CHAPTER V.

Garrison Whittier-Simms, the Fugitive-U. S. Marshal Devens-Caleb Cushing-Henry Wilson-Anson P. Burlingame Theodore Parker.

RADICALS OF 1851.

REFORMERS and agitators in 1851 in the vicinity of Boston I have grouped from personal knowledge gained by eye and ear-to me valued impressions not dimmed by strife nor lapse of time.

Frederick Douglass, an escaped slave, had given a striking narrative, couched in elegant language, and with fire contrasted with which his later speeches seem tame. His long career, and counsel to his race to put money in the purse, which he followed personally, has fully justified the prediction of his most ardent friends of fifty years ago, who have traced his course with delight, winning honor as an official in Washington and a diplomat. The general denunciation of the time was bitter; to be met by the press voicing the religionists, contending for their church, while politicians cared not to peril their platforms before competing slave-holders. Non-voters were deemed fanatics less dangerous than the Birney and Hale men, who chose at first between the then two great debauched parties.

William Lloyd Garrison could by right wear the decorations of a general, for he led in a long campaign under fire. In time, he was early; radical in utterance, persistent and uncompromising until fairly a victor, and the weapons of his foes were broken and scattered like the arms of the vanquished on retreat from the field of carnage. The most brilliant press contemporaries were obscured by the editor with the ready pen and the speaker incisive and logical in debate, terrible in denunciation, culling the burning words of the old Prophets and the woes uttered by the God-man with a solemnity and force sure to win the hearer, or arouse doubters in frenzied hate. A voice whose solemn cadence, with a pleas

ant, wooing countenance, often banished prejudice engendered by slurs, epithets, and common vengeful imprecation. Was there ever a more benevolent face? Or a spirit calling up in likeness the mildness of reformers and intrepidity of martyrs? The man dominated the scene and turbulence and hisses; mobs only charged higher the battery which shocked to paralysis the demoniac spirits rushing out to assault, but never subdued to hear. I saw him in the New York Tabernacle mob, and Captain Rynders was reported to have said: "I don't care a d- -n for the 'old prophets,' but it is the solemn tone of old bald-head that stirs h-l in me." The audience waited, expecting the flash of pistols and blows by war clubs. There were screams, blanched cheeks, sudden exits midst the howling of the mob, yet Garrison stood erect and spoke without a tremor. Benignant in smiles while lashing in execration the cohorts of slavery, foiled by a mysterious impersonation of the boldness of a warrior avowing almost satirically only a mission of peace. Then strangers found a key unlocking the heart and brain. He showed no fear nor uttered a murmur when drawn by the neck, a few years before, through the streets of the city of Boston, at the behest of a slave-holding mob. History tells how the shackles fell by the enginery and horrors of war waged for disunion. But what mind can grasp the educational force of Garrison and his Liberator, nor can any save a witness realize his social ostracism, taunts by the press, and the misnamed, pious resolves by the Ecclesiastics, and solemn official bearers of the holy ark.

Where are his revilers now? What child is proud of blood poisoned by sordid trade, and the venality of dough-faces, whom charity forgets and turns from their deeds with averted face. Revilers sleep in unhonored graves. The valiant once outcast, with a price on his head, smiles in artistic bronze on Commonwealth Avenue. The sentiment he holds in his hand gives no prop to free trade. He was an American its honor first is the lesson of his life. I saw the plaster cast in the artist's studio and gave only the counsel of a novice - make it say, with the benignant face of John Oberlin, "I will be heard!" The sons take up "love's work" to embalm by incident, and the whole record of the life of the man around whom rich and classic compeers revolved as satellites, in a day when the vision of seers was clouded and the multitude sent out the hisses of hate.

About the year 1850 the cloud of obloquy was rising, as I

recall by an incident. An anniversary was observed, on the founding of the Liberator, and politicians of the class of Henry Wilson were present. I came with Thomas Russell, afterward the husband of a daughter of Father Taylor, who said, "I don't know that he was a Christian, but he was a sweet sinner." Certainly he was a genial friend and an elegant speaker, afterward politician, diplomat and able judge.

Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, wife of Dr. S. G. Howe, the philanthropist, I met, then known by the eminence of her husband, and ten years later distinguished as the author of the "Battle Hymn of the Republic."

I was in association with the Orthodox clergy, but could not admit that the Rev. Dr. A. Adams represented the church, only filial recreancy, when declaring in an emergency, and to meet a barbaric behest, that he would send his own mother back into slavery. Dr. Kirk, whom his friend and student, Dr. D. O. Mears, has justly extolled in a biographic volume, seemed very cautious in the pulpit. The eloquent pastor of Park Street Church, Dr. Stone, later of San Francisco, was in sympathy with the Washington church movement, while the Rev. Henry M. Dexter preached defiantly against the mandates of the Fugitive Slave Law, as truly in sympathy with the radical utterances of the times as Dr. Blagden, of the Old South, was the dispenser of the gospel of union-saving and silence. To him I was introduced by his brother-in-law, Wendell Philips, and was honored with an invitation to preach in the Old South Church, under a sounding-board, making my first and last effort in the historic church, where its galleries made sleeping apartments in the Revolution, and the soldiers trained their steeds on the ground floor. Yet this was a less novel occurrence than the fact that it was one person, myself, who was introduced by the high-born ornate Edmund Quincy, presiding at a memorial anniversary of the founding of Garrison's Liberator.

It was the talk of the time that there would have been less than the usual sleep in the Old South, even open-eyed gaze, had they guessed that the author of the Sunday sermon was to be the eulogist of Garrison on Monday. I was thus reported, in the speech, strictly impromptu:

Cosmopolite," it pleases me

MR. CHAIRMAN.- Although called at this time a much at such an hour as this to have a locality. I have been a pastor, with the privilege of being associated with men whose lives were linked with glorious

causes. I call to mind one, in all places a man, who has gone to his great reward. Living, he was reviled, but at his death there was such universal lamentation as is never manifested at the death of those selfishly prudent, and ever "floating with the currents." The sundering of the "little thread" reveals what is in the hearts of the living, and there are many who must die, before the world's decision will be given in full. Mr. Garrison, the honored one of this brilliant assemblage, is such a personage. For him there are to be trumpet-tongues, and truth-telling speech. (Applause.)

Differing from him in many things, I have heard the say of all classes. Years agone, when a lad, I heard his name and paper mentioned in association with all that is dishonest, indecent and intolerable. He was under the foot of public opinion. Like the lion in the fable, he had no painter. But he has had them here, this evening, out of the ranks of Free Soil men-all professions-even the cautious of the Orthodox often associate our guest with integrity, heroism and true humanity. From the speech of slaveholders in private, I am led to believe they will covet the honor of furnishing his biography. (Cheers.)

Orthodoxy talks of hell. But who finds it? They surely who resist their convictions. I have said it, and I believe, that the reformer, unselfish, asking Divine guidance, going out in plans, labors and devotions, with his very self for human weal and for God, cannot find a hell. Disregarding sectarian lines in this day of compromises and moral bankruptcy, it little becomes us to make consignments for eternity, when Heaven will ask of all as concerning our honored friend, Wm. Lloyd Garrison, “What did he do, and what will he become ?" (Applause.)

As the hands of the clock admonish us that we are near the morning hour, I will sit down, Mr. Chairman, by saying that I have slept in a cabin in Wisconsin, on a high point of land, where the falling rain on one side flowed into the Fox river to make the leap of Niagara, and then to pass on down the St. Lawrence; and where, on the other side, the rain coursed through the Wisconsin down to widen the "Father of Waters." A strange place, and the beginning of mighty forces-finding a parallel in the brain before me, which, for twenty years, has made highways to hearts, North and South, of more value to humanity than are the ways of the rivers to the ocean for commerce. May that brain continue to work, moving a right arm to beat down slavery, and a left to raise up the degraded at home. Let us pray and labor for that day, when the Pulpit and the Politician shall be joined in hand with our guest, the hero of the press, that a national ejaculation may be heard in song, "Jehovah has triumphed, his people are free." (Cheers.)

The company separating, Edmund Quiney said, "As you are a partial stranger in Boston, will you be my guest at Dedham, where my carriage will be at the depot? To my thanks and plea for excuse, he said, "I not only live near a most venerable orthodox D. D., but you shall sleep on the bed occupied by LaFayette, twenty-five years ago a guest of our family, and on the pillow where he rested his princely head, and as your name indicates a Frenchman, I venture to urge you." So I went and began an acquaintance with a most accomplished agitator, and son of one of the first educators and statesmen of Massachusetts, whose figure, a real Harvard president, in bronze, stands near the Boston City Hall.

John G. Whittier was present, with poetic inspiration, lending cheer and dignity. Several times we met in the winter at the Marlboro Hotel, and the glance of that keen eye, sober mien, and benevolent face, has been an ever-present picture, and his every line seemed more than poetic revery—a gushing, exhilarating flow as from a source of purity for the cheer of the timid and the famishing.

In a picture of 1849, "The Champions of freedom," by Brainard, the editors, orators and statesmen, have all gone save the crowned poet of humanity. Is it vanity to mention his letter of congratulation upon my birthday? It is in honor, rather, of the writer than of the recipient, but time will only add to its value to the possessor. It is a pleasant souvenir that I should be known in Iowa and approved in a public career of forty years. I saw the poet later, to find a cordial reception at his home, and this was the visit, as described at the time:

John G. Whittier I have just seen at his winter residence on Oak Knoll, Danvers, Mass. Just 37 years ago I was introduced to him by a gallant friend, Anson Burlingame, then a senator, while we were all guests of the old Marlboro Hotel of Boston. Mr. Burlingame he mentioned with affection, still warm in praise, like that exhibited in his verse, so often the nurse of volor and a perpetual reminder of good deeds by those temporarily under the ban of public opinion. There has ever been mingled balm and blessing for an actor enlisting his muse. Thus, now past eighty years, he stands alone the poet of the people, and still offers fresh and mellow fruitage. Who is first named as boldly sweeping the lyre when clanking chains sounded out our shame ? What name is first invoked to celebrate our second century under the Constitution in the congregation of states and the world's savans, on the 30th of April? To ask for the poet is to name one solitary in the just accord of the living to genius, patriotism and virtue. Mountains in their grandeur never shake hands, and like them is Whittier - alone. Others on the journey, his peers in renown, have passed beyond embrace.

I pass to the historic Art Hall of the mansion. There is a metal souvenir of Sumner, which sat in front of him while conning his great philippics, an elegant portrait of Bryant, numerous memoirs of the slavery struggle, the unloaded Quaker gun in the corner, a John Brown musket facing it-once loaded. The most attractive to me is the poet of 40 in life form, florid face and full muscle, inviting a contrast with the eye that has now lost its brilliancy, the ear duller than in youth to the melodies of song. Here are the plaintive and sad pictures of comrades and heroes. In conversation without a thought of privacy, he extols my idol of reform, Dr. Gamaliel Bailey, of Washington, and the National Era. He was a brave social educator, a refined gentleman, who could lend his home and purse in rarest civility and welcome, to reformers gathered from many classes and lands, waiting for a voice and a friend. I ventured the name of Wendell Phillips: "Yes," with a sad cadence, "my lifelong friend-one of the grandest of men in every respect of a wonderful career." After an indirect mention of various persons by incident and comparison, it could not be concealed that he held a different position from Garrison on the Sabbath question. But John Brown was the striking figure in the cen