Major-General William T. Sherman to H. W. Hill, September 7, 1863

HEADQUARTERS FIFTEENTH ARMY CORPS,                       

Camp on Big Black, September 7, 1863.

H. W. HILL, Esq.,

Chairman of Meeting of Citizens, Warren Co., Miss.:

SIR: The communication addressed to General Grant, myself, and other officers, in the nature of a petition* is received. I think it proper and right that the property-holding classes of Warren County, and indeed of the whole State of Mississippi, should meet in their capacity as citizens to talk over matters, so that they may take any steps they deem to their interest, and if such meetings be open and with the knowledge of the nearest military commander, I will protect them whilst so engaged.

Your preamble, however, starts out with a mistake. I do not think any nation ever undertook to feed, supply, and provide for the future of the inhabitants of an insurgent district. We have done so here and in other instances in this war, but my reading has discovered no parallel cases. If you know of any, I will thank you for a copy of the history which records them. I know it is the purpose of the controlling generals of this war to conduct it on the most humane principles of either ancient or modern times and according to them. I contend that after the firing on our steam-boats navigating our own rivers after the long and desperate resistance to our armies at Vicksburg, on the Yazoo, and in Mississippi generally, we are justified in treating all the inhabitants as combatants and would be perfectly justifiable in transporting you all beyond the seas if the United States deemed it to her interest; but our purpose is not to change the population of this country, but to compel all the inhabitants to acknowledge and submit to the common laws of the land. When all or a part of the inhabitants acknowledge the just rights of the United States, the war as to them ceases. But I will reply to your questions in the order you put them.

First. The duty of the Government to protect and the inhabitants to assist is reciprocal. The people of Warren County have not assisted the United States much as yet, and are therefore not entitled to much protection. What future protection they receive will depend on their own conduct.

Second. The negroes, former slaves by inheritance or purchase, that now fill the country have been turned loose upon the world by their former owners, who by rebelling against the only earthly power that insured them the rightful possession of such property have practically freed them. They are a poor, ignorant class of human beings, that appeal to all for a full measure of forbearance. The task of providing for them at present devolves on the United States because, ex necessitate, the United States succeeds by act of war to the former lost title of the master. This task is a most difficult one, and needs time for development and execution. The white inhabitants of the country must needs be patient, and allow time for the work. In due season the negroes at Roach's and Blake's will be hired, employed by the Government, or removed to camps where they can be conveniently fed; but in the mean time no one must molest them, or interfere with the agents of the United States intrusted with this difficult and delicate task. If any of them are armed it is for self-defense, and if they mistake their just relation to the Government or the people, we will soon impress on them the truth.

Third. Your third inquiry is embraced in the above. I don t know that any fixed and determined plan is matured, but some just and proper provisions will be made for the negro population of this State.

Fourth. Congress alone can appropriate public money. We cannot hire servants for the people who have lost their slaves, nor can we detail negroes for such purposes. You must do as we do, hire your servants and pay them. If they don't earn their hire, discharge them and employ others. Many have already done this and are satisfied with the results.

Fifth. I advise all citizens to stay at home, gradually put their houses and contiguous grounds in order, and cast about for some employment or make preparations on a moderate scale to resume their former business and employment. I cannot advise any one to think of planting on a large scale, for it is manifest no one can see far enough in the future to say who will reap what you sow. You must first make a government before you can have property. There  is no such thing as property without government. Of course, we think that our Government (which is still yours) is the best and easiest put in full operation here. You are still citizens of the United States and of the State of Mississippi. You have only to begin and form one precinct, then another; soon your country will have such organization that the military authorities would respect it. The example of one county would infect another, and that another, in a compound ratio, and it would not be long till the whole State would have such strength by association that, with the assistance of the United States, you could defy any insurgent force. The moment the State can hold an open, fair election, and send Senators and Members to Congress, I doubt not they would be received, and then Mississippi would again be as much a part of our Government as Indiana and Kentucky now are, equal to them in all respects, and could soon have courts, laws, and all the machinery of civil government. Until that is done, it is idle to talk, about little annoyances, such as you refer to at Deer Creek and Roach's. As long as war lasts these troubles will exist, and, in truth, the longer the war is protracted, the more bitter will be the feeling, and the poor people will have to bear it, for they cannot help themselves.

General Grant can give you now no permanent assurance or guaranties, nor can I, nor can anybody. Of necessity, in war the commander on the spot is the judge, and may take your house, your fields, your everything, and, turn you all out, helpless, to starve. It may be wrong, but that don't alter the case. In war you can't help yourselves, and the only possible remedy is to stop war. I know this is no easy task, but it is well for you to look the fact square in the face and let your thoughts and acts tend to the great solution. Those who led the people into war promised all manner of good things to you, and where are their promises? A child may fire a city, but it takes a host of strong men to extinguish it. So a demagogue may fire the minds of a whole people, but it will take a host like ourselves to subdue the flames of anger thus begotten. The task is a mammoth one, but still you will in after years be held recreant if you do not lend your humble assistance. I know that hundreds and thousands of good Southern men now admit their error in appealing to war, and are engaged in the worthy effort to stop it before all is lost. Look around you and see the wreck. Let your minds contemplate the whole South in like chaos and disorder, and what a picture! Those who die by the bullet are lucky compared to those poor fathers and wives and children who see their all taken and themselves left to perish, or linger out their few years in ruined poverty. Our duty is not to build up; it is rather to destroy both the rebel army and whatever of wealth or property it rounded its boasted strength upon. Therefore don't look to any army to help you; act for yourselves. Study your real duties to yourselves and families, and if you remain inert, or passively friendly to the power that threatens our national existence, you must reap the full consequences, but if, like true men, you come out boldly, and plainly assert that the Government of the United States is the only power on earth which can insure to the inhabitants of America that protection to life, property, and fame which alone can make life tolerable, you will have some reason to ask of us protection and assistance, otherwise not.

General Grant is absent. I doubt if he will have time to notice your petition as he deals with a larger sphere, and I have only reduced these points to writing that your people may have something to think about, and divert your minds from the questions of cotton, niggers, and petty depredations, in which the enemies of all order and all government have buried up the real issues of this war.

I am, &c.,

W. T. SHERMAN,                

Major-General, Commanding.

_______________

* See Grant to Halleck, September 19, p. 732.

SOURCE: The War of the Rebellion: A Compilation of the Official Records of the Union and Confederate Armies, Series I, Volume 30, Part 3 (Serial No. 52), p. 401-4

Major-General William T. Sherman to “an Old Resident of St. Louis, Missouri,” September 8, 1864

IN THE FIELD, ATLANTA, GA., Sept. 8, 1864

DEAR SIR:—Yr kind note of Aug. 24 from Rochester, N. Y. reached me here and I am really thankful for the warm terms in which you write, and I know you will not feel the less kindly when you know we are inside Atlanta.  I don’t see why we cant have some sense about negroes as well as about horses, mules, iron, copper, etc.—but say nigger in the U. S. and from Sumner to Atty Kelly to the whole country goes crazy.  I never thought my nigger letter would get into the papers but since it has I lay low—I like niggers well enough, as niggers, but when fools & idiots try & make niggers better than ourselves I have an opinion.  We are also ruining our country in this bounty & substitute business.  It only amounts to spending money, it don’t make a single soldier.

Fools think they can buy off, and will spend their money on some worthless substitute who shirks and as is of no use & after spending all his money will have to serve besides.

Well this thing will work out its natural solution.

W. T. SHERMAN,

Maj. Gen.

SOURCES: “Negroes in Their Places,” The Montgomery Advertiser, Montgomery, Alabama, Tuesday, December 17, 1889, p. 4; “General Sherman on ‘Niggers,’” The Sentinel, Carlisle, Pennsylvania, Thursday, December 26, 1899, p. 1.

Major-General William T. Sherman to William M. McPherson, Esq., March 24, 1865

HEADQUARTERS, MILITARY DIVISION OF THE MISISIPPI, IN THE FIELD                  

GOLDSBORO, N. C., March 24, 1865

DEAR SIR:—On reaching Goldsboro yesterday I find many letters and among them yours of January 27—one of later date I think reached me at Fayetteville a fortnight since.  I thank you kindly for your kindly expressions.  As my opinions of the various questions which arise in the progress of events are formed for my own use, and not designed to please the people, or self-constituted representatives of the people I am utterly indifferent whether they please or displease.  I am a better judge of what is right and proper touching the negro with who I deal hourly, than Ben Butler, Sumner, Giddings, or any mere theorist dealing with the hypothetical negro, of their own creation.  If I risk my life & health in the vindication of a cause; I claim to prove my sincerity by a more honest test than all the mouthings of the noisiest preacher or demagogue.  I believe the honest working People of the United States agree with me, to fight to maintain the government according to form bequeathed to us, and not to carry out any specialty.  When the just powers of the President[,] Congress & Supreme Court are recognized by all the people of our country, reason  argument may use their sway, and settle the thousand little questions that always have and always  will agitate human councils—but of what use is congress?  or laws  when the Marshal & Sheriff cant go & enforce his writs?—Then the sword steps in and commands the Peace.  When peace is restored, the men find it is to their interest to submit to Law, whether right or wrong, then the machinery resumes its motion, and generally all interests are reconciled.

I have always thought we mixed up too many little side issues in this War.  We should make a single plain issue & fight it out.  The extreme Radicals, North & South, have long since dodged, shirked the dangers of this War & left the Moderates to blow each others brains out.  I again repeat I make up my opinions for facts & reasoning, and not to suit anybody but myself.  If people dont like my opinions, it makes little difference as I dont solicit their opinions or votes.  But a man who preached and thunders offensive opinions, and when the storm raises, sneaks out and lets others in to catch the blows is a villain ten thousand times worse than a murderer, and I know many such who are coiled away in fancied security, but the day will come when they will be dragged out and made to taste the cup they have drugged—We have no time for this now—The Constitution & Laws must be obeyed implicitly from the Lakes to the Gulf and from the Atlantic to the Pacific.

I see my name occasionally alluded to in connection with some popular office.  You may tell all that I would rather serve four years in the Sing Sing penitentiary than in Washington, & I believe I could come out a better man.  If that aint emphatic enough use stronger expressions, and I will endorse them.  Let those who love niggers better than white folks follow me, and we will see who loves his country best—A nigger as such is a most excellent fellow, but he is not fit to marry, to associate or vote with me or mine.

Your friend,

W. T. SHERMAN.

SOURCES: “The Negro Question,” The Wichita Weekly Beacon, Wichita, Kansas, Firday January 31, 1890, p. 1; “Sherman on the Hypothetical Negro,” Iron County Register, Ironton, Missouri, Thursday, January 30, 1890, p. 4;  Brooks D Simpson & Jean V. Berlin, Editors, Sherman's Civil War: Selected Correspondence of William T. Sherman 1860-1865, p. 832-3.

Major-General William T. Sherman to Major-General Henry W. Halleck, January 12, 1865

HDQRS. MILITARY DIVISION OF THE MISSISSIPPI,                       

In the Field, Savannah, January 12, 1865.

Major-General HALLECK:

MY DEAR FRIEND: I received yours of January 1* about the “negro.” Since Mr. Stanton got here we have talked over all matters freely, and I deeply regret that I am threatened with that curse to all peace and comfort—popularity; but I trust to bad luck enough in the future to cure that, for I know enough of “the people” to feel that a single mistake made by some of my subordinates will tumble down my fame into infamy.

But the nigger? Why, in God's name, can't sensible men let him alone? When the people of the South tried to rule us through the negro, and became insolent, we cast them down, and on that question we are strong and unanimous. Neither cotton, the negro, nor any single interest or class should govern us.

But I fear, if you be right that that power behind the throne is growing, somebody must meet it or we are again involved in war with another class of fanatics. Mr. Lincoln has boldly and well met the one attack, now let him meet the other.

If it be insisted that I shall so conduct my operations that the negro alone is consulted, of course I will be defeated, and then where will be Sambo?

Don't military success imply the safety of Sambo and vice versa? Of course that cock-and-bull story of my turning back negroes that Wheeler might kill them is all humbug. I turned nobody back. Jeff. C. Davis did at Ebenezer Creek forbid certain plantation slaves—old men, women, and children—to follow his column; but they would come along and he took up his pontoon bridge, not because he wanted to leave them, but because he wanted his bridge.

He and Slocum both tell me that they don't believe Wheeler killed one of them. Slocum's column (30,000) reports 17,000 negroes. Now, with 1,200 wagons and the necessary impedimenta of an army, overloaded with two-thirds negroes, five-sixths of whom are helpless, and a large proportion of them babies and small children, had I encountered an enemy of respectable strength defeat would have been certain.

Tell the President that in such an event defeat would have cost him ten thousand times the effort to overcome that it now will to meet this new and growing pressure.

I know the fact that all natural emotions swing as the pendulum. These southrons pulled Sambo's pendulum so far over that the danger is it will on its return jump off its pivot. There are certain people who will find fault, and they can always get the pretext; but, thank God, I am not running for an office, and am not concerned because the rising generation will believe that I burned 500 niggers at one pop in Atlanta, or any such nonsense. I profess to be the best kind of a friend to Sambo, and think that on such a question Sambo should be consulted.

They gather round me in crowds, and I can't find out whether I am Moses or Aaron, or which of the prophets; but surely I am rated as one of the congregation, and it is hard to tell in what sense I am most appreciated by Sambo—in saving him from his master, or the new master that threatens him with a new species of slavery. I mean State recruiting agents. Poor negro—Lo, the poor Indian! Of course, sensible men understand such humbug, but some power must be invested in our Government to check these wild oscillations of public opinion.

The South deserves all she has got for her injustice to the negro, but that is no reason why we should go to the other extreme.

I do and will do the best I can for negroes, and feel sure that the problem is solving itself slowly and naturally. It needs nothing more than our fostering care. I thank you for the kind hint and will heed it so far as mere appearances go, but, not being dependent on votes, I can afford to act, as far as my influence goes, as a fly wheel instead of a mainspring.

With respect, &c., yours,

 W. T. SHERMAN.

_______________

* General Halleck’s copy is dated December 30, 1864; see Vol. XLIV, p. 836

SOURCE: The War of the Rebellion: A Compilation of the Official Records of the Union and Confederate Armies, Series I, Volume 47, Part 2 (Serial No. 99), p. 36-7

W. H., July 27, 1857

Philadelphia, Monday, July 27, 1857.

Yesterday afternoon a rumor was afloat that a negro man named Jim, who had accompanied his master (Mr. Charles Parlange), from New Orleans to this city, had left his master for the purpose of tasting the sweets of freedom. It was alleged by Mr. Parlange that the said “Jim” had taken with him two tin boxes, one of which contained money. Mr. Parlange went, on his way to New York, via the Camden and Amboy Railroad, and upon his arrival at the Walnut street wharf, with two ladies, “Jim ” was missing. Mr. Parlange immediately made application to a Mr. Wallace, who is a Police officer stationed at the Walnut street depot. Mr. Wallace got into a carriage with Mr. Parlange and the two ladies, and, as Mr. Wallace stated, drove back to the Girard House, where “ Jim ” had not been heard of since he had left for the Walnut street wharf.

A story was then set afloat to the effect, that a negro of certain, but very particular description (such as a Louisiana nigger-driver only can give), had stolen two boxes as stated above. A notice signed “Clarke,” was received at the Police Telegraph Office by the operator (David Wunderly) containing a full description of Jim, also offering a reward of $100 for his capture. This notice was telegraphed to all the wards in every section. This morning Mr. Wunderly found fault with the reporters using the information, and, in presence of some four or five persons, said the notice signed “Clarke,” was a private paper, and no reporter had a right to look at it; at the same time asserting, that if he knew where the nigger was he would give him up, as $100 did not come along every day. The policeman, Wallace, expressed the utmost fear lest the name of Mr. Parlange should transpire, and stated, that he was an intimate friend of his. It does not seem that the matter was communicated to the wards by any official authority whatever, and who the “Clarke” is, whose name was signed to the notice, has not yet transpired. Some of the papers noticed it briefly this morning, which has set several of the officers on their tips. There is little doubt, that “ Jim ” has merely exercised his own judgment about remaining with his master any longer, and took this opportunity to betake himself to freedom. It is assumed, that he was to precede his master to Walnut street wharf with the baggage; but, singular enough to say, no complaint has been made about the baggage being missed, simply the two tin boxes, and particularly the one containing money. This is, doubtless, a ruse to engage the services of the Philadelphia police in the interesting game of nigger hunting. Mr. Parlange, if he is sojourning in your city, will doubtless be glad to learn that the matter of his man “ Jim” and the two tin boxes has received ample publicity.

W. H.

SOURCE: William Still, The Underground Railroad: A Record of Facts, Authentic Narratives, Letters &c., p. 405-6

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.

Governor John A. Andrew to Francis Preston Blair, Sr., July 5, 1862

How dreadful it is to see our best boys of all the State, slain, bleeding, worn out by ditching, bridging, dirt digging, and wheeling, and by guarding the property of rebels who, with their very slaves, are in the war against us; — and the cold, people not allowed to lighten the toil. Now — is not a "nigger" who is good enough to fire grape, cannon and rifle shot into the ranks of a Bunker Hill regiment good enough to fight traitors? That is my only question. Before God I believe we are doomed unless we will awake to reason. — But I am a follower—not a leader. I will work with the energy of despair even if I am shorn of the buoyancy of Hope. And I must perhaps be allowed — as Todd¹ — in my letters to Mr. Stanton [to] make a humble suggestion, sometimes. — You know the old proverb that “A cat may look at a king.”

_______________

¹ Governor Tod of Ohio.

SOURCE: Henry Greenleaf Pearson, The Life of John A. Andrew: Governor of Massachusetts, 1861-1865, Volume 2, p. 23-4

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.

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.

Diary of William Howard Russell: July 18, 1861

After breakfast. Leaving head-quarters, I went across to General Mansfield's, and was going up-stairs, when the General* himself, a white-headed, gray-bearded, and rather soldierly-looking man, dashed out of his room in some excitement, and exclaimed, “Mr. Russell, I fear there is bad news from the front.” “Are they fighting, General?” “Yes, sir. That fellow Tyler has been engaged, and we are whipped.” Again I went off to the horse-dealer; but this time the price of the steed had been raised to £220; “for,” says he, “I don't want my animals to be ripped up by them cannon and them musketry, and those who wish to be guilty of such cruelty must pay for it.” At the War-Office, at the Department of State, at the Senate, and at the White House, messengers and orderlies running in and out, military aides, and civilians with anxious faces, betokened the activity and perturbation which reigned within. I met Senator Sumner radiant with joy. “We have obtained a great success; the rebels are falling back in all directions. General Scott says we ought to be in Richmond by Saturday night.” Soon afterwards a United States officer, who had visited me in company with General Meigs, riding rapidly past, called out, “You have heard we are whipped; these confounded volunteers have run away.” I drove to the Capitol, where people said one could actually see the smoke of the cannon; but, on arriving there, it was evident that the fire from some burning houses, and from wood cut down for cooking purposes, had been mistaken for tokens of the fight.

It was strange to stand outside the walls of the Senate whilst legislators were debating inside respecting the best means of punishing the rebels and traitors; and to think that, amidst the dim horizon of woods which bounded the west towards the plains of Manassas, the army of the United States was then contending, at least with doubtful fortune, against the forces of the desperate and hopeless outlaws whose fate these United States senators pretended to hold in the hollow of their hands. Nor was it unworthy of note that many of the tradespeople along Pennsylvania Avenue, and the ladies whom one saw sauntering in the streets, were exchanging significant nods and smiles, and rubbing their hands with satisfaction. I entered one shop, where the proprietor and his wife ran forward to meet me. . . “Have you heard the news? Beauregard has knocked them into a cooked hat.” “Believe me,” said the good lady, “it is the finger of the Almighty is in it. Didn't he curse the niggers, and why should he take their part now with these Yankee Abolitionists, against true white men?” “But how do you know this?” said I. “Why, it's all true enough, depend upon it, no matter how we know it. We've got our underground railway as well as the Abolitionists.”

On my way to dinner at the Legation I met the President crossing Pennsylvania Avenue, striding like a crane in a bulrush swamp among the great blocks of marble, dressed in an oddly cut suit of gray, with a felt hat on the back of his head, wiping his face with a red pocket-handkerchief. He was evidently in a hurry, on his way to the White House, where I believe a telegraph has been established in communication with McDowell's head-quarters. I may mention, by the by in illustration of the extreme ignorance and arrogance which characterize the low Yankee, that a man in the uniform of a colonel said to me to-day, as I was leaving the War Department, “They have just got a telegraph from McDowell. Would it not astonish you Britishers to hear that, as our General moves on towards the enemy, he trails a telegraph wire behind him, just to let them know in Washington which foot he is putting first?” I was imprudent enough to say, “I assure you the use of the telegraph is not such a novelty in Europe or even in India. When Lord Clyde made his campaign, the telegraph was laid in his track as fast as he advanced.” “Oh, well, come now,” quoth the Colonel, “that's pretty good, that is; I believe you'll say next, your General Clyde and our Benjamin Franklin discovered lightning simultaneously.”

The calm of a Legation contrasts wonderfully in troubled times with the excitement and storm of the world outside. M. Mercier perhaps is moved to a vivacious interest in events. M. Stoeckl becomes more animated as the time approaches when he sees the fulfilment of his prophecies at hand. M. Tassara cannot be indifferent to occurrences which bear so directly on the future of Spain in Western seas; but all these diplomatists can discuss the most engrossing and portentous incidents of political and military life, with a sense of calm and indifference which was felt by the gentleman who resented being called out of his sleep to get up out of a burning house because he was only a lodger.

There is no Minister of the European Powers in Washington who watches with so much interest the march of events as Lord Lyons, or who feels as much sympathy perhaps in the Federal Government as the constituted Executive of the country to which he is accredited; but in virtue of his position he knows little or nothing officially of what passes around him, and may be regarded as a medium for the communication of despatches to Mr. Seward, and for the discharge of a great deal of most causeless and unmeaning vituperation from the conductors of the New York press against England.

On my return to Captain Johnson's lodgings I received a note from the head-quarters of the Federals, stating that the serious action between the two armies would probably be postponed for some days. McDowell's original idea was to avoid forcing the enemy's position directly in front, which was defended by movable batteries commanding the fords over a stream called “Bull's Run.” He therefore proposed to make a demonstration on some point near the centre of their line, and at the same time throw the mass of his force below their extreme right, so as to turn it and get possession of the Manassas Railway in their rear; a movement which would separate him, by the by, from his own communications, and enable any General worth his salt to make a magnificent counter by marching on Washington, only 27 miles away, which he could take with the greatest ease, and leave the enemy in the rear to march 120 miles to Richmond, if they dared, or to make a hasty retreat upon the higher Potomac, and to cross into the hostile country of Maryland.

McDowell, however, has found the country on his left densely wooded and difficult. It is as new to him as it was to Braddock, when he cut his wreary way through forest and swamp in this very district to reach, hundreds of miles away, the scene of his fatal repulse at Fort Du Quesne. And so, having moved his whole army, McDowell finds himself obliged to form a new plan of attack, and, prudently fearful of pushing his underdone and over-praised levies into a river in face of an enemy, is endeavoring to ascertain with what chance of success he can attack and turn their left.

Whilst he was engaged in a reconnoissance to-day, General Tyler did one of those things which must be expected from ambitious officers, without any fear of punishment, in countries where military discipline is scarcely known. Ordered to reconnoitre the position of the enemy on the left front, when the army moved from Fairfax to Centreville this morning, General Tyler thrust forward some 3000 or 4000 men of his division down to the very banks of “Bull's Run,” which was said to be thickly wooded, and there brought up his men under a heavy fire of artillery and musketry, from which they retired in confusion.

The papers from New York to-night are more than usually impudent and amusing. The retreat of the Confederate outposts from Fairfax Court House is represented as a most extraordinary success; at best it was an affair of outposts; but one would really think that it was a victory of no small magnitude. I learn that the Federal troops behaved in a most ruffianly and lawless manner at Fairfax Court House. It is but a bad beginning of a campaign for the restoration of the Union, to rob, burn, and destroy the property and houses of the people in the State of Virginia. The enemy are described as running in all directions, but it is evident they did not intend to defend the advanced works, which were merely constructed to prevent surprise or cavalry inroads.

I went to Willard's, where the news of the battle, as it was called, was eagerly discussed. One little man in front of the cigar-stand declared it was all an affair of cavalry. “But how could that be among the piney woods and with a river in front, major?” “Our boys, sir, left their horses, crossed the water at a run, and went right away through them with their swords and six-shooters.” “I tell you what it is, Mr. Russell,” said a man who followed me out of the crowd and placed his hand on my shoulder, “they were whipped like curs, and they ran like curs, and I know it.” “How?” “Well, I’d rather be excused telling you.”

_______________

* Since killed in action.

SOURCE: William Howard Russell, My Diary North and South, Vol. 1, p. 427-31

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.

Diary of Laura M. Towne: Saturday, June 7, 1862

An exciting day. This morning Mr. Eustis came over and told Mr. Hooper that we ought to be ready to go at a moment's notice. For two weeks we have been quite unprotected, and last night an attempt was made to pass the pickets at Port Royal Ferry. A flat was seen coming. Our pickets challenged it, and the negroes exclaimed, “Don't shoot, massa!” Then fifty men rose up in the boat and fired into the guard, killing four of them. The others fled to Port Royal, I believe, carrying dismay, and this morning all the ladies, cotton agents, and civilians, except our men, embarked on the Ottawa and went down to Hilton Head, Miss Walker among them. Our men, of the Commission, have been bold enough. Little Taylor has shouldered his gun and he this morning went to within four miles of the enemies’ lines. Ashly acted as guide to the scouts and others have gone readily to the aid of the soldiery. Yet Mr. Pierce says the soldiers are swearing at the “nigger lovers,” who have all gone — run away at the first danger. Not a man has gone — not one.

There is quite a panic in Beaufort and several gunboats have gone up to it, apparently to take away the commissary stores. It will then be evacuated, and what will become of the poor negroes if the masters return! It seems to me that this is a causeless panic.

We packed our trunks to-day according to Mr. Hooper's orders, and we can run at any time, but leaving much behind us. I cannot bear the thought of going while these poor people must stay — Aunt Bess, whose leg is so bad; and some of the babies are ill now — they will suffer so in the woods and marshes if they have to fly. While we were packing this morning, Susannah, then Rina, came and asked anxiously about our going. I told them all we knew — that we might have to go off, but would not if we could help it; that our soldiers had all gone off to take Charleston and that Secesh might come down to attack us, and then the gentlemen would insist upon our going. Mr. Pierce came home about eleven, and he thinks we may remain. So we have composed ourselves as best we can. The gentlemen are going to patrol to-night, but I am more afraid of the exposure than of Secesh for them, and us too.

Mr. Pierce has gone to Beaufort again. Several gentlemen were here to-day, Mr. Horton among them, who wanted to know if we were “going to trust the Lord and keep our powder dry.” I want to have Mr. Pierce secure half a dozen guns for each plantation, and then if Secesh come, call upon the negroes to help us and stay. I am sure we shall be safe. I am entirely opposed to our flying. If Mr. Pierce were not going North, this would be the case, I am pretty sure, but he is determined to have us safe while he is gone. We have a boat in readiness to set out by water, and the horses are kept fresh to take us by land. One of them died to-day of poison plants, or colic, — one of the handsome bays.

I have been in other excitement lately and feel almost ill from it. But first about the alarm at Beaufort. It was so great that the arsenal was open, and anybody wishing it could go in and get a gun. It appears that the Pennsylvania regiment, or a guard of fifty, were stationed at Port Royal Ferry, and on this alarm they ran, after firing, and burned the bridge between themselves and the enemy. Their panic alarmed Beaufort. The ladies fled to the gunboats and to Hilton Head. They will return to-morrow probably. All Beaufort was in confusion. To-night all is safety and quiet there. We have had quite a cosy evening here — Mr. Pierce, Mr. Hooper, Miss Winsor, and I.

SOURCE: Rupert Sargent Holland, Editor, Letters and Diary of Laura M. Towne: Written from the Sea Islands of South Carolina 1862-1864, p. 63-5

Laura M. Towne: May 11, 1862

St. Helena's, May 11, 1862.

I wish I had half as much time to think of folks at home as you take to think of me, but you will know how busy I am when I tell you that your last letters were carried in my pocket all day — nine letters — and not opened, some of them; none of them read until night. But every day is not so. That was yesterday, and today I have rested. I am just as well as I can be and am having a good time. As for unhealthiness, I shall go from here as soon as I see that this place is not healthy. The negroes say no white folks ever lived here to test it, and as the house was new, it was probably so. They say it is healthy for “niggers,” but “white folks” always go North or to Beaufort in summer. It has proved, though, to be healthy wherever white folks have lived as near the sea as we are, so I think I need not run till I see cause.

You need not be troubled about the allopathic doctoring, for there is a nice, elderly man in the army, a lieutenant in a Michigan regiment, who has charge of the comfort of the ladies at Mr. French's. He came over here with Mr. French and we made a solemn agreement, he to doctor me, and I him in case we were either of us ill. He is an old hand at homoeopathy, and a very good doctor, I think. So I feel very safe and comfortable. He is elderly, married, and stationed here for the summer, and at the disposal of the ladies so far as doing everything he can for their comfort. As for going into the hot sun and night dews — when I get time for a walk I shall be happy. There is a pine grove close by, and I have wanted from the first to go to it. It is not a stone's throw from here and I have not entered it yet. I never go further than the quarters or the cotton-house except in the carriage, but I have had lots of beautiful rides, and Mr. Pierce is going to give me a horse and buggy so that I can drive whenever I please and wherever I please. He does this rather for the horse's sake than mine, I fancy.

It is not very hot here. There is a splendid sea breeze every day and the nights are cool. We have every comfort except steady servants, and I have a real good, old auntie who does my washing, chamber-work, and waiting at table for half a dollar a week. Although I never worked so in my life, it seems to agree with me, as I am in high health and spirits, sleep like a top, laugh like old times, and am jolly generally.

Ellen has not yet come and I am so afraid the Boston Committee will not send her, because they will not accept Mr. Pierce's pass now that he thinks of leaving, or because their funds are out. I expected her fully yesterday, but the letters came and she did not. I find it so much better and safer and more cool and comfortable here than I expected, that I have no scruples about her coming and have got all over my fears about all sorts of things that I used to be afraid would be the death of her.

You must not think because I talk so much of the hurry that I do not like it. I do, for it is just what I came here for — though not just this kind [of work]. The day I kept school for Miss Winsor I had the hardest time of all, and I concluded perhaps I was better for this work than teaching. In my doctoring I can do much good and give much advice that is wanted. The clothing department is the most laborious, but it is very amusing to sell to the negroes; they are so funny.

I see every day why I came and what I am to stay for.

A ST. HELENA LANDSCAPE

SOURCE: Rupert Sargent Holland, Editor, Letters and Diary of Laura M. Towne: Written from the Sea Islands of South Carolina 1862-1864, p. 39-41

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.

John A. Quitman to Colonel Platt Brush, August 23, 1823

Soldier's Retreat, near Natchez, Aug. 23d, 1823.

Since my last letter, my dear Col. Brush, I have been a refugee from Natchez, where the yellow fever is raging. Our bar is quartered at various country-seats — not boarding; a Mississippi planter would be insulted by such a proposal; but we are enjoying the hospitalities that are offered to us on all sides. The awful pestilence in the city brings out, in strong relief, the peculiar virtues of this people. The mansions of the planters are thrown open to all comers and goers free of charge. Whole families have free quarters during the epidemic, and country wagons are sent daily to the verge of the smitten city with fowls, vegetables, etc., for gratuitous distribution to the poor. I am now writing from one of those old mansions, and I can give you no better notion of life at the South than by describing the routine of a day. The owner is the widow of a Virginia gentleman of distinction, a brave officer, who died in the public service during the last war with Great Britain.¹ She herself is a native of this vicinity, of English parents settled here in Spanish times. She is an intimate friend of my first friend, Mrs. Griffith, and I have been in the habit of visiting her house ever since I came South. The whole aim of this excellent lady seems to be to make others happy. I do not believe she ever thinks of herself. She is growing old, but her parlor is constantly thronged with the young and gay, attracted by her cheerful and never-failing kindness. There are two large families from the city staying here, and every day some ten or a dozen transient guests. Mint-juleps in the morning are sent to our rooms, and then follows a delightful breakfast in the open veranda. We hunt, ride, fish, pay morning visits, play chess, read or lounge until dinner, which is served at two P.M. in great variety, and most delicately cooked in what is here called the Creole style — very rich, and many made or mixed dishes. In two hours afterward every body — white and black — has disappeared. The whole household is asleep—the siesta of the Italians. Tho ladies retire to their apartments, and the gentlemen on sofas, settees, benches, hammocks, and often, gipsy fashion, on the grass under the spreading oaks. Here, too, in fine weather, the tea-table is always set before sunset, and then, until bedtime, we stroll, sing, play whist, or coquet. It is an indolent, yet charming life, and one quits thinking and takes to dreaming.

This excellent lady is not rich, merely independent; but by thrifty housewifery, and a good dairy and garden, she contrives to dispense the most liberal hospitality. Her slaves appear to be, in a manner, free, yet are obedient and polite, and the farm is well worked. With all her gayety of disposition and fondness for the young, she is truly pious, and in her own apartment every night she has family prayer with her slaves, one or more of them being often called on to sing and pray. When a minister visits the house, which happens very frequently, prayers night and morning are always said, and on these occasions the whole household and the guests assemble in the parlor: chairs are provided for the servants. They are married by a clergyman of their own color, and a sumptuous supper is always prepared. On public holidays they have dinners equal to an Ohio barbecue, and Christmas, for a week or ten days, is a protracted festival for the blacks. They are a happy, careless, unreflecting, good-natured race, who, left to themselves, would degenerate into drones or brutes, but, subjected to wholesome restraint and stimulus, become the best and most contented of laborers. They are strongly attached to “old massa” and “old missus,” but their devotion to “young massa” and “young missus” amounts to enthusiasm. They have great family pride, and are the most arrant coxcombs and aristocrats in the world. At a wedding I witnessed here last Saturday evening, where some 150 negroes were assembled, many being invited guests, I heard a number of them addressed as governors, generals, judges, and doctors (the titles of their masters), and a spruce, tight-set darkey, who waits on me in town, was called “Major Quitman.” The “colored ladies” are invariably Miss Joneses, Miss Smiths, or some such title. They are exceedingly pompous and ceremonious, gloved and highly perfumed. The “gentlemen” sport canes, ruffles, and jewelry, wear boots and spurs, affect crape on their hats, and carry huge cigars. The belles wear gaudy colors, “tote” their fans with the air of Spanish senoritas, and never stir out, though black as the ace of spades, without their parasols. In short, these “niggers,” as you call them, are the happiest people I have ever seen, and some of them, in form, features, and movement, are real sultanas. So far from being fed on “salted cotton-seed,” as we used to believe in Ohio, they are oily, sleek, bountifully fed, well clothed, well taken care of, and one hears them at all times whistling and singing cheerily at their work.² They have an extraordinary facility for sleeping. A negro is a great night-walker. He will, after laboring all day in the burning sun, walk ten miles to a frolic, or to see his “Dinah,” and be at home and at his work by daylight next morning. This would knock up a white man or an Indian. But a negro will sleep during the day — sleep at his work, sleep on the carriage-box, sleep standing up; and I have often seen them sitting bareheaded in the sun on a high rail-fence, sleeping as securely as though lying in bed. They never lose their equipoise, and will carry their cotton-baskets or their water-vessels, filled to the brim, poised on their heads, walking carelessly and at a rapid rate, without spilling a drop. The very weight of such burdens would crush a white man's brains into apoplexy. Compared with the ague-smitten and suffering settlers that you and I have seen in Ohio, or the sickly and starved operators we read of in factories and in mines, these Southern slaves are indeed to be envied. They are treated with great humanity and kindness. I have only heard of one or two exceptions. And the only drawback to their happiness is that their owners, sometimes, from extravagance or other bad management, die insolvent, and then they must be sold to the highest bidder, must leave the old homestead and the old family, and pass into the hands of strangers. I have witnessed one of these scenes, and but one, though they occur often, and I never saw such profound grief as the poor creatures manifested. I am opposed, as you know, to all relief laws, but, I confess, I never hear of the sale of old family servants without wishing that there was some provision by which some of them, at least, might be retained as inalienable. It is a grave question for those interested in slavery to determine whether some protection of this nature is not a necessary adjunct of slavery itself.

_______________

¹ The late Gen. F. L. Claiborne.

² Contrast this with life at the North, as recorded by his brother Henry in a letter dated Rhinebeck, Feb. 3d, 1823: “We have not had snow enough for sleighing, so every body has to stay at home. In the morning I feed the cows, take care of the horses, and cut wood until dinner-time. In the evening I take care of the cattle, and go to bed. I would willingly exchange my residence here for one where I might do for myself, were my earnings ever so small, and lay by a little for a rainy day. It is a hard place to get along in — cold winters and hot summers; snow, or slush, or dust, or drought. Work, work, work, and money always scarce. I wish I had been brought up a tailor, or shoemaker, as you say they have none at Natchez.”

SOURCE: John F. H. Quitman, Life and Correspondence of John A. Quitman, Volume 1, p. 83-6

John B. Lamar to Howell Cobb, July 12, 1848

American Hotel, New York, July 12th/48.

Dear Howell, Don't forget my passports, as I sail on Monday in the ship Fidelia for Liverpool.

P. S. — I hope to God Congress will not adjourn before the nigger question is settled about the newly acquired territory. If it does adjourn and leave that question open until after the Presidential election the “cake is all dough” with this Union, you may depend upon it. Now is the time to settle it while both parties are disposed to conciliate to effect their ends, but if you wait until after election the successful party will have no inducement, and the defeated party too much exasperated, to yield anything. I hope Congress will not adjourn until the question is settled; and if you love your country better than president making, you will use all your influence to have it settled before you adjourn. It is more important than people are aware of generally to settle the question before Congress adjourns.

SOURCE: Ulrich Bonnell Phillips, Editor, The Annual Report of the American Historical Association for the Year 1911, Volume 2: The Correspondence of Robert Toombs, Alexander H. Stephens, and Howell Cobb, p. 116

Nathaniel Peabody Rogers, September 1, 1838

“Only ye may opine it frets my patience, Mr. Osbaldistone, to be hunted like an otter, or a sealgh, or a salmon upon the shallows, and that by my very friends and neighbors.” — Rob Roy.

Whose patience has been fretted, if it had not been fret-proof, like the abolitionists’? Have they not been hunted like an otter, or a salmon among the shallows, or a partridge upon the mountains; or like David among the cliffs of Ziph and the rocks of the wild goats? And every body seems to think it is all as natural as life, and that they should bear it, and be thankful it is no worse. How they have been belied and slandered and insulted, by a stupid pro-slavery community! How church brethren and sisters have scowled upon them, and trifled with their rights and their feelings, as though they had no more of either than a “nigger!” How has the murderous scorn been extended from their poor, down-trodden — mark the phrase — down-trodden — not merely stamped upon, for once, or any given number of times, — but every time — by the common walking footstep of community, —  trodden on as universally as the path of the highway — “down trodden,” indeed! How has the scorn felt for the poor colored man, been extended to the abolitionist, and how he has borne it, with almost the “patient sufferance” of the “free negro,” or the Jew in Venice, — until sufferance is become “the badge of all our tribe.” And what avails it? “The brotherhood” have fallen into the idea, that we also are “an inferior race,” and that we are exceedingly out of our place, when we claim the common rights of humanity. As to the rights of citizenship, they do not dream that any appertain to us. See with what calm, summer-day serenity they look on, while we are mobbed. They think no more of it, than they do when a lane of “free niggers” is “smoked out” by “public sentiment” in New York or Philadelphia. Who cared for the outrages of the great Concord mob, in September, 1835? “Tremendous public excitement!” shouted the N. H. Patriot — as if another revolution had been fought Tremendous public excitement! A grand popular victory. Victory indeed it was — but over what? Over innocency [sic], humanity, the law of the land, the public peace! An odd victory to boast of.—What a “frolic after Thompson,” (or to that effect) exclaimed the merry N. H. Courier. — O, what a joke! How funny and frolicsome the people were after Thompson! How they did frisk and caper, and how masterly funny they did chase him, and surround Neighbor ——‘s dwelling-house! O, what a sportive company of them got together, and how they did surround that house by moonlight, and what a merry time on't they caused in that dwelling!

O “riddle-cum-ritldle-cum-right!

“What a time we had, that Friday night!”

He, he, he — hah, hah, hah!!!

Hung be the heavens in black. Out, moon — and hide, stars, so that ye look not on and blench your light, at sight of such scenes. “Frolic!” Was the Alton night-scene a frolic? Was the hellish-gathering about that ware-house, rendering the dun night hideous, a joke — a fracas — “an abolition frolic?”

The time will come, when these deeds will be appreciated by the people of this country. Ay, it is at hand. We wait patiently, but not silently. "The brotherhood" may fix upon us its evil eye of menace and "frolic." They shall hear of their merry doings. If we cannot speak freely, we desire not to remain on the slavery-cursed soil. We call upon the people of the land, to look to their liberties. We have no freedom of speech, no liberty of the press, no freedom of assembly. The sovereign and tyrant of the country is Slavery. He holds his court in the South, and rules the vassal North by his vicegerent the mob, — or as Hubbard Winslow preaches it, “the brotherhood.” We owe no allegiance to either. We shall pay none.

SOURCE: Collection from the Miscellaneous Writings of Nathaniel Peabody Rogers, Second Edition, p. 11-3 which states it was published in the Herald of Freedom of September 1, 1838.