The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No 3, September, 1862

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'I was outvoted, having only reason on my side, and being opposed
by a triple-headed monster, that shod the baneful influence of
avarice, prejudice, and pusillanimity in all our assemblies. It was
some consolation to me, however, to find that philosophy and truth
had made some little progress since my last effort, as I obtained
twice as many suffrages as before.'

'Washington,' says Mr. Moore, 'comforted Laurens with the confession
that he was not at all astonished by the failure of the plan, adding:

''That spirit of freedom, which at the commencement of this contest
would have gladly sacrificed every thing to the attainment of its
object, has long since subsided, and every selfish passion has
taken its place. It is not the public, but private interest, which
influences the generality of mankind, nor can the Americans any
longer boast an exception. Under these circumstances, it would
rather have been surprising if you had succeeded.'

But the real lesson which this rejection of negro aid taught this
country was a bitter one. South-Carolina lost twenty-five thousand
negroes, and in Georgia between three fourths and seven eighths of the
slaves escaped. The British organized them, made great use of them, and
they became 'dangerous and well-disciplined bands of marauders.' As the
want of recruits in the American army increased, negroes, both bond and
free, were finally and gladly taken. In the department under General
Washington's command, on August 24th, 1778, there were nearly eight
hundred black soldiers. This does not include, however, the black
regiment of Rhode Island slaves which had just been organized.

In 1778 General Varnum proposed to Washington that a battalion of negro
slaves be raised, to be commanded by Colonel Greene, Lieutenant-Colonel
Olney, and Major Ward. Washington approved of the plan, which, however,
met with strong opposition from the Rhode Island Assembly. The black
regiment was, however, raised, tried, 'and not found wanting.' As Mr.
Moore declares:

'In the battle of Rhode-Island, August 29th, 1778, said by
Lafayette to have been 'the best fought action of the whole war,'
this newly raised black regiment, under Colonel Greene,
distinguished itself by deeds of desperate valor, repelling three
times the fierce assaults of an overwhelming force of Hessian
troops. And so they continued to discharge their duty with zeal and
fidelity--never losing any of their first laurels so gallantly won.
It is not improbable that Colonel John Laurens witnessed and drew
some of his inspiration from the scene of their first trial in the
field.'

A company of negroes from Connecticut was also raised and commanded by
the late General Humphreys, who was attached to the family of
Washington. Of this company cotemporary account says that they
'conducted themselves with fidelity and efficiency throughout the war.'
So, little by little, the negro came to be an effective aid, after all
the formal rejections of his service. In 1780, an act was passed in
Maryland to procure one thousand men to serve three years. The property
in the State was divided into classes of sixteen thousand pounds, each
of which was, within twenty days, to furnish one recruit, who might be
either a freeman or a slave. In 1781, the Legislature resolved to raise,
immediately, seven hundred and fifty negroes, to be incorporated with
the other troops.

In Virginia an act had been passed in 1777, declaring that free negroes,
and free negroes only, might be enlisted on the footing with white men.
Great numbers of Virginians who wished to escape military service,
caused their slaves to enlist, having tendered them to the
recruiting-officers as substitutes for free persons, whose lot or duty
it was to serve in the army, at the same time representing that these
slaves were freemen. 'On the expiration of the term of enlistment, the
former owners attempted to force them to return to a state of
servitude, with equal disregard of the principles of justice and their
own solemn promise.'

The iniquity of such proceedings soon raised a storm of indignation, and
the result was the passage of an Act of Emancipation, securing freedom
to all slaves who had served their term in the war.

Such are the principal facts collected in this remarkable and timely
publication. It is needless to say that we commend it to the careful
perusal of all who desire conclusive information on a most important
subject. It is evident that we are going through nearly the same stages
of timidity, ignorance, and blind conservatism which were passed by our
forefathers, and shall come, if not too late, upon the same results. It
is historically true that Washington apparently had in the beginning
these scruples, but was among the first to lay them aside, and that
experience taught him and many others the folly of scrupling to employ
in regular warfare and in a regular way men who would otherwise aid the
enemy. These are undeniable facts, well worth something more than mere
reflection, and we accordingly commend the work in which they are set
forth, with all our heart, to the reader.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 5: Historical Notes on the Employment of Negroes in the
American Army of the Revolution. By George H. Moore. New-York: Charles
T. Evans, 532 Broadway. Price, ten cents.]

A MERCHANT'S STORY.

'All of which I saw, and part of which I was.'

CHAPTER II.

The clock of St. Paul's was sounding eight. Buttoning my outside coat
closely about me--for it was a cold, stormy night in November--I
descended the steps of the Astor House to visit, in the upper part of
the city, the blue-eyed young woman who is looking over my shoulder
while I write this--it was nearly twenty years ago, reader, but she is
young yet!

As I closed the outer door, a small voice at my elbow, in a tone broken
by sobs, said:

'Sir--will you--please, sir--will you buy some ballads?'

'Ballads! a little fellow like you selling ballads at this time of
night?'

'Yes, sir! I haven't sold only three all day, sir; do, please sir, _do_
buy some!' and as he stood under the one gas-burner which lit the
hotel-porch, I saw that his eyes were red with weeping.

'Come inside, my little man; don't stand here in the cold. Who sends you
out on such a night as this to sell ballads?'

'Nobody, sir; but mother is sick, and I _have_ to sell 'em! She's had
nothing to eat all day, sir. Oh! do buy some--_do_ buy some, sir!'

'I will, my good boy; but tell me, have you no father?'

'No, sir, I never had any--and mother is sick, _very_ sick, sir; and
she's nobody to do any thing for her but _me_--nobody but _me_, sir!'
and he cried as if his very heart would break.

'Don't cry, my little boy, don't cry; I'll buy your ballads--all of
them;' and I gave him two half-dollar pieces--all the silver I had.

'I haven't got so many as that, sir; I haven't got only twenty, and
they're only a cent a piece, sir;' and with very evident reluctance, he
tendered me back the money.

'Oh! never mind, my boy, keep the money and the ballads too.'

'O sir! thank you. Mother will be so glad, _so_ glad, sir!' and he
turned to go, but his feelings overpowering him, he hid his little face
in the big blanket-shawl which he wore, and sobbed louder and harder
than before.

'Where does your mother live, my boy?'

'Round in Anthony street, sir; some good folks there give her a room,
sir.'

'Did you say she was sick?'

'Yes, sir, very sick; the doctor says she can't live only a little
while, sir.'

'And what will become of you, when she is dead?'

'I don't know, sir. Mother says God will take care of me, sir.'

'Come, my little fellow, don't cry any more; I'll go with you and see
your mother.'

'Oh! thank you, sir; mother will be so glad to have you--so glad to
thank you, sir;' and, looking up timidly an my face, he added: 'You'll
_love_ mother, sir!'

I took his hand in mine, and we went out into the storm.

He was not more than six years old, and had a bright, intelligent, but
pale and peaked face. He wore thin, patched trowsers, a small, ragged
cap, and large, tattered boots, and over his shoulders was a worn woolen
shawl. I could not see the remainder of his clothing, but I afterward
discovered that a man's waistcoat was his only other garment.

As I have said, it was a bleak, stormy night. The rain, which had fallen
all the day, froze as it fell, and the sharp, wintry wind swept down
Broadway, sending an icy chill to my very bones, and making the little
hand I held in mine tremble with cold. We passed several blocks in
silence, when the child turned into a side-street.

'My little fellow,' I said, 'this is not Anthony street--that is further
on.'

'I know it, sir; but I want to get mother some bread, sir. A good
gentleman down here sells to me very cheap, sir.'

We crossed a couple of streets and stopped at a corner-grocery.

'Why, my little 'un,' said the large, red-faced man behind the counter,
'I didn't know what had become of ye! Why haven't ye bin here to-day?'

'I hadn't any money, sir,' replied the little boy.

'An' haven't ye had any bread to-day, sonny?'

'Mother hasn't had any, sir; a little bit was left last night, but she
made _me_ eat that, sir.'

'D--n it, an' hasn't _she_ hed any all day! Ye mustn't do that agin,
sonny; ye must come whether ye've money or no; times is hard, but, I
swear, I kin give _ye_ a loaf any time.'

'I thank you, sir,' I said, advancing from the doorway where I had stood
unobserved--'I will pay you;' and taking a roll of bills from my pocket,
I gave him one. 'You know what they want--send it to them at once.'

The man stared at me a moment in amazement, then said:

'An' do ye know 'em, sir?'

'No, I'm just going there.'

'Well, do, sir; they're bad off; ye kin do real good there, no mistake.'

'I'll see,' I replied; and taking the bread in one hand and the little
boy by the other, I started again for his mother's. I was always a rapid
walker, but I had difficulty in keeping up with the little fellow as he
trotted along at my side.

We soon stopped at the door of an old, weather-worn building, which I
saw by the light of the street-lamp was of dingy brick, three stories
high, and hermetically sealed by green board-shutters. It sat but one
step above the ground, and a dim light which came through the low
basement-windows, showed that even its cellar was occupied. My little
guide rang the bell, and in a moment a panel of the door opened, and a
shrill voice asked:

'Who's there?'

'It's only me, ma'am; please let me in.'

'What, _you_, Franky, out so late as this!' exclaimed the woman, undoing
the chain which held the door. As she was about closing it she caught
sight of me, and eyeing me for a moment, said: 'Walk in, sir.' As I
complied with the invitation, she added, pointing to a room opening from
the hall: 'Step in there, sir.'

'He's come to see mother, ma'am,' said the little boy.

'You can't see _her_, sir, she's sick, and don't see company any more.'

'I would see her for only a moment, madam.'

'But she can't see nobody now, sir.'

'Oh! mother would like to see him very much, ma'am; he's a very good
gentleman, ma'am,' said the child, in a pleading, winning tone.

The real object of my visit seemed to break upon the woman, for, making
a low courtesy, she said:

'Oh! she _will_ be glad to see you, sir; she's very bad off, very bad
indeed;' and she at once led the way to the basement stairway.

The woman was about forty, with a round, full form, a red, bloated face,
and eyes which looked as if they had not known a wink of sleep for
years. She wore a dirty lace-cap, trimmed with gaudy colors, and a
tawdry red and black dress, laid off in large squares like the map of
Philadelphia. It was very low in the neck--remarkably so for the
season--and disclosed a scorched, florid skin, and a rough, mountainous
bosom.

The furnishings of the hall had a shabby-genteel look, till we reached
the basement stairs, when every thing became bare, and dark, and dirty.
The woman led the way down, and opened the door of a front-room--the
only one on the floor, the rest of the space being open, and occupied as
a cellar. This room had a forlorn, cheerless appearance. Its front wall
was of the naked brick, through which the moisture had crept, dotting it
every here and there with large water-stains and blotches of mold. Its
other sides were of rough boards, placed upright, and partially covered
with a dirty, ragged paper. The floor was of wide, unpainted plank. A
huge chimney-stack protruded some three feet into the room, and in it
was a hole which admitted the pipe of a rusty air-tight stove that gave
out just enough heat to take the chill edge off the damp, heavy
atmosphere. This stove, a small stand resting against the wall, a
broken-backed chair, and a low, narrow bed covered with a ragged
patch-work counterpane, were the only furniture of the apartment. And
that room was the home of two human beings.

'How do you feel to-night, Fanny?' asked the woman, as she approached
the low bed in the corner. There was a reply, but it was too faint for
me to hear.

'Here, mamma,' said the little boy, taking me by the hand and leading me
to the bedside, 'here's a good gentleman who's come to see you. He's
_very_ good, mamma; he's given me a whole dollar, and got you lots of
things at the store; oh! lots of things!' and the little fellow threw
his arms around his mother's neck, and kissed her again and again in his
joy.

The mother turned her eye upon me--such an eye! It seemed a black flame.
And her face--so pale, so wan, so woe-begone, and yet so sweetly,
strangely, beautiful--seemed that of some fallen angel, who, after long
ages of torment, had been purified, and fitted again for heaven! And it
was so. She had suffered all the woe, she had wept for all the sin, and
then she stood white and pure before the everlasting gates which were
opening to let her in!

She reached me her thin, weak hand, and in a low voice, said: 'I thank
you, sir.'

'You are welcome, madam. You are very sick; it hurts you to speak?'

She nodded slightly, but said nothing. I turned to the woman who had
admitted me, and in a very low tone said: 'I never saw a person die; is
she not dying?'

'No, sir, I guess not. She's seemed so for a good many days.'

'Has she had a physician?'

'Not for nigh a month. A doctor come once or twice, but he said it wan't
no use--he couldn't help her.'

'But she should have help at once. Have you any one you can send?'

'Oh! yes; I kin manage that. What doctor will you have?'

I wrote on a piece of paper the name of an acquaintance--a skillful and
experienced physician, who lived not far off--and gave it to her.

'And can't you make her a cup of tea, and a little chicken-broth? She
has had nothing all day.'

'Nothing all day! I'm sure I didn't know it! I'm poor, sir--you don't
know how poor--but she shan't starve in my house.'

'I suppose she didn't like to speak of it; but get her something as soon
as you can.'

'I will, sir; I'll fix her some tea and broth right off.'

'Well, do, as quick as possible. I'll pay you for your trouble.'

'I don't want any pay, sir,' she replied, as she turned and darted from
the doorway as nimbly as if she had not been fat and forty.

She soon returned with the tea, and I gave it to the sick girl, a
spoonful at a time, she being too weak to sit up. It was the first she
had tasted for weeks, and it greatly revived her.

After a time, the doctor came. He felt her pulse, asked, her a few
questions in a low voice, and then wrote some simple directions. When he
had done that, he turned to me and said: 'Step outside for a moment; I
want to speak with you.'

As we passed out, we met the woman going in with the broth.

'Please give it to her at once,' I said.

'Yes, sir, I will; but, gentlemen, don't stand here in the cold. Walk up
into the parlor--the front-room.'

We did as she suggested, for the cellar-way had a damp, unhealthy air.

The parlor was furnished in a showy, tawdry style, and a worn, ugly,
flame-colored carpet covered its floor. A coal-fire was burning in the
grate, and we sat down by it. As we did so, I heard loud voices, mingled
with laughter and the clinking of glasses, in the adjoining room. Not
appearing to notice the noises, the doctor asked:

'Who is this woman?'

'I don't know; I never saw her before. Is she dying?'

'No, not now. But she can't last long; a week, at the most.'

'She evidently has the consumption. That damp cellar has killed her; she
should be got out of it.'

'The cellar hasn't done it; her very vitals are eaten up. She's been
beyond cure for six months!'

'Is it possible? And such a woman!'

'Oh! I see such cases every day--women as fine-looking as she is.'

A ring came at the front-door, and in a moment I heard the woman coming
up the basement stairs. I had risen when the doctor made the last
remark, and was pacing up and down the room, deliberating on what should
be done. The parlor-door was ajar, and as the woman admitted the
new-comers, I caught a glimpse of them. They were three rough,
hard-looking characters; and one, from his unsteady gait, I judged to be
intoxicated. She seemed glad to see them, and led them into the room
from whence the noises proceeded. In a moment the doctor rose to go,
saying: 'I can do nothing more. But what do you intend to do here? I
brought you out to ask you.'

'I don't know what _can_ be done. She ought not to be left to die
there.'

'She'd prefer dying above-ground, no doubt; and if you relish fleecing,
you'll get her an upper room--but she's got to die soon any way, and a
day or two, more or less, down there, won't make any difference. Take my
advice--don't throw your money away, and don't stay here too late; the
house has a very hard name, and some of its rough customers would think
nothing of throttling a spruce young fellow like you.'

'I thank you, doctor, but I think I'll run the risk--at least for a
while,' and I laughed good-humoredly at the benevolent gentleman's
caution.

'Well, if you lose your small change, don't charge it to me.' Saying
this, he bade me 'good-night.'

He found the door locked, barred, and secured by the large chain, and he
was obliged to summon the woman. When she had let him out, I asked her
into the parlor.

'Who is this sick person?' I inquired.

'I don't know, sir. She never gave me no name but Fanny. I found her and
her little boy on the door-step, one night, nigh a month ago. She was
crying hard, and seemed very sick, and little Franky was a-trying to
comfort her--he's a brave, noble little fellow, sir. She told me she'd
been turned out of doors for not paying her rent, and was afeared she'd
die in the street, though she didn't seem to care much about that,
except for the boy--she took on terrible about him. She didn't know what
_would_ become of him. I've to scrape very hard to get along, sir, for
times is hard, and my rent is a thousand dollars; but I couldn't see her
die there, so I took her in, and put a bed up in the basement, and let
her have it. 'Twas all I could do; but, poor thing! she won't want even
that long.'

'It was very good of you. How has she obtained food?'

'The little boy sells papers and ballads about the streets. The newsman
round the corner trusts him for 'em, and he's managed to make
twenty-five cents or more most every day.'

'Can't you give her another room? She should not die where she is.'

'I know she shouldn't, sir, but I hain't got another--all of 'em is
taken up; and besides, sir,' and she hesitated a moment, 'the noise up
here would disturb her.'

I had not thought of that; and expressing myself gratified with her
kindness, I passed down again to the basement. The sick girl smiled as I
opened the door, and held out her hand again to me. Taking it in mine, I
asked:

'Do you feel better?'

'Much better,' she said, in a voice stronger than before. 'I have not
felt so well for a long time. I owe it to you, sir! I am very grateful.'

'Don't speak of it, madam. Won't you have more of the broth?'

'No more, thank you. I won't trouble you any more, sir--I shan't trouble
any one long;' and her eyes filled, and her voice quivered; 'but, O sir!
my child! my little boy! What _will_ become of him when I'm gone?' and
she burst into a hysterical fit of weeping.

'Don't weep so, madam. Calm yourself; such excitement will kill you. God
will provide for your child. I will try to help him, madam.'

She looked at me with those deep, intense eyes. A new light seemed to
come into them; it overspread her face, and lit up her thin, wan
features with a strange glow.

'It must be so,' she said, 'else why were you led here? God must have
sent you to me for that!'

'No doubt he did, madam. Let it comfort you to think so.'

'It does, oh! it does. And, O my Father!' and she looked up to Him as
she spoke: 'I thank thee! Thy poor, sinful, dying child thanks thee;
and, oh! bless _him_, forever bless him, for it!'

I turned away to hide the emotion I could not repress. A moment after,
not seeing the little boy, I asked:

'Where is your son?'

'Here, sir.' And turning down the bed-clothing, she showed him sleeping
quietly by her side, all unconscious of the misery and the sin around
him, and of the mighty crisis through which his young life was passing.

Saying I would return on the following day, I shortly afterward bade her
'good-night,' and left the house.

CHAPTER III.

It was noon on the following day when I again visited the house in
Anthony street. As I opened the door of the sick woman's room, I was
startled by her altered appearance. Her eye had a strange, wild light,
and her face already wore the pallid hue of death. She was bolstered up
in bed, and the little boy was standing by her side, weeping, his arms
about her neck. I took her hand in mine, and in a voice which plainly
spoke my fears, said:

'You are worse!'

In broken gasps, and in a low, a very low tone, her lips scarcely
moving, she answered:

'No! I am--better--much--better. I knew you--were coming. She told me
so.'

'_Who_ told you so?' I asked, very kindly, for I saw that her mind was
wandering.

'My mother--she has been with me--all the day--and I have been so--so
happy, so--_very_ happy! I am going now--going with her--I've only
waited--for you!'

'Say no more now, madam, say no more; you are too weak to talk.'

'But I _must_ talk. I am--dying, and I must tell--you all before--I go!'

'I would gladly hear you, but you have not strength for it now. Let me
get something to revive you.'

She nodded assent, and looking at her son, said:

'Take Franky.'

The little boy kissed her, and followed me from the room. When we had
reached the upper-landing, I summoned the woman of the house, and said
to him:

'Now, Franky, I want you to stay a little while with this good lady;
your mother would talk with me.'

'But mother says she's dying, sir,' cried the little fellow, clinging
closely to me; 'I don't want her to die, sir. Oh! I want to be with her,
sir!'

'You shall be, very soon, my boy; your _mother_ wants you to stay with
this lady now.'

He released his hold on my coat, and sobbing violently, went with the
red-faced woman. I hurried back from the apothecary's, and seating
myself on the one rickety chair by her bedside, gave the sick woman the
restorative. She soon revived, and then, in broken sentences, and in a
low, weak voice, pausing every now and then to rest or to weep, she told
me her story. Weaving into it some details which I gathered from others
after her death, I give it to the reader as she outlined it to me.

She was the only daughter of a well-to-do farmer in the town of B----,
New-Hampshire. Her mother died when she was a child, and left her to the
care of a paternal aunt, who became her father's housekeeper. This aunt,
like her father, was of a cold, hard nature, and had no love for
children. She was, however, an exemplary, pious woman. She denied
herself every luxury, and would sit up late of nights to braid straw and
knit socks, that she might send tracts and hymn-books to the poor
heathen; but she never gave a word of sympathy, or a look of love to the
young being that was growing up by her side. The little girl needed
kindness and affection, as much as plants need the sun; but the good
aunt had not these to give her. When the child was six years old, she
was sent to the district-school. There she met a little boy not quite
five years her senior, and they soon became warm friends. He was a
brave, manly lad, and she thought no one was ever so good, or so
handsome as he. Her young heart found in him what it craved for--some
one to lean on and to love, and she loved him with all the strength of
her child-nature. He was very kind to her. Though his home was a mile
away, he came every morning to take her to school, and in the long
summer vacations he almost lived at her father's house. And thus four
years flew away--flew as fast as years that are winged with youth and
love always fly--and though her father was harsh, and her aunt cold and
stern, she did not know a grief, or shed a tear in all that time.

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