CHAPTER V.
Interest in America.—Desire and Purpose to go.—My Friend agrees to accompany me.—Ill reports of America.—Horror of Slavery.—My Friend fails me.—Will go alone.—Arrangements.—My Mother.—Last Days at Home.—Voyage.—Arrival in America.—My Experiences here.
As I was studying that phase of the American mind so richly exhibited in the Unitarian tracts and books,—the sweet eloquence of Channing, the astonishing clearness of the arguments of Burnap, the spiritual insight of Bartol, etc.,—I was drawn very close to America. I thought these people must be wonders, who have been able to sift out substantial grains from a mass of chaff. Often with an exulting heart, I have thanked God that the simplicity of the gospel is not lost,—that the Christianity of the Apostles did not die under the sentence of the Nicene Council, but is still alive, in good health, and ever will be, until our Master has brought the whole world to subjection unto his Father and our Father, and the creation bends its knee before the throne of his God and our God, in the name, or more distinctly, in the Spirit of Christ.
My interest was not confined to the Unitarians of America, but it extended to the country itself. I wanted to know about the people, the customs, government, and prosperity of the country as much as possible. The very few books which I could get hold of, containing accounts of America, were eagerly perused; and that portion of the history of England which speaks of the American Revolution, was read over and over with a throbbing heart. I felt indignant at the proceedings of England against America, and in my sympathy suffered with the American people, who I thought were better Christians than the English. I prayed for and rejoiced at their prosperity, and determined to visit them some time. Such was my habit of looking at the map of North America, that the boys at our school used to joke me, saying, “There, there is your America!” In our family circle every opportunity was availed of to speak of the United States. My dear mother, who rejoices at the prosperity of others, and hates tyranny and injustice, heard with great pleasure of the American Independence. But hearing me speak so much and so often of America, the younger portion of the family, such as my sisters, aunt, etc., would joke me whenever an opportunity was offered. For instance, if I said, “This cloth is not good,” “You will find a better one in Amārică,” was their joke.
One bright Sunday forenoon, three of us were coming from Bali to worship at Mr. Dall’s chapel, and a conversation took place upon the future welfare of Unitarian missions in India. Our valued friend, Baboo C. C. Singha, suggested that it would be a grand thing for the mission if some of us who are so closely connected with the mission would go to visit the brethren in America, tell them of our needs, offer thanks in our behalf for the blessing they have sent in the person of Mr. Dall, and bring home their help and sympathy. As for himself, he said he could do this errand elegantly, were it not for his wife and children and his school. I responded to his suggestion, and informed him of my desire,—that this very thing had been the all-engrossing subject in my mind. There was a young man, a native Christian, who wished to join me, and thus we reached the chapel, making suggestions, discussions, and resolutions on our way.
After the service, Chundy Baboo spoke to Mr. Dall about our wish to visit the American brethren. He approved of it, looked at us with a kind heart, and gave us encouragement. There was present with us a gentleman, Mr. J. M. Hurd, of Clinton, Mass., who promised to report us to the brethren at home, and to ask the American Unitarian Association to respond to our wishes.
A few months passed away. Advices from Mr. Dall came to our friend C. C. Singha, Esq., and he asked us if we were ready, and firm in our position. I told him that I was firm but not quite ready to take a decided step, as the circumstances under which I lived were against my plan. The love for my mother was the crowning obstacle. In India I never could spend three nights without my mother. From the houses of my sisters I would come home not caring for rain or storm. Again, I was very particular about taking my meals among strangers: hardly could I make my dinner unless my mother was sitting by me. I was shy, homesick, and unhealthy. One thing frightened me more than others,—it was the food of the American people. They eat animal food, for which I was not prepared, although I had no prejudice against it. My taste is peculiar and sensitive. To eat “rare” beef (which in fact is raw) is out of the question. I could not bear the flavor of duck’s eggs, which some Hindoos use. Indeed, the charge which the Hindoos bring against the native Christians, to the effect that they become Christians for the purpose of eating beef and drinking wine, would not be justly applicable in my case. For owing to my peculiar taste and fastidiousness about food and drink, I can say, that during my two years’ stay in America, I have not eaten as much animal food as the Calcutta deists use in a fortnight. I have always been unable to eat custard, which I am fond of, and plumpudding, if they are mixed with wine,—not for any superstitious hatred against it, but I could not bear its smell, which, however concealed under other ingredients, is sure to encounter the acuteness of my senses. Hence, the good lady whom I boarded with the most of the time in this country, would not use wine in her cooking, even at the risk of spoiling things for an American mouth.
Our friend, the young native convert, said he would come to America, as he was outcasted and had no parents living, and no new sacrifice to make. He wrote a beautiful letter to the Secretary of the American Unitarian Association. He was older than I, and had a considerable knowledge of English literature and life, having been a great deal with the missionaries. In his character there is a mixture of childlike simplicity with matured experience; he is a good-hearted young man. I rejoiced at his earnestness, and hoped some one would join him in the undertaking. He was speaking of his intended visit to the United States to a deistical gentleman who is a great English scholar, the head teacher of a government school, and well informed about European, but less so, as it appeared, about American communities. My friend heard him say that the Americans are a rough people, that most of them are wild, and walk about with bowie-knives, pistols, and other deadly weapons,—that their government tramples upon the rights and lives of millions whom it holds in absolute bondage; and, what is more wicked, that if a man should dare to speak a word against this unjust, inhuman, and wicked institution, he would be insulted by the community, tried and imprisoned, or hung by the law.[34]
At this time I saw a book called Uncle Tom’s Cabin, in the parlor of a rich native merchant in Calcutta. Not knowing the nature and contents of the book, I opened it and read the letter which a negro woman wrote to her mistress before her flight with her child towards Canada,—the Egypt of the slaves. I read of the pursuit of the master,—her crossing the river Ohio, the hospitality of the Quaker, etc. I, of course, took the story as fictitious,—something like the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments, for I could not believe that a man could buy or sell a human being, whatever might be his color, intelligence, or position. My friends told me that this book gives a true sketch of American Slavery. I would not at first believe it, and, calling up all my good feelings towards the American people, came to the following decision. Slavery might be existing in America,—it is a large country, and perhaps among the aborigines, who are wild savages, this system is prevalent. I hoped, also, to hear that the people of the United States are diligently engaged in driving away the men-sellers. Sad logic! I saw the picture of the master,—a white man, with coat, hat, and watch-guard. Even then I could not persuade myself to believe that this man was a citizen of the United States. I thought it was not necessary to believe that all the white people are good,—these man, woman, and baby-sellers are heartless ruffians, whom the laws of the Christian United States cannot always reach. No! I was mistaken still! They are the Americans,—the descendants of those who had come over from England. Finally, I concluded that these slaveholders have no women among them, as the tender, kind-hearted women would have put the abominable trade to destruction. To my utter surprise, I was told by my friends that the slaveholders have their families, churches, pastors, etc.! God only knows with what a sad shock my heart sank down. I could not but think that in no portion of the globe had the blessed religion of Christ been made into a machine to work for the selfish man, to satisfy his cupidity, as it had been in the United States of America. These men support, by Christianity, that very system of bondage which Christianity came to destroy. The parable of the master releasing his servant from his debt, and of that servant tormenting his fellow-servant for a small sum he had owed him, came into my mind, and I realized the truth uttered by those wise lips of Jesus twenty centuries ago. Mr. Dall told me that there are free States in the Union. This puzzled me again. Union of free and slave States! It must be a queer Union! No! it cannot be so. St. Paul could not very well understand the communion of things of contrary nature: “And what communion hath light with darkness?” etc. (2 Cor. vi. 14–16). The union of fire and water, light and darkness, freedom and slavery is impossible. So I concluded that there are good antislavery men and women in America, as it cannot be that human nature there is totally depraved; but these States must be pro-slavery, since
“He who friendship with knave hath made,