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[410] of the British empire was invoked to sanctify and adorn a spirit of hostility to the Government of the United States, and that the solemnities of our holy religion were also invoked in the same cause. But to my unpractised eye it looked at the time very much as later events have shown it,—a thorough hatred of America by the ruling classes of England. At one time Lord Brougham presided; again, O'Connell; and again, the venerable Thomas Clarkson: they even got his Royal Highness Prince Albert to do it once, on a somewhat narrower scale,—where even tender young duchesses could attend with impunity—the American negro always being present, like Tom Thumb in Barnum's chief amusements—and, being fortified with a supply of highly-perfumed kerchiefs, the young duchesses managed generally to live it through and revive after reaching the open air! These farces were played off all through the British Islands; and the poor British people—who, from long habit, I suppose, go where ‘their betters’ go, when allowed to—joined in the movement, and ‘American anti-slavery societies’ were everywhere established. Even chambermaids and factory-girls contributed to raise a fund to send ‘English missionaries’ over here ‘to enlighten the North about the duty of the South to abolish slavery.’ Some of these scenes were sufficiently vulgar; but they were sometimes got up, in some respects, in fine taste. One occasion I recall with the highest pleasure, which, although ostensibly an anti-slavery dinner, was limited chiefly in its company to the literary men of London.1
1 Among the good things of that evening was a short poem written for the occasion by Wm. Beattie, M. D., the gifted and well-known author of ‘Scotland Illustrated,’ etc. I do not know if it has been published. I remember some of the stanzas. It is an address from ‘England's Poets to the Poets of America.’
Your Garrison has faun'd the flame,
Child, Chapman, Pierpont, caught the fire,
And, roused at Freedom's hallow'd name,
Hark! Bryant, Whittier, strike the lyre;
While here hearts myriad trumpet-toned,
Montgomery, Cowper, Campbell, Moore,
To Freedom's glorious cause respond,
In sounds which thrill through every core.
Their voice has conjured up a power
No fears can daunt, no foes arrest,
Which gathers strength with every hour
And strikes a chord in every breast,—
A power that soon in every land—
On Europe's shore, on ocean's flood—
Shall smite the oppressors of mankind
And blast the traffickers in blood.
Oh, where should Freedom's hope abide,
Save in the bosoms of the free?
Where should the wretched negro hide,
Save in the shade of Freedom's tree?
Oh, by those songs your children sing,
The lays that soothe your winter fires,
The hopes, the hearths, to which you cling,
The sacred ashes of your sires,—
By all the joys that crown the free,—--
Love, honor, fame, the hope of Heaven,—
Wake in your might, that earth may see
God's gifts have not been vainly given.
Bards of Freedom's favor'd land,
Strike at last your loftiest key,
Peal the watchword through the land,
Shout till every slave be free.
Long has he drain'd the bitter cup,
Long borne the burden, clank'd the chain;
But now the strength of Europe's up,—
A strength that ne'er shall sleep again.
United States Publishing Company, 1874.
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