Yes, they were all there—and if the undeveloped germ may be taken for the great fruit-bearing tree, there is nothing new under the sun, labor and effort are of no avail, and it is not worth while for man to live threescore years and ten, since a much less time would suffice to show his utter worthlessness. But the bee and the wild bird, the pearly nautilus driving before the fresh breeze, and the reed waving in the wind, should teach us a higher lesson. They teach us that life is beautiful and to be enjoyed, that infinite laws and infinite ingenuity were not displayed to be called idle and vain, and that, as the insect works according to his instinct, man should labor, from the dictates of reason, with heart and soul to do his best to turn to higher advantage the innumerable advantages afforded him.
FOOTNOTES:
[4] Philosophia Ultima, Charles Woodruff Shields. Philadelphia, J. B. Lippincott, 1861.
[5] One of the greatest inventors of this or of any age, and one whom the world regards as 'successful,' is said to have advised an ingenious friend, never in any case or under any circumstances to take out a patent for an invention. He 'had been through the mill,' and knew what it cost.
THE LADY AND HER SLAVE.
A Tale.
LOVINGLY DEDICATED TO MY SISTERS IN THE SOUTH.
'Nor private grief nor malice holds my pen,
I owe but kindness to my fellow men.
And, South or North, wherever hearts of prayer
Their woes and weakness to our Father bear,
Wherever fruits of Christian love are found
In holy lives, to me is holy ground.'
—Whittier.
My young mistress! frown not on me! come! my heart is beating low!
Softly raise the quilt—my babe! Ah, smile on her ere I go!
Yes, the smile comes warm as sunshine, and it falls on my sick heart
As if Heaven were shining through it, and new hopes within me start.
Your clear eyes shine blue upon me through the clouds of sunny curls,
Sadder now, but still as kindly, as when we were little girls.
Your poor slave and you, fair mistress, were born in the same hour,
As if God himself had marked me from my birth to be your dower.
Oft have I laid my dusky hand upon your neck of snow,
To see it sparkle through the jet—how long that seems ago!
So long! before young master came to woo Virginia's daughter,
And tempt her to the cotton fields on Mississippi's water.
I could not leave you, mistress, so I followed to the swamp,
Where fevers fire the burning blood and the long moss hangs damp.
I left poor Sam, he loved me well, but you were my heart's god;
My mother's tears fell hot and fast—I followed where you trod.
Sin and sorrow fell upon me! and soon you felt it shame
To have lost Amy near you, and you blushed to hear her name.
Reared near virgin purity, you could not understand
How I could break from virtue's laws, and form a lawless band.
Then you questioned kindly, sternly,—but you could not make me tell;
I would not wring your trusting heart with tales scarce fit for hell!
You deemed me hardened, sunk in vice; I choked down every moan,
Turned from your breast the poisoned dart to bury in my own.
Driven from your presence, mistress, in agony and shame
I bore a wretched infant—she must never know her name!
How I crawled around your windows when your joyous boy was born,
To hear your voice, to catch a glimpse,—the sun rose fair that morn.
Ah! not mine to hold your darling! not mine to soothe his cries
When the stern death-angel seized him and bore him to the skies!
Then judgment came—the fever fell—young master gasped for breath—
God's hand was on him—vain were prayers,—how still he lay in death!
I heard you shriek—I rushed within—I held you in my arms
That frenzied night when sudden woe had wrought its worst of harms.
When reason dawned on you again, sweet pity stirred within,
You heard my cough, my labored breath, and saw me ghastly, thin.
Then you took my hand so kindly, gazing on my faded face:
'Speak, and tell me truly, Amy, how you fell in such disgrace.'
If he had lived, sweet mistress, I had borne it to the grave;
I would not mar your happiness, child, self or race to save.
Say! must I speak of one you loved now sleeping 'neath the sod?
Your 'yes' is bitter; but we owe the naked truth to God!
The truth to God, for guiltless you must stand before His face,
Nor wrong my pallid baby, nor scorn my suffering race.
Am I too bold? Death equals all—my heart beats faint and low;
Turn not away, sweet mistress, hear the truth before I go!
Gaze upon my shivering baby, scan the little pallid face,
Mark the forehead, eyes of azure—Ha! you do the likeness trace!
Nay, start not in horror from me! Oh, it was no fault of mine;
I would have died a thousand deaths ere wronged a thought of thine.
He came at midnight to my hut—abhorrent to my sense—
Force—threats of shame—foul violence—a slave has no defence!
Wronged—soiled—and outraged—sick at heart—what right had I to feel?
He deemed his chattel honored,—God! how brain and senses reel!
We're women, though our hair is crisped, and though our skin be black:
Men, ask your virgin daughters what's the maiden's deadliest rack!
I scorned myself! I hated him! but felt a living goad
Writhe and crawl beneath my bosom—shameful burden! sinful load!
Sick and faint, I loathed my master, loathed his inant, loathed my life
Till its flame burned dim within me, choked by shame, rage, hate, and strife.
Better feelings woke within me when the helpless girl was born;
Mother's love poured wild upon her: how love conquers rage and scorn!
But my tortured heart was broken, and a slave girl ought to die
When a tyrant master wrongs her, and she dreads her mistress' eye:
Dreads one she loves may read in her, in spite of silence deep,
That which would blight all happiness, and pale the rosy cheek:
Dreads that a wife may shuddering read a husband's naked heart—
Humbled and crushed by treachery, may into madness start.
But Amy dies: she has forgiven—forgive with her the wrong!
Smile on the helpless baby—make her truthful, pure, and strong.
Let her wait upon you, mistress; twine your ringlets golden still;
Take her back to old Virginia, to the homestead by the hill.
My heart clings to you with wild love—wherefore I scarce dare whisper—
Forgive—I am your father's child! pity your ruined sister!
The hot white blood in my baby's veins, though mixed with duskier flow,
Will make her wretched if a slave; let her in freedom go!
Oh make her free, sweet mistress, that such a fate as mine
Blanch not her cheek with agony, nor blast her ere her prime!
You smile—I need no promise; angel-like to me you seem;
Will you open heaven for me? bring the seraphs? how I dream!
I go to God. He made me. All His children, black and white,
Will meet in heaven if pure and true, clad in the eternal Light.
I die—God bless you, mistress!'... Sigh, and gasp—then all is o'er!
And the lady kneels beside a corpse upon the cabin floor.
Her thoughts are busy with the past, with love in falsehood spoken,
While her dusky sister's faithful heart had in silent anguish broken.
She takes the cold hand in her own: 'Poor Amy, can it be
That thou wert of a race accursed, unworthy to be free?
Man's falsehood! God! Thy right hand rests upon the dusky brow;
Thou starr'st it round with virtues brighter than our boasted snow!
I have learned a bitter lesson; to my slave I've been to school;
God has humbled me, but chastened; I will keep His Golden Rule.
Slaves and chattels! God forgive us! they are men and women—Thine!
If Christ may dwell within them, shall I dare to call them mine?
No woman must be outraged, nor owned by man, if we
Would hold our sanctity intact—all women must be free.
Sacred from every touch profane, yes, holy things and pure;
A wrong to one is wrong to all; we must the weak secure.
United we must strike the shame; if known aright our power,
Slavery and crime would perish: Sisters, peal their final hour!
Mothers, maidens, wives, no longer aid your dusky sisters' shame!
Strike for our common womanhood, uphold our spotless fame!
Its majesty is in your hands, trail it not in the dust,
Nor keep your shrinking slaves as prey for lovers', husbands' lust!
All womanhood is holy! it shall not be profaned!
Our sanctity is threatened: Men! it shall not thus be stained!
Break up your harems! free our slaves! we will not share your shame!
O mothers of the living, chaste must be life's sacred flame!
Fathers, brothers, sons, and husbands, their chains must be untwined!
Touch not the ark where purity in woman's form is shrined!
Poor Amy! love has conquered! the veil is raised, I see
Sister spirits 'neath the dusky hue; thy people shall go free!'
The lady rose with high resolve upon her pale sad face;
And moved among the slave girls, the angel of their race.
Angel of freedom, charity, she breathes, and fetters melt,
And the holy might of Purity in Southern heart is felt.
Ah! the stars upon our banner, driven apart and dimmed with blood,
Might again in glory cluster through a perfect womanhood!