. — Herald of Freedom.

This argument, poor as it is, with hardly speciousness enough to deceive a sensible boy of six years old, is the same that was used by George Thompson, in our debate with him in Boston. But how will this argument work? A New Hampshire father sends off his son to make his fortune on the rich lands of the West. Therefore he hates him. A Boston merchant sends off his son to Europe or the East Indies, that he may extend his schemes of enterprise, and acquire wealth. Therefore he hales him. We send off missionaries to barbarous nations, that they may extend the blessings of Christianity, and receive in a future world the rewards of those that turn many to righteousness. Therefore we hate these missionaries. The consent of those who depart seems to make no difference in the view of this sage editor. “We prove it to be hate because it wants to send off.

It is a little ludicrous that the editor of the Herald should actually kill his own argument, even before he reaches the bottom of his column. “It won't hurt a slave to send him to Africa. It won't, to send him any where out of the infernal regions. We had rather he might get to Canada, — but if he can't go there — or to the West Indies — or to England — or France — or Spain, or Turkey, or Algiers — or any other comparatively free country under heaven — why, rather than remain in America, among our Colonizationists, let him go to Liberia — or to the bottom of the sea — or to the sharks. No monster of the deep would devour him with the cruel tooth of our republicanism.”

He also proposes, in another article, to colonize slaves in Canada. Seriously, we think there are strong indications of insanity in the Herald.

The above is from the Rev. R. R. Gurley, Secretary and chief engineer of the American Colonization Society — that grand "American system” of machinery for clearing this country of free colored people, by a sort of suction-pump force, called “consent.” They say, however, the “Niggers” come hard; and though the pump draws upon them, like doctor's instruments upon a tooth, yet they stick to the soil like a lamprey eel to the rocks; and though the Secretary “hangs on like a dog to a root,” they “hang back, like a dog going to the gallows.” Resist sternly, colored friends! “Abide in the ship.” The land shall soon be indeed your country and your home. Lay your bones in it. Your tyrants and persecutors will go and evangelize Africa, themselves, when they really wish her evangelized.

The wily Secretary has ventured upon a little article of ours, with true Tracy philology and word-hunting. “Send off.” The magnificent “statesman” here finds a field for the scope of his continental philanthropy. The argument, he says, is the same that was used by George Thompson. All the better for that. George Thompson is an authority. He is a mm of instinctive and intuitive judgment on this question. But it is a poor argument, says the Secretary, “with hardly speciousness enough to deceive a sensible school boy of six years old.” Any argument is always poor in the eyes of the Secretary, that is clear “of speciousness and false show, and that can't deceive sensible school boys. We don't intend to use specious arguments,— “showy, plausible, superficially not solidly right,” as Walker defines them! The Secretary had better not use any more of them. “Fair play is a jewel.”

“How will this argument work?” Try it and see, Secretary.

You don't try it. You put different cases. You speak of farmers sending away sons for their benefit and fortunes. We speak of sending off — a sending off to get rid of. Farmers don't send off their sons, unless they get angry, and forget their nature, and disinherit them. Then they send them off. This sending to the West is not true in fact. The sons want to go from New Hampshire rocks to the prairied West. They have heard stories about it almost as extravagant and false as the Secretary tells about the death-haunted capes of Liberia, where bones lie bleaching as they do in the valley of the fabled Upas. The father wants them to stay with him, if he has got land for them, and if he han't, he would go with them. That is the way the father sends off his sons. Does the Secretary send off the dear colored people so?  Would he accompany them? Let him go and edit at Cape Palmas, and sing his ditty of the “African steeples” about among king Joe Harris' people. They would admire his tall presence and his fine head, as the Cossacks did Murat on his black charger. No. The Secretary loves —  “society,” that has got more “frame-work” in it. The dragon take Liberia, for all his going there! It is a grand country for “free niggers;” but the Secretary belongs to another race.

“The Boston merchant sends off his son,” &c. Whoever heard of such a sending off? Would the weeping father, as the vessel, with his dear boy on board, was clearing the harbor and standing out into the wide sea, tell the disconsolate mother and the brothers and sisters — all in tears — “I've sent off Charles?” Sent him off! for shame, Secretary! If you had instanced a Boston merchant, who had a poor, miserable, profligate, drunken, prodigal son, that had exhausted his paternal nature, and forged his name to checks — whom he did not wish to see hanged at home, for the disgrace it would bring on the family, and he had shipped him aboard a man-of-war for the Mediterranean — or a whaler for a three years' chance among the storms of the cape, and the grampuses of the arctic circle, peradventure to come back, and peradverture not, then you might talk of a father's sending his son off. But that comes too near colonizing, for the Secretary's purpose, — only he wants to ship the innocent — the blameless — the unoffending — guilty of nothing but want of the roseate hue of the beauteous, Absalom-looking Secretary.

“We send off missionaries,” &c. Only to Liberia, Secretary. We send out to every other quarter. Note this peculiarity, reader, in our American efforts to evangelize the world. We send out white, educated, college-learned, beneficiary, Andover-finished theologians to those people we have never enslaved; and to our old human hunting-ground we send off  abated nuisances, called “free niggers,” — sent off with their own consent.  (“He ’ticed him out of the field,” says the witness; “’ticed him clear out.” How did he ’tice him? said the court. “O, he 'ticed him with a pitchfork.’”) We had the curiosity to look, in this very number of the Secretary's “Statesman,” to see what he called the sending of missionaries. He has a deal to say about love to the heathen. We lit upon “Missions to Liberia,” the first thing almost. It is not the Secretary's own, but his faithful Achates, R. McDowell's. He gives us the very technical phrase for missionary sending; but there is no off to it. “The first mission, established in Liberia,” says McD., “was the Swiss mission, &c., sent out by Rev. Dr. Bleinhardt,” &c.

Don't talk of sending off sons and missionaries, any more, Mr. Secretary. It is too “specious.”

The Secretary says, we “ludicrously kill our argument before we get down our column.” What is our argument? That sending off our free colored people, to rid the country of them, is proof of hatred towards them. How do we kill it? Why, by saying it won't hurt a slave to send him away. Commend us to such killing. “What is sauce for the goose, may be for the” Secretary; but it don't follow, that what is bad for the freeman, would be bad for the slave. Would it be good for the freeman of America to be sent to Algiers? We say it would not hurt the slave to be sent there. He would rejoice to get there, and we should rejoice to have him, if we can't free him here,—even to Liberia—rather than stay within influence of such teachers of humanity as McDufie and Gurley.

The Secretary's mention of our proposal to colonize the slaves in Canada, as a serious proposal, is so roguishly specious,” that we can't answer it. — The charge of “insanity,” abolitionists are used to. The Secretary will be glad to be so, by and by, when we get slavery down in this country. The cry from the West Indies makes him look wild. He will exclaim, by another year or two, when Congress, with old John Quincy Adams at their head, and Alvan Stewart and Wendell Phillips and Vermont Knapp to back him up, declare slavery down in the capital and the' district — he will then cry out, as Atlialiah did, when she “heard the noise of the guard, the clapping of hands, and the God save king Joash.” He will be stark crazy then, — if he does not repent — which we hope he may.

SOURCE: Collection from the Miscellaneous Writings of Nathaniel Peabody Rogers, Second Edition, p. 21-5 which states it was published in the Herald of Freedom of September 8, 1838.

Monday, February 18, 2019

Nathaniel Peabody Rogers: Constitutionality of Slavery, September 8, 1838

The second “unprovided-for difficulty” of the Keene Sentinel, in the way of the anti-slavery movement is, that “slaves are property.” We deny that they are property, or that they can be made so. We will not argue this, for it is self-evident. A man cannot be a subject of human ownership; neither can he be the owner of humanity. There is a clear and eternal incompetancy on both sides, — on the one to own man, and on the other to be owned by man. A man cannot alienate his right to liberty and to himself, — still less can it be taken from him. He cannot part with his duty to be free — his obligation to liberty, any more than his right. He is under obligation to God and humanity and his own immortality, to retain his manhood and to exercise it. He cannot become the property of another, any more than he can part with his human nature. It would be utterly repugnant to all the purposes of his creation. He is bound to perform a part, which is totally incompatible with his being owned by any body but himself; which requires that he keep himself free. He can't be property, any more than he can be a horse, or a literal ass. We commend our brethren of the Sentinel to the eighth Psalm, as a divine authority touching the nature and destination of man. He can't be property — he can't be appropriated. His mighty nature cannot be coped by the grasp of ownership. Can the Messrs. Sentinel be appropriated? We put it sternly to them, in behalf of their, and our own, and the slave's common nature, — for we feel that it is all outraged by their terrible allegation. Can the editors of the Sentinel become property? the goods and chattels, rights and hereditaments of an owner? If they can't, no man can. If any man can, they can. Can the Hon. Mr. Prentiss, with all his interesting qualities and relations, by any diabolical jugglery, be converted into a slave, so as to belong to one of his fallen, depraved fellow-men? Can he suppose the idea? Is he susceptible of this transmutation? He is, if any body is. Can he be transferred, by virtue of a few cries and raps of a glib-tongued auctioneer? Could a pedler sell him, from his tin cart? Could he knock him off, bag and baggage, to the boldest bidder? Let us try it. No disrespect to our esteemed senior. — We test his allegation, that a man is property. If one man can be, any man can — himself, or his stately townsman, Major-General Wilson, who would most oddly become the auction platform. If a man can be property, he can be sold. If any man can be, every man can — Mr. Prentiss, Gen. Wilson, Rev. Mr. Barstow — every man. Let us try to vendue the Sentinel. Advertise him, if you please, in the Keene paper. On the day, produce him — bring him on — let his personal symmetries be examined and descanted on — his sacred person handled by the sacrilegious man-jockey, — let him be ordered to shift positions, and assume attitudes, and display to the callous multitude his form and proportions — his points, as the horse-jockey would say. How would all this comport with the high sense of personal honor, wont to be entertained by the Sentinel? How would he not encounter a thousand deaths rather than submit to it? How his proud spirit, instinct with manhood, would burst and soar away from the scene! Who bids? an able-bodied, capable, fine, healthy, submissive, contented Boy, about fifty — sound wind and limb — sold positively for no fault — a field hand — come of real stock, — faithful, can trust him with gold untold — will nobody start him? — shall we have a bid? — will nobody bid for the boy? Now we demand of our respected brother, whose honor is as sacred in our regard as in his own, what he thinks of the chattelism of a slave, — for we indignantly lay it down as an immovable principle that the Hon. John Prentiss is as legitimate a subject of property and of sale, as any the lowest of his race.

We dispose of the position that “slaves are property,” by utterly and indignantly denying the possibility of it. We will rescue our brethren of the Sentinel from the imputation of this murderous idea, by erasing the semicolon after “property,” and making but one sentence of the second “difficulty,” turning it into an opinion that “slaves are property by the constitution and the laws;” throwing the infamy on to the old framers of the constitution, and all of us who have lived under it, with power to amend or nullify it. It would sink the whole of us. Constitution and laws! Is the Sentinel of opinion that a constitution could be framed by men, or by existences in the shape of men, that, instead of protecting human liberty and rights, should annihilate them? A constitution to enslave men! What would you say of a British constitution, that enslaved a British subject? Would you not scout the idea of it — of the British possibility of it? and can it be done here, and was it done here by revolutionary sages, who could not brook the restraints of British liberty? A constitution, that should provide for the enslavement of a man, would be a legal abortion. The bare engrossing of it would nullify it. It would perish by spontaneous annulment and nullification. It could not survive its ordination — nor could its infamous framers. We deny that an enslaved man is property by the constitution, and we might deny that any man can be enslaved under our constitution, and consequently, that he could be chattelized, if a slave were admitted to be property. Things may be appropriated — persons may not. They are self-evidently not susceptible of appropriation or ownership. By the constitution every body is spoken of as a person — no mention is made of human things. If a slave is alluded to, in that instrument, as a possible existence in point of fact, it is under the name of person. “Three fifths of all other Persons” — “migration or importation of persons— “no person held to service.” These are the only instances in it where allusion is made to slaves, — and it no more, in those allusions, sanctions enslaving, than it does “piracies and felonies on the high seas,” which it also expressly recognizes, as they say of slavery. So it says “person,” where it solemnly asserts that “no person can be deprived of liberty or property, but by due process of law.” This clause prohibits the slightest approaches to enslaving, or holding in slavery, which is continued enslaving. No person's property can be taken from him; not his life even; infinitely less his Liberty, without due legal process. It is idle to say, that the framers of the constitution, or. those who adopted it and acted under it, did not mean to save the colored man from slavery, by this clause. In law they are to be held to mean so, because they said so. The intent of the framers is now to be gathered from what they said in the instrument itself — not their colloquies at the time or before or after — but what they put down in imperishable black and white. It is what they inscribed on the parchment for all time, that they legally intended, and there we are to go to get at their intent. If the words are obscure and ambiguous, we may gather their intent by aid of concomitant circumstances, &c. But there is no ambiguity here. The clearest words and best understood and most trimly defined of any we have, here set forth the essential doctrine, (without which a community of thieves and pirates could scarcely be kept together,) that life, liberty and property are sacred. Enslave man and leave him these three, and you may do it, maugre this clause of the constitution. However, you must leave him, by virtue of other clauses, a few other incidentals, such as compulsory process for calling in all witnesses for him, of whatever color; the inviolate right to be secure in person, house, papers and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures; right of trial by jury in all cases over twenty dollars' value; the free exercise of religion, of speech, of the press, of peaceable assembly and of petition; the civil rights of republican government, which is guarantied to him in every state in this Union; the privileges and immunities of citizens in every state; in short, you must allow him a string of franchises, enumerated accidentally in that part of the old compact, called the preamble, viz., justice, domestic tranquillity, common defence, general welfare, and, finally, the blessings of liberty to himself and to his posterity; — moreover you may add, in repetition, — for in securing these breath-of-life sort of rights, people run a little into superfluity of words — you may add the unsuspendible privilege of habeas corpus — the old writ of liberty; — and perfect exemption from all attainder, or enslaving a man's children on his account. We will mention one more — that is the uninfringible right to keep and bear arms. All these and many other rights and immunities, "too numerous to be mentioned,” are secured to him by adamantine provisions in the constitution, and if you can chattelize him under them, so that Austin Woolfolk can trade in him, at your capital, or Wade Hampton or the American Board, can buy him and use him up in their service, or Doctor Ezra Styles Ely speculate in his soul and body, then your doctrine, Messrs. Sentinel, is sound, that he is recognized as property by the constitution.

We claim some exceptions, however, in case we cannot overthrow slavery in the slave states, by force of the national constitution. We cannot allow you to enslave any body in old Virginia. Look at her law paramount in our caption, declaring the Birth-Right, Inalienable Liberty Of All Men. In Maryland the right is constitutionally set forth a little stronger. You must not enslave a man in Maryland, — and we can't allow you to lay a finger on his liberties in the district of Columbia, because the constitutions of Virginia and Maryland are still paramount law there, by congressional adoption, at the acceptance of the cessions. And if he runs away from the district or a territory, or either of those two states, we can't allow you to arrest him and send him back.

We ask our legal friends, who think lightly of this “fanaticism,” to look into this constitutional and legal matter of slaveholding. We would like especially, that some of the neighbors of the Sentinel would give some exposition, during the coming convention, of the lawfulness of enslaving people in this country. We ask the Keene lawyers how this is. We want “the opinion of the court.”

For ourselves we venture the opinion, in light of what glimmerings of law scintillate about our vision, that holding a man in slavery is a violation of the law of this land, and of every part of it, not excepting our gory-fingered sister Arkansas, or our carnage-dripping sister Alabama, the haunt of christian enterprise from New England and the worn-out slave states in the north. A constitution that can avail to protect republican liberty to a single member of this community, inviolably secures it to every man, and condemns and prohibits slavery. It cannot otherwise be. Slavery is a mere matter of fact — in the face of the constitution — in the face of each state constitution — in the face of every court of justice which soundly administers the law of any state — in face of every thing, but a tyrant public sentiment, and a diabolical American practice.

The enslaved of the country are as much entitled to their liberty as any of us, by the law as it is. They have a right to throw off all violation of it by force, if they cannot otherwise. Nay, it is their duty to do so, if they can, — for it is not injury merely, that they are submitting to — not wrongs. They are rendered incapable of suffering injury — incompetent to endure wrong. The accursed system, that preys upon them, makes things of them — exterminates their very natures. This they may not submit to. They ought to prevent it, at every expense. They ought to resist it, as the Christian should the devil, for it wars upon the nature of man, and devours his immortality. If they could heave off the system by an instantaneous and universal effort, they ought to do it Individually we wish they could do it, and that they would do it. We may be wrong in this opinion — but we entertain it. If our white brethren at the South were slaves, we should wish them instantaneous deliverance by insurrection, if this would bring it to them. We wish our colored brethren the same. We do not value the bodily lives of the present white generation there a straw, compared to the horrible thraldom, in which they hold the colored people, and we value their lives as highly as we do the colored people's. But insurrection can't effect it. It must be done by the abolitionists. They must annihilate the system by force of their principles, and as fast as possible. And they must increase their speed. Men will have to groan and pant in absolute brutality, with their high and eternal natures bound down and strangled amid the folds of this enslaving devil, until we throw it off. To the work then, and Heaven abandon the tardy! If you wish to save your white brethren and yourselves, we commend you to this work, in sharp earnest We tell you, once for all, there is no time to be Inst!

There is no end to the theme — there must be to this article. We deny the truth and existence of the Sentinel's two difficulties, and if, in fact, they both existed, our movement “provides for them.” The people collectively have the power to declare slavery a crime in the slave states. Congress has the power to do what amounts to the same thing — by direct action. They can declare it criminal in the capital, and how long would it be esteemed innocent elsewhere? They can punish enslaving in the district, and the man-traffic between the states as piracy. Lex talionis would enslave the perpetrators — but that would be devilish, and ought not to be inflicted. But if hanging is lawful in any case, it is in this.

If the people collectively and Congress have no legal power over the slavery of the slave states, abolitionists have the power, ample and adequate, and they will “provide for the difficulty.”

The constitution and the laws do not recognize the slaves as property. We call for the proof. The Sentinel avers it. Let them point us to the spot where. And could they do this, the abolitionists have the power (consult rule of three for the time it will take) to change and redeem both the constitution and the laws, and transmute this property back again to humanity.

SOURCE: Collection from the Miscellaneous Writings of Nathaniel Peabody Rogers, Second Edition, p. 15-21 which states it was published in the Herald of Freedom of September 8, 1838.