TOLD BY “THE NOTED TRAVELER”

Coming, clean from the Maryland-end

Of this great National Road of ours,

Through your vast West; with the time to spend,

Stopping for days in the main towns, where

Every citizen seemed a friend,

And friends grew thick as the wayside flowers,—

I found no thing that I might narrate

More singularly strange or queer

Than a thing I found in your sister-state

Ohio,— at a river-town — down here

In my notebook: Zanesville — situate

On the stream Muskingum — broad and clear,

And navigable, through half the year,

North, to Coshocton; south, as far

As Marietta.— But these facts are

Not of the story, but the scene

Of the simple little tale I mean

To tell directly — from this, straight through

To the end that is best worth listening to:

Eastward of Zanesville, two or three

Miles from the town, as our stage drove in,

I on the driver's seat, and he

Pointing out this and that to me,—

On beyond us — among the rest —

A grovey slope, and a fluttering throng

Of little children, which he “guessed”

Was a picnic, as we caught their thin

High laughter, as we drove along,

Clearer and clearer. Then suddenly

He turned and asked, with a curious grin,

What were my views on Slavery? “Why?”

I asked, in return, with a wary eye.

“Because,” he answered, pointing his whip

At a little, whitewashed house and shed

On the edge of the road by the grove ahead,—

“Because there are two slaves there,” he said —

“Two Black slaves that I've passed each trip

For eighteen years.— Though they've been set free,

They have been slaves ever since!” said he.

And, as our horses slowly drew

Nearer the little house in view,

All briefly I heard the history

Of this little old Negro woman and

Her husband, house and scrap of land;

How they were slaves and had been made free

By their dying master, years ago

In old Virginia; and then had come

North here into a free state — so,

Safe forever, to found a home —

For themselves alone?— for they left South there

Five strong sons, who had, alas!

All been sold ere it came to pass

This first old master with his last breath

Had freed the parents.— ( He went to death

Agonized and in dire despair

That the poor slave children might not share

Their parents’ freedom. And wildly then

He moaned for pardon and died. Amen! )

Thus, with their freedom, and little sum

Of money left them, these two had come

North, full twenty long years ago;

And, settling there, they had hopefully

Gone to work, in their simple way,

Hauling — gardening — raising sweet

Corn, and popcorn.— Bird and bee

In the garden-blooms and the apple-tree

Singing with them throughout the slow

Summer's day, with its dust and heat —

The crops that thirst and the rains that fail;

Or in Autumn chill, when the clouds hung low,

And hand-made hominy might find sale

In the near town-market; or baking pies

And cakes, to range in alluring show

At the little window, where the eyes

Of the Movers’ children, driving past,

Grew fixed, till the big white wagons drew

Into a halt that would sometimes last

Even the space of an hour or two —

As the dusty, thirsty travelers made

Their noonings there in the beeches’ shade

By the old black Aunty's spring-house, where,

Along with its cooling draughts, were found

Jugs of her famous sweet spruce-beer,

Served with her gingerbread-horses there,

While Aunty's snow-white cap bobbed‘ round

Till the children's rapture knew no bound,

As she sang and danced for them, quavering clear

And high the chant of her old slave-days —

“Oh, Lo'd, Jinny! my toes is so’,

Dancin’ on yo’ sandy flo’!”

Even so had they wrought all ways

To earn the pennies, and hoard them, too,—

And with what ultimate end in view?—

They were saving up money enough to be

Able, in time, to buy their own

Five children back.

Ah! the toil gone through!

And the long delays and the heartaches, too,

And self-denials that they had known!

But the pride and glory that was theirs

When they first hitched up their shackly cart

For the long, long journey South.— The start

In the first drear light of the chilly dawn,

With no friends gathered in grieving throng,—

With no farewells and favoring prayers;

But, as they creaked and jolted on,

Their chiming voices broke in song —

“‘ Hail, all hail! do n't you see the stars a-fallin’?

Hail, all hail! I'm on my way.

Gideonam

A healin’ ba'm —

I belong to the blood-washed army.

Gideon am

A healin’ ba'm —

On my way!’”

And their return!— with their oldest boy

Along with them! Why, their happiness

Spread abroad till it grew a joy

Universal — It even reached

And thrilled the town till the Church was stirred

Into suspecting that wrong was wrong!—

And it stayed awake as the preacher preached

A Real “Love” - text that he had not long

To ransack for in the Holy Word.

And the son, restored, and welcomed so,

Found service readily in the town;

And, with the parents, sure and slow,

He went “saltin’ de cole cash down.”

So with the next boy — and each one

In turn, till four of the five at last

Had been bought back; and, in each case,

With steady work and good homes not

Far from the parents, they chipped in

To the family fund, with an equal grace.

Thus they managed and planned and wrought,

And the old folks throve — Till the night before

They were to start for the lone last son

In the rainy dawn — their money fast

Hid away in the house,— two mean,

Murderous robbers burst the door.

... Then, in the dark, was a scuffle — a fall —

An old man's gasping cry — and then

A woman's fife-like shriek.

... Three men

Splashing by on horseback heard

The summons: And in an instant all

Sprung to their duty, with scarce a word.

And they were in time — not only to save

The lives of the old folks, but to bag

Both the robbers, and buck-and-gag

And land them safe in the county-jail —

Or, as Aunty said, with a blended awe

And subtlety,— “Safe in de calaboose whah

De dawgs caint bite‘ em!”

— So prevail

The faithful!— So had the Lord upheld

His servants of both deed and prayer,—

HIS the glory unparalleled —

Theirs the reward,— their every son

Free, at last, as the parents were!

And, as the driver ended there

In front of the little house, I said,

All fervently, “Well done! well done!”

At which he smiled, and turned his head

And pulled on the leaders’ lines and — “See!”

He said,— “‘ you can read old Aunty's sign?”

And, peering down through these specs of mine

On a little, square board-sign, I read:

“Stop, traveler, if you think it fit,

And quench your thirst for a-fip-and-a-bit.

The rocky spring is very clear,

And soon converted into beer.”

And, though I read aloud, I could

Scarce hear myself for laugh and shout

Of children — a glad multitude

Of little people, swarming out

Of the picnic-grounds I spoke about.—

And in their rapturous midst, I see

Again — through mists of memory —

A black old Negress laughing up

At the driver, with her broad lips rolled

Back from her teeth, chalk-white, and gums

Redder than reddest red-ripe plums.

He took from her hand the lifted cup

Of clear spring-water, pure and cold,

And passed it to me: And I raised my hat

And drank to her with a reverence that

My conscience knew was justly due

The old black face, and the old eyes, too —

The old black head, with its mossy mat

Of hair, set under its cap and frills

White as the snows on Alpine hills;

Drank to the old black smile, but yet

Bright as the sun on the violet,—

Drank to the gnarled and knuckled old

Black hands whose palms had ached and bled

And pitilessly been worn pale

And white almost as the palms that hold

Slavery's lash while the victim's wail

Fails as a crippled prayer might fail.—

Aye, with a reverence infinite,

I drank to the old black face and head —

The old black breast with its life of light —

The old black hide with its heart of gold.